As we exited the airport, we drove past the thick crowd of men waiting for the opportunity to carry someone’s suitcase. I remembered how overwhelmed I’d felt the first time I landed. This visit felt different.

“I have the perfect place for you to stay,” Fr. Gerry said as we inched along the rugged streets in his jeep. We’d only exchanged a couple of e-mails about my visit, and the details of living arrangements hadn’t been mentioned. All I knew was that Paul and I would be staying with members of his congregation. “You’ll be with a wonderful family. They are waiting for you.”

It took about ten minutes to get to the neighborhood of St. Clare’s. I’d been there once before, for Mass. The passionate prayer to St. Jude came to mind as we bounced in and out of potholes. The area looked like the rest of Port-au-Prince, rundown and without basic services like running water or electricity. Most homes were sparsely furnished one- or two-room concrete-block structures. There were no sidewalks or grassy lawns—just a few scraggly trees. Tiny shops and merchant stalls lined the main street, selling tires, canned goods, mangoes, fabric, charcoal. I spotted a barber shop without walls, with a man getting his hair trimmed under the sun.

Half a mile from the church, we turned left down a dusty road. Fr. Gerry expertly maneuvered around boulders and a family of goats and pulled into the dirt driveway of our host family—the Dépestres. They were at the heart of the food program, Fr. Gerry told us, devoting every Saturday and Sunday to the project since it had started in March.

When I stepped out of the car, a woman in her early 70s rose from her rocking chair and walked toward us, waving. She wore a bright-orange patterned blouse with a green-andwhite skirt. Her silky black hair was pulled back in two braids that wound into a bun. She walked toward me with her arms outstretched and kissed me on both cheeks. “Welcome home, Margo,” she said warmly, looking into my eyes and smiling broadly. Her words gave me goose bumps. Welcome home—what a beautiful greeting. And I already had a nickname. I’d always been “Margaret.”

Fr. Gerry introduced her—she was Manmi Dèt. He explained that manmi meant “mother” in Creole. Odette was her first name. She was called Manmi Dèt because she was regarded as the mother of the community. Everyone loved her.

As Paul gathered our bags, Manmi Dèt put her arm around me and led me up freshly painted red stairs to a bedroom. I waved to Fr. Gerry, who was backing out of the driveway. He’d just dropped my brother and me off with a complete stranger, but I wasn’t worried. I felt comfortable with Manmi Dèt. I could feel warmth and love radiate right out of her, like the nun I’d met at Son Fils.

Her house had five small rooms that she shared with her son, daughter-in-law, and granddaughter. It was about 1,000 square feet, much larger than most of the homes we passed. Manmi Dèt’s other children, including her daughter Nennenn, the food program’s chief cook, had their own houses just a few yards away. Manmi Dèt knew a tiny bit of English, so we communicated mostly with smiles and hand gestures.

“Yours, Margo,” she said as she opened the door to one of the rooms. In it were two neatly made beds covered with thin brown bedspreads. There was also an orange plastic chair, an old wooden dresser, and a bureau. She led me to the adjoining bathroom and pointed to the sink. “No water.” She frowned, turning the faucet handle all the way around. I nodded. She pointed to a large bucket of water and a sponge. Sponge baths. Then she scooped out a small container full of water and poured it down the toilet. It was a weak flush, but it flushed! She smiled, and I clapped in relief.

Even though it was clear that Manmi Dèt was well-off compared to most Haitians, by U.S. standards she lived very simply. She didn’t have a phone or a washing machine or air-conditioning or a couch. There were large cracks in the walls, and the brown jeep in her driveway was old and rusted. I was worried we might be a burden, but she put me at ease. She joyfully handed me the keys and said, “Your home.”

After helping me unpack, Manmi Dèt smoothed the bedspreads and motioned for me to come with her. She took my hand and led me down the stairs to a small kitchen under the bedroom. Mismatched cups and plates were stacked neatly on a shelf. In the center of the room was a wooden table covered with a red plastic tablecloth and four chairs.

“Hungry?” she asked.

“No, merci.” I said, not wanting to eat unless she ate.

She poured me a glass of bottled water and led me to the porch. Paul joined us. One by one, family members stopped by to say hello. Manmi Dèt proudly introduced us, never letting go of my hand.

When Paul and I turned in for the night, we discovered a tray of rice and beans waiting for us on the dresser. A plastic cover was placed over each plate to keep the flies away. Fresh-squeezed juice filled two glasses. We sat on our beds and dug in, hungrier than we’d thought. Suddenly the electricity went off. My heart skipped a beat, and for a second, thoughts of a possible coup d’état or burglars filled my mind. Looking out the window, we could see that the whole neighborhood was pitch black. But then I heard Manmi Dèt through the grate in the wall chatting and laughing with her family. My concerns faded as I listened to her move effortlessly around the house in the dark. Just another power outage.

Roosters crowed, dogs barked, babies cried—the sounds of night filled the room. Under my pale blue sheet, as I lay awake, thinking about the events of the day, I felt surprisingly relaxed and present. The frenzy with which I wrapped up work, packed, and drove to the airport the day before seemed a distant memory. The frantic pace of my life in Berkeley somehow vanished as soon as I got into Fr. Gerry’s jeep. I fell asleep thinking about Manmi Dèt.

Meeting her was one of those rare and wonderful times when I felt as if I’d been reunited with someone I’d known forever. We spoke only a few words to each other, but the way she held my hand and smiled when she looked at me— it was like a mother welcoming a long-lost daughter home.

Fr. Gerry leaned out his car window and pointed to the peach-colored church sitting on a hill a few blocks in front of us. “Look at the roof, Margaret and Paul. Could you see what we painted on it when your plane landed yesterday? You flew right over us.”

I hadn’t noticed the church from the plane, but now that I could see its roof, I wondered how I missed it. In gigantic blue and red block letters (the colors of the Haitian flag) “St. Clare’s” was spelled out for all to see—from the planes above to the entire neighborhood.

“It’s fantastic! Isn’t it?” Fr. Gerry exclaimed as he admired his creative advertising. “Now everyone who comes to Haiti will know where to find us. ST. CLA-A-A-A-RE, ST. CLA-A-AA-RE,” he called out. An elderly lady sweeping her front stoop looked up at the sound of his voice and waved as we chugged by. He said something back to her, and they both laughed. He seemed to know everyone in the area.

“Bonjou, mon pè!” (Hello, Father.) A dozen boys stopped their game of basketball to greet us as we pulled in front of the church.

“See the new hoop I got for the children? They stay close now, so I can keep an eye on them.” Fr. Gerry chatted and joked with the boys, who were thrilled with their new metal rim and pole.

“And look at our bell tower, Margaret. It’s on its way.” The “tower” sat to the left of the church building. It was only 3 feet tall. I assumed lack of funds had temporarily stalled the project. Even though it was far from complete, it looked beautiful. Cream-colored rocks of various sizes were carefully arranged to fit together like a mosaic. “We’ve made lots of improvements since you were here in January. We also have two fans and a new microphone. Someday we’ll have air-conditioning. Oh, the congregation will love that! Come inside.”

Paul and I followed down the center aisle. The sanctuary, with its white tile floor, butter-colored walls, and blue-tinted windows, seemed much bigger and brighter than I remembered it. I guessed that the pews held at least 700 people. A sexton nodded hello from behind the lectern. He was coiling microphone wires and arranging chairs for afternoon Mass. As I walked down the aisle, my mind replayed the scene from my only other visit to St. Clare’s—the time when the little boy collapsed right in front of me during the service. The thought sent a shiver up my spine.

Today the plain wooden pews were empty except for an occasional Bible or songbook. In the front of the church, three steps led to a communion table draped with a white tablecloth. A vase filled with purple and yellow plastic flowers was placed on it. On the front wall was a crucifix, a picture of Mary, and a small white statue of St. Clare. As I approached the communion table, a gentle breeze blew through the open doors. With the sun streaming in and with its airy, fresh feeling, I imagined St. Clare’s provided a welcome respite for its parishioners.

“We’re repainting the saints.” Fr. Gerry pointed to twelve glass window paintings that were positioned side by side, up high on the front wall of the church. I could make out the shadow of an artist who was painting one of the panes of glass in a second-floor room just behind the paintings. “Right now, we’re working on St. Luke. His glass cracked, so we have a brand-new piece.” I was surprised at the European look of the saints—just like my picture books from Sunday School. They seemed out of place in the sanctuary, and I wondered if the artist was making any changes to St. Luke’s face and hair.

As we looked up at the paintings, Paul casually mentioned to Fr. Gerry that he was an artist, too.

“You’re an artist? That’s fantastic!” Fr. Gerry’s eyes sparkled. He put his arm around Paul and pointed to the back wall. “Tell me what you think about the balcony, Paul. Just this week I had an idea.” He paused and rubbed his chin. “We need something on that back yellow wall. I was thinking that a risen Christ would look perfect there, don’t you?”

Paul nodded in agreement.

Fr. Gerry held up his hand, moving it from side to side as if measur ing the imaginary painting. I could see that it was already complete in his mind. “This is perfect timing! You’re an artist. You can do it. We’ll get you some paint and you can paint this weekend, okay?”

Paul looked stunned. “But Father Gerry, I’ve never painted anything that big before. I’m an oil-on-canvas painter. It usually takes me over a year to finish a small painting, and I’m only here four more days.”

Paul had a good point. He’d been working on the same paintings for years. I loved his work. It was always worth the wait. It was Renais sance style, usually with a spiritual theme. Jesus was in sever al of his paintings. But Paul was definitely not a painter who cranked things out. He seemed to obsess over the tiniest details. The process seemed almost painful to him. His pace and the fact that he hated marketing his work made it tough for him to make a living as an artist. But from his talent, it seemed clear that he was born to paint.

My eyes moved back and forth between Paul and Father Gerry. I hoped Paul would say yes. A gigantic Jesus at St. Clare’s—what an amazing opportunity!

Still staring at the blank wall, Fr. Gerry smiled and said, “No problem, Paul. Whatever you do will be great.”

Paul glanced at me, a look of concern in his eyes, and I nod ded encouragingly. “Well ... maybe I can do an outline .... And then another artist can finish it. Do you have a piece of chalk?”

Fr. Gerry called out to a young boy who was peeking through the side door. He dashed off and returned with a piece of charcoal and a wooden ladder. It was as easy as that. In a matter of seconds, Paul had his assignment for the weekend.

As Fr. Gerry and Paul talked about the painting, I wondered what my assignment would be for the weekend. Normally, I planned out every detail of a business trip, complete with a typed agenda neatly placed in a folder. But I didn’t know where to start with Fr. Gerry and the food program. That morning’s visit to St. Clare’s was a surprise. So was the painting. I had no idea what we were going to do next. I could sense that asking for details wasn’t appropriate. Fr. Gerry seemed to operate on another level—as if he was following inspiration, not an agenda. I decided that my plan was to have no plan and simply follow Fr. Gerry’s lead.

“Margaret and Paul. This is Berry Philippe.” Berry shook our hands enthusiastically. He looked about 12 and was dressed in a faded gray T-shirt, shorts, and plastic flip-flops that were too big for him. “Berry’s one of my altar boys. He’s a great helper. He will stay with you, Paul, so you can get started. Margaret and I will be back later, after we go to the paint store.”

Leave Paul behind? I wasn’t so sure about this idea. We’d promised Mom and Dad we’d stick together. What if something happened when we were gone? I was pretty sure Berry didn’t speak a word of English. Before I could offer another suggestion, Father Gerry’s cell phone rang and he stepped outside.

“I’ll be fine, Margaret. Don’t worry.” Paul said, as he and Berry lugged the ladder up the winding metal staircase to the balcony. I could see Paul was starting to get excited about painting Jesus.

I held my breath as I watched Paul slowly climb to the top of the ladder, testing each step to make sure it wouldn’t break. The ladder looked ancient. Its steps were loose, held together by rusted nails. It wasn’t a stepladder; it just leaned against the wall. I was sure it would slip to one side or the other if it weren’t for Berry, who braced his body against the bottom legs of the ladder, holding it in place. When Paul got to the top, his six-foot-two-inch body looked tiny against the huge yellow wall.

Fr. Gerry honked the horn, signaling it was time to go. “Are you sure you’re going to be okay?” I whispered, looking over my shoulder as I walked down the stairs. Paul smiled and waved me on. He looked calm and confident. I felt that way, too, even though I knew I should probably be more worried or at least more careful. I couldn’t explain it, but something about St. Clare’s gave me a feeling of safety. Of course, being “PKs” (pastor’s kids), Paul and I felt at home in a church. But it was more than that. Maybe it was the friendly sexton, or young Berry, or the daisy-colored balcony wall. Or maybe I’d started to change. The feeling of being overwhelmed that I had experienced throughout my first visit to Haiti had faded to the background. Miserable conditions surrounded me, but the food program was on Sunday, and with Fr. Gerry and Manmi Dèt I felt hopeful and excited about what was possible.

Bumping down the hill to the paint store, I started to regret not giving Paul Fr. Gerry’s cell phone number. I pictured him teetering on the top of the ladder. What if he fell and broke an arm or leg? What if he was kidnapped? Someone back home had warned me of kidnappings. “You never know ...,” they said, ominously. I brushed these fears aside, reminding myself that I felt safer in the Tiplas Kazo neighborhood than in certain parts of Berkeley. Plus, violence throughout Haiti had dropped to a tiny fraction of what it had been before the Aristide and Préval governments. It was a good time to be there.

I reached into my bag for my notebook and pen. I’d created a long list of questions for Fr. Gerry. Some were weighty—thoughts that had been troubling me since my first visit to Haiti. Even though I barely knew him, I felt I could ask him anything. This was the perfect opportunity for a private conversation. So, right there in the jeep as it pitched and creaked along—I started in on my most pressing question:

“How is it, Father Gerry, that Haitian people have such a deep faith in God? When there’s so little food and few jobs and no doctors or running water, I’d think that after a while, a person might reject the idea of God, or at least a loving and just God.”

He smiled. I could tell he liked this question.

“God is the first and the last resource here. We feel God’s presence more and more, because there is nobody else some days who can sustain us to allow us to survive. It’s only God sometimes.” He paused to drive around a stalled car. “Because the neighbor doesn’t have enough, the friends don’t have anything, so we’re praising God. God makes miracles. So we live by miracles, and as we live by miracles, we need faith. Our faith sustains us.”

He beeped his horn and waved at the people standing along the road. “Ki jan w ye?” (How are you?) he called out. “Pa pi mal” (Not bad), they responded, smiling and waving. I wrote his answer down quickly in my notebook, trying to understand the depth of what he was saying.

“You will observe that wherever there is a lot of misery, there is less suicide.” I looked up, surprised at where this question was taking us. Suicide was not on my list. “The suicide rate is very low in Haiti. Poor people don’t kill themselves. They always have hope. Something, something is coming.”

He was quiet for a minute, and so was I. I looked out my window at the rows and rows of dilapidated homes. Stagnant water pools full of garbage baked in the heat. The smell was nauseating.

“In the midst of trouble, the presence of God is felt more and more,” he said softly.

That had definitely been my experience after Rich’s death. When I was really struggling, my whole understanding of God shifted—from a God far away to a God close, present with me in my darkest hour. But I felt uncomfortable making comparisons between my life and the life of Haitians. I’d been through a very painful time, but the worst of it had passed. The people I saw outside the car window had a lifelong struggle with the basic necessities of life. They’d lived not only through the deaths of spouses, but the deaths of children, siblings, parents, and friends. They’d lived through coups, brutal military regimes, devastating hurricanes, and drought. I was visiting during a relatively peaceful moment in Haiti’s political history. The country was preparing for another presidential election as Préval’s term ended. Jean-Bertrand Aristide was running again and had the support of the masses. He was expected to win by a landslide. Fr. Gerry said that the country was hopeful that his election would bring new schools, hospitals, and cooperatives. Still, life seemed miserable for most Haitians. I didn’t know if I would be able to have hope and belief in a loving God if I lived under these conditions.

We turned onto Jean-Jacques Dessalines Boulevard, the main road in downtown Port-au-Prince, named after a leader of the Haitian Revolution and the first ruler of independent Haiti. Gridlock surrounded us. A woman drenched in sweat, balancing a large basket of fruit on her head, with buckets of water in each hand, walked in front of us. The muscles on her shoulders and arms were well defined, her posture straight, her walk graceful. She looked my age.

“It’s a matter of every day surviving.” Fr. Gerry suddenly continued. “So, every day, we expect God will make miracles. And indeed He does. I’ve met some families, and I don’t know how they feed themselves. People eat whenever they find food. They drink whenever they find water. Suppose there is a party someplace. When we go to parties, we fill our plates like a pyramid in case it is a long time before we eat again.”

“So each time they find food, it’s considered a miracle from God?” I asked.

He nodded.

I watched the wall-to-wall street vendors we passed, wondering if they’d experience a miracle that day. An exchange of a mango for a bowl of rice? A piece of chicken for a yard of cloth? Up until that moment, I’d always thought of miracles as rare and mysterious events you might miss if you weren’t watching closely. I’d counted only a handful in my life experiences. Eating a meal had not been one of them. But that $5,000 check? That was a miracle.

And now I was beginning to understand how a plate of food is just as much a miracle.

After two hours of inching through Port-au-Prince traffic, Father Gerry pulled over and parked on a congested street in the shopping district to buy paint. The buildings were simple, but they were packed with stores featuring imported appliances, expensive furniture, televisions, and stereos. There were shops displaying colorful party dresses and hats. Shoe stores with the latest styles. One of the storefront windows had a mannequin dressed in a flowing, white-lace bridal dress. Who had the money to buy all this stuff? Then I remembered the tiny percentage of wealthy Haitians who lived in the villas on the hills overlooking Port-au-Prince.

When we entered the small fine arts store, Fr. Gerry casually asked what type of paint Paul needed. I stopped and gulped, looking at rows and rows of paint. It hadn’t occurred to me to ask Paul this obvious question before we left. I didn’t have a clue. Fr. Gerry laughed that hearty laugh I’d heard at the hotel months earlier. He walked up to the sales clerk and explained the project.

“What colors, Margaret?”

“Ah ... White and black,” I guessed.

“Rouge et verte aussi,”Fr. Gerry added. Red and green. We left the store a few minutes later with one paintbrush and four tubes of paint.

By midafternoon, we were back at St. Clare’s. Paul and Ber ry Philippe were on the front steps watching a half-court basketball game. The outline was finished! Paul, himself amazed, described how it had practically drawn itself. He’d started with the eyes. Standing on the top step of the ladder, inches from the wall, without a tape measure, sketch, or grid, he guessed where the right eye should go. Because the wall was so big, he only knew that he’d guessed right after he climbed down the ladder, went down the spiral steps, walked to the front of the church, and looked back at the wall. The right eye was in the perfect place. It was the perfect size. Then he walked back to draw the left eye. Another guess. Perfect. Back and forth all afternoon, checking every stroke he made. Each one was in perfect proportion. At this rate, he said, he might finish the whole painting over the weekend.

Paul and Berry led the way up the balcony’s creaky spiral staircase to show us the outline. Jesus was huge—at least 15 feet tall. His waist started at the floor and the top of his head hit the ceiling. He was naked, with a slash at his ribs and round holes in his hands. His arms were outstretched, as if embracing the congregation. He had a wide nose, long thick black hair, and a beard. He looked like many of the other Jesuses Paul had painted over the years.

Father Gerry stared at the outline in silence for what seemed like ages. Maybe he expected a blond-haired, blue-eyed, ivory-skinned Jesus. Not one who looked Middle Eastern or Hispanic or Haitian.

“I can make changes if you want, Father Gerry,” Paul said.

Still silence. Then finally, “No, Paul. I like it. I like it.” He walked from one side of the balcony to the other, never taking his eyes off Jesus. Then he added, “There’s only one thing.” He paused. “Can you put a robe or cloth on him?”

“No problem.” Paul smiled, relieved.

I handed Paul the bag of paints. White, black, red, green, he pulled them out and placed them on the pew. They were the right kind and the right colors.

“Is there yellow?” Paul whispered so Fr. Gerry couldn’t hear.

“Why do you need yellow? The whole wall is yellow,” I whispered back.

“In case I make a mistake.” I hadn’t thought about that. Paul smiled, looking a little concerned. “No mistakes.”

Paul pulled the one brush we’d bought out of the bag. “Is this the only brush?”

I nodded, realizing it was much too small for the job. In that tiny paint store, I’d forgotten how huge the wall was. He needed the kind of brush you paint a house with. “Sorry.” I whispered.

“This’ll work. I think.” Paul smiled. “Thank you, Father Gerry, for the supplies.” Fr. Gerry was still staring at Jesus.

Berry Philippe and Paul got back to work. They made a great team. Paul squeezed paint from each tube onto his palette—a small section of cardboard—and climbed back up the ladder. It creaked with each step. With Paul balancing on the top step, Berry slowly let go of the ladder’s legs, picked up the cardboard, climbed on a pew he’d positioned next to Paul, and held it over his head. Berry was the perfect height so Paul didn’t have to lean too far to dip his brush. As I left the church for Manmi Dèt’s house, I thought if we got through the weekend without an accident, and with enough paint, it would be another Haitian miracle.

When Fr. Gerry dropped me off at Manmi Dèt’s, preparations for the Sunday food program had already begun. It was only Friday, but Manmi Dèt’s daughter Nennenn, who was in charge of the meal, had something special in mind.

After changing out of my sweat-drenched clothes, I walked down a rocky path to Nennenn’s to help. She lived only 25 yards from Manmi Dèt in a rectangular cement house. “Bonjou, Margo,” Nennenn called, waving from her red iron door. She was dressed in a checked muumuu and had a bright red scarf wrapped around her head. “We’re making a treat for the children. Come inside.”

The sweet smell of coconut filled her kitchen. Nennenn lifted a heavy pot full of what looked like Granola off the burner and put it on the table. “It’s good. Try some.” She put a spoonful in my hand and motioned for me to lick it off, watching me eagerly, awaiting my reaction. Coconut, sugar, butter, maybe some oats. Delicious! Crunchy.

“This is for Sunday?”

“Yes,” she said with her expressive, happy eyes, and a big smile. She had a ton of energy. I guessed she was in her mid-to late 40s. I was thrilled she spoke English.

Nennenn’s 12-year-old adopted daughter, Nancy, came in to the room and greeted me with a shy smile and a kiss on the cheek. Nennenn said that Nancy’s mother, a good friend of hers, had died a few years ago and Nancy had lived with her since then. Nennenn had three other children—two were stu dents in Cuba. Her son Kiko was getting a degree in math ema tics. Her daughter, Romi, was a first-year medical student. Her other son, Luigi, worked in a furniture store down town. Her husband had died of cancer.

Nennenn worked full-time as a high school administrator. She’d taken the afternoon off to cook up the coconut dessert. I guessed from the simplicity of her home that she spent most of her income on her children’s tuition. The walls were unpainted. The main room had only one table and three chairs. When I went to use her bathroom, I peeked in her bedroom and saw that it had a dresser covered with pictures of her children and a mattress on the floor.

Nancy placed a pile of tiny plastic bags in the middle of the empty living room and sat down cross-legged with a bowl of the treat and a spoon. I was surprised to see that she was planning to spoon the coconut mixture into each of the 500 bags, one for each child. It seemed like an overwhelming task that could take hours.

Nennenn turned on the radio, immersing the room with hip-shaking Haitian music, handed me a spoon, smiling, and pointed to the pot. I sat down next to Nancy on the tile floor, and we got to work. Three spoonfuls filled a bag and left room at the top for a knot, which Manmi Dèt volunteered to tie. Manmi Dèt pulled up a wicker chair next to where I was sitting, and I handed her my first bag. One down, 499 to go. The room was hot and muggy. Mosquitoes were circling. I had a hard time sitting still and wondered if there wasn’t an easier way to do this. How about spooning it into each child’s hands, or placing big bowls of it on each table at the end of the meal? I imagined the scene and decided that this was definitely not a good idea.

Nancy and Manmi Dèt chatted happily in Creole, obviously enjoying the project. Nennenn danced between the pots, tasting and stirring, adding sugar and vanilla when needed. I was clearly the only one thinking about time and efficiency issues.

“Tell me about the food program, Nennenn,” I said. “It must be a lot of work to prepare all the food.”

“Yes. It takes time.” She smiled as she stirred and shook her hips to the music.

“And you volunteer?” I knew the answer to this, but asked anyway because part of me couldn’t believe she’d give such a huge chunk of her time every weekend. Especially since she worked full-time and had Nancy to raise.

“Yes. I do ... Because I love the children.”

“How long does the meal usually take to prepare?”

“All day Saturday. And Sunday until two or three, because the pots need to be washed.”

She seemed unfazed by this, but I counted up the hours. I thought of week after week after week—sixteen weeks so far since the first meal was served in March. And this weekend, she’d added the work of shredding coconuts. Plus, the hours of bag-spooning.

As I scooped and sweated, settling into the monotonous task, I looked at each bag and thought of the hungry child it represented. Thanks to the patience and heart of these women, the children would have the choice of opening their bags and pouring the delicious contents immediately into their mouths. Or maybe they’d choose to sprinkle the coconut chunks into the palms of their hands. Or they might take their treats home and savor them bit by bit.

“What’s the name of this dessert, Nennenn?” I asked, as I crunched on another handful. It was addictive.

“Poudre d’amour.”

Powder of love.

I heard a gentle beep on the horn, signaling it was time to leave for the market. Toto, one of Fr. Gerry’s assistants, had arrived to pick us up. He and Nennenn went to the downtown Port-au-Prince farmers’ market every Saturday morning to buy the food needed for Sunday’s meal. We threw empty vegetable sacks into the backseat of the jeep and climbed in.

As we backed out of her driveway, Nennenn counted the money Fr. Gerry had given her for the meal. She recorded everything she bought and how much it cost in a Mickey Mouse spiral notebook. I thumbed through it and saw page after page of notes. Garlic, carrots, cabbage, beans, rice, chicken, goat—each ingredient was listed with the date, quantity purchased, and the total price down to the penny. I found it a total mystery how she knew how much to buy to feed that many children.

The market was about 5 miles away, near Cité Soleil. It stretched for blocks. After we parked, Nennenn took my hand and led me into the congested jumble of stalls squeezed next to each other as far as my eyes could see. I held on tight, feeling out of place and uneasy walking into what seemed an endless maze of people and produce. Women with baskets on their heads walked about looking for customers. Others sat in stalls displaying vegetables and fruit—cabbage, carrots, onions, yams, eggplant, mangoes, pineapple, plantains, bananas—all grown by peasants in the countryside. They were stacked in piles on the ground. Some piles were fresh: a few piles were spoiling in the heat. There was no electricity or refrigeration. Seeing that food go to waste, with Cité Soleil right next door, made my heart sink.

Nennenn told me that many of the vendors slept in their stalls at night. It wasn’t safe to leave their produce unattended, and it was also too far to go back and forth to their homes in the countryside. The stalls were made of cardboard and corrugated metal, or wooden poles with cloth for a roof. A rat skirted past my toes, and I jumped back, stepping on the toes of the young woman behind me. I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to live and work at the market day and night. I already felt claustrophobic, and we’d been here five minutes.

Nennenn knew the market intimately and had her favorite places to shop. The first stall we went to was run by a mother and teenage daughter. They’d been expecting Nennenn and had huge bags of rice and beans set aside for her. Mother and daughter greeted us with a kiss on the cheek and motioned for me to sit down and relax on one of the rice sacks, under their cloth roof. Nennenn told me to stay there while she and Toto went deeper into the market to buy vegetables. I was nervous when she left, not wanting to let go of her hand and wishing I spoke Creole, but the smiles and gentle manner of my two guardians put me at ease.

I watched the activity of the market from my rice sack. It was packed and loud with hundreds of people shopping, selling, and bartering. I was surprised to see that the rice sacks that surrounded me in the stall had “U.S.A.” stamped on them. I assumed we’d be buying Haitian-grown rice for the food program. Later, when I asked why it was U.S. rice, Fr. Gerry told me that there wasn’t much rice production in Haiti anymore. In the 1980s, international lending agencies began requiring that in order to receive loans, Haiti had to reduce tariff protections for its own rice and other agricultural products, opening up the country’s markets to competi tion from outside countries. This led to the importing of heavily subsidized U.S. rice, which was cheaper than Hai tian rice. After a few years, Haiti’s peasant farmers could not compete and most went out of business.

More and more farmers and agricultural workers were leaving the countryside for the city in search of employment. But most never found any. The sprawl of Cité Soleil was a reminder of the life many faced in Port-au-Prince. Those who remained in the countryside struggled to eke out a living on tiny plots of land, the soil becoming more and more depleted and water hard to find. Feeding their families and then having extra produce to sell at the market was becoming harder every year.

Still, I saw a glimmer of hope at the market. When Paul and I had flown over the parched countryside a couple of days earlier, it looked impossible to grow anything. Even Nennenn’s little garden next to her house had dried up in the summer heat. But the eggplants here were a gorgeous purple, the avocados were gigantic, the oranges looked succulent. There were still some areas that had fertile soil and enough rain to produce these beautiful crops.

We loaded sacks filled with carrots, green beans, peppers, and onions into the back of the jeep. Nennenn had also bought thyme and rosemary and a few other herbs I didn’t recognize. As we were about to pull out, a woman carrying a basket of garlic on her head walked by. Nennenn stopped her and they negotiated a price. Two dozen heads of garlic were added to one of our sacks. When Nennenn handed the vendor the coins and thanked her, the young woman’s face lit up with excitement as she proudly put the coins in her skirt pocket and the basket back on her head.

Watching her walk gracefully down the dusty street, looking for her next customer, I thought of my friends who had trusted me with their $10, $20, or $50 bills for the food program. Now I’d seen where the money goes—to these hardworking farmers. To that woman. Not only would children at St. Clare’s be fed tomorrow, but a few farmers’ families would have food for the week as well.

As we drove into Manmi Dèt’s driveway, we were greeted by the beautiful sound of children singing. Four boys from the neighborhood were belting out a church hymn as they raked the yard. A windstorm had blown through the night before, and Manmi Dèt’s property was covered with broken branches and leaves. She was singing, too, supervising with her smile and enthusiasm. The kids clearly loved her and were eager to help in any way they could. When they saw us pull up, they dropped their rakes to help unload.

Two by two, the boys carried the heavy sacks to a spot under an awning adjacent to Manmi Dèt’s house. This was where the cooking took place. Manmi Dèt had a large stove-top with two gas burners that could support the huge pots needed for the rice and stew. The stove was positioned under the awning, shaded from the sun, against the side of the house. Next to it on the ground was an old, blue vinyl seat from the back of a car, ripped, with the foam coming out, that served as a couch. It looked like a comfortable place to sit for the huge task of preparing the vegetables.

The boys poured a sack of carrots onto the concrete floor, got knives from Manmi Dèt, sat on cement blocks, and began peeling. They motioned for me to sit on the couch. Using the dull peeler Manmi Dèt gave me, I settled in. We were surrounded by sacks of produce, and I realized even more what an enormous task it was to prepare a meal for 500.

Manmi Dèt sat next to me with a pile of green beans and started breaking off the ends. She chatted with the boys, who ranged in age from 8 to 13. They laughed and sang more songs as they worked through the piles. Through her limited English and my limited French, I learned that these altar boys from St. Clare’s Church visited almost every day. She helped them with their homework, as an old chalkboard, covered with math problems and spelling exercises, revealed. The boys were thin and dressed in tattered clothes. I was sure they were among the children who would be eating tomorrow. When Manmi Dèt brought out rice and beans for lunch, they devoured it with delight.

As the afternoon went on, our circle grew. Chef, a tall, shy man in his 70s, whose pants and shirt looked three sizes too big, pulled up a chair and started in on the eggplants. He wore a straw hat with fringed edges. Daphné, Manmi Dèt’s 9-year-old granddaughter, squeezed in next to me and helped with the green beans. Nancy stopped by for a while to chop onions. A friend of Manmi Dèt’s came by for a visit and ended up staying for an hour to help. Nennenn, pounding herbs in the kitchen with a mortar and pestle, checked in from time to time to see how things were going.

Preparing Sunday’s meal was a community project. How rare it would be for young and old to gather like this at home. Spending an afternoon preparing a meal, singing songs, sharing jokes with family, friends, and neighbors—my life was too busy for this. Here, everyone seemed to have time, lots of time, to share.

Manmi Dèt led Paul and me down the center aisle to a pew right in front of the lectern for the 6:30 Sunday morning Mass. The sun was inching up over the mountains, casting a soft golden hue on the sanctuary. This was one of the first times Paul and I had been together since we arrived. Ever since Fr. Gerry gave him his assignment, he’d practically lived at St. Clare’s. Berry Philippe picked him up early in the morning and walked him home after dark. Paul told me he was nearly finished with the painting and felt good about it, although he was nervous about how it would be received by the congregation.

As we slipped into our seats, I glanced over my shoulder at the balcony wall. My breathing stopped for a moment while I took in the painting. It was magnificent! Jesus’ almond-shaped black eyes looked right at me. His face drew me in so that I felt as if I was the only one in the room. His expression was loving and compassionate, yet strong. His outstretched arms sent chills through my body. It was as though he was inviting me to come rest in them for comfort.

My mind flashed back to the miserable nights after Rich died. Some of my most comforting moments came when I visualized being held in Jesus’ arms. Each night after Luke fell asleep, I’d put on my favorite CD—Russian monks chanting—and let their deep voices sweep me away. Lying down on the carpet, I would close my eyes and picture a tranquil beach. Jesus was on it, talking to a crowd on the shoreline. Sensing my presence, he would look up and smile. The crowd would disappear, and he’d hold out his arms. I’d run through the sand, sobbing. Then he’d scoop me up like a child and carry me to the waterfront, point to the horizon, and gesture that everything would be okay.

Just the thought that Jesus was with me and that there was a divine plan of some sort helped me heal. My favorite part of the Russian chanting lasted just three minutes. When it ended, I’d press Rewind and imagine the beach scene all over again. I did this for hours.

Jesus’ teachings about love and compassion, food for the hungry, and justice for those who suffer at the hands of greed and power had always been the teachings that inspired me. Maybe this is why Fr. Gerry wanted a risen Christ on the back wall. It was the last image the congregation would see be fore they walked back into their lives—filled with the challenges of finding clean water, feeding and clothing their families, sending children to school, and getting medicine when they were sick. Perhaps the painting would offer hope that one day their suffering might come to an end. I know Fr. Gerry’s goal was to do everything he could to improve conditions in the neighborhood so that this would happen. “Let’s start heaven on earth,” I often heard him say.

When I turned back around in the pew, I squeezed Paul’s arm with encouragement. I couldn’t believe what he’d done in only two days. The Jesus he’d painted felt real and alive. I was sure the congregation would love it. While we waited for Fr. Gerry to start Mass, I reflected on the red slash Paul had painted on Jesus’ ribs and the wounds in his hands. I thought about the difficult lives of the members of St. Clare’s and hoped Jesus’ image on the balcony wall would remind them that they were not alone in their suffering.

Beaming as usual, Fr. Gerry walked out from behind the altar to begin Mass. He looked up at the balcony and smiled. In Creole he welcomed the congregation. A couple of minutes later, when he pointed to Paul, we realized he was talking about the painting. Paul and I held our breath, knowing the moment of truth was only seconds away. With a big swoosh of his arm, Fr. Gerry dramatically pointed to the back wall and everyone turned to look. There was a gasp. Then silence. Then thunderous applause and cheers. We exhaled with relief.

After the service, congregation members stood in line to shake Paul’s hand in gratitude. They gathered in the aisle in small groups, pointing and discussing the painting.

Paul brought me up to the balcony and showed me what was left of the tiny paintbrush I’d given him. It was in two pieces—the hairs of the brush had separated from the handle. He showed me the tubes of paint. The white, black, and green tubes were squeezed and rolled tight. Every drop had been used. He didn’t need yellow after all. There’d been no mistakes. As we looked at the massive painting, Paul said it had nearly painted itself. We both knew it was a miracle.

As we got ready to leave the sanctuary, a middle-aged woman walked up to Paul, kissed him on the cheek, motioned to the painting, and whispered with a smile, “Haitian Jezi.”

Cooking was in full swing by the time Mass ended. A huge pot of vegetable stew was boiling on the gas stove under the awning. Two more pots of beans simmered over campfires made with sticks gathered from the yard. A teen age boy had been watching the beans cook since 3 A.M. He came each week to light the fire and get the beans started so they’d be ready on time.

Chef was back, helping chop the chicken into small pieces. He leaned on his machete, nodded hello, and wiped his forehead. The heat from the fires made it feel like 100 degrees under the awning. A woman I didn’t recognize took each piece of chopped chicken and washed it in a bucket of water. Then she handed it to Nancy, who was sitting next to her on a cement block. Nancy rubbed fresh lime on both sides—to enhance the flavor, she told me. Nennenn fried the limed chicken on the stove. All the while, Manmi Dèt was scooping handfuls of rice from the 50-pound bag onto a metal plate. Gently shaking the plate, she uncovered tiny black bugs and picked them out one by one.

Nennenn waved to me to come stir the stew on the stove.

“Ah, that’s good!” she declared, taking a little taste. “But we need more garlic. Garlic is good for health, Margo.”

Nennenn’s love for cooking showed through her smile and focus. With her wooden spoon and open heart, she moved confidently from pot to pot, adding herbs and spices.

She took her job as chef seriously and worked hard to make sure as many nutrients as possible were in each meal. For many of the children, this would be their only nutritious meal of the week. When I asked her about it, Nennenn seemed undaunted by the fact that she was making food for hundreds. She told me she never knew exactly how many children would come. Sometimes there were only 350. Sometimes 600. Usually, there was just enough food.

By 10 A.M., all that was left to do was wait for the rice to finish cooking. Daphné brought Manmi Dèt and me a cup of rich Haitian coffee, and we sipped it together on the blue vinyl couch. Manmi Dèt took my hand and squeezed it. Then she placed her other hand over her heart. Our language barrier had been frustrating. I had so many things I wanted to ask and tell her. But her beautiful gestures spoke volumes.

I decided to try my French, and I asked her what she thought of the food program. She understood my question and replied—part in English, part in French.

“It’s good … parce que les enfants ont faim” (because the children are hungry).

She paused and took a sip of coffee.

“I like...because I love the poor … Je veux imiter Jésus” (I want to imitate Jesus). She pointed in the direction of the pink church on the hill. “Sainte Claire imite Jesus.”

I nodded in agreement, feeling the sincerity of her words.

We sat in silence, watching Nennenn stir the stew and then dish up two plates. She proudly handed us each a generous portion. “Eat. Eat.” Her eyes sparkled as she watched me take a bite and chew it slowly. I could taste a hint of lime in my chicken. The tender vegetables were blended in a delicious sauce. It wasn’t spicy, just alive with flavor.

“I love it!” I exclaimed, to Nennenn’s delight.

She slapped her leg and laughed. “Good. That’s good!”

Chef and the other volunteers lined up eagerly at the stove with empty containers they’d brought. Nennenn filled each one up to the top with rice, beans, stew, and chicken. I rea l ized then that they were taking meals home to their families.

The pots were hauled into the back of Toto’s jeep, and we left for the church rectory. Along the way, I spotted dozens of children walking from all directions, on their way to the meal site.

I remembered Father Gerry’s e-mail description of Sundays in this neighborhood. “You should hear what they say about the hot meal they receive on Sundays. They say that Sun day is the best day of the week. They cannot wait to have Sunday. Sunday is too far away sometimes for those who are hungry.”

When we pulled up to the rectory, yet another batch of volunteers greeted us. They wore the neatly pressed red-and-white-striped aprons that Manmi Dèt had made on her foot-pedal sewing machine. They’d been busy washing floors, arranging wooden tables and benches, stacking clean bowls and spoons, and placing plastic tablecloths on the tables. The table coverings reminded me of the thin, cheap ones I bought for Luke’s birthday parties only to throw away after one use. I could tell these had been used over and over, treated with the kind of care given a silk or lace tablecloth.

The rectory was larger than I’d imagined. It was a two-story white stone building—about 2,000 square feet—surrounded by an acre of dirt and rock. The first floor was empty, except for the wooden tables and benches that had been brought in for the food program. A stairway led to the second floor, which was home to three young men who helped out at St. Clare’s. We moved the pots of food into the rectory’s back room. I spotted a sink and counter, but no plumbing.

Within minutes of our arrival, a long line of children formed outside the front door, ranging in age from 2 to late teens. I wondered how far some of them had walked and when their last meal had been. Some looked weak and tired. Others were jumping up and down with excitement. Many wore their Sunday best—girls in bridesmaid dresses or lacy Easter dresses with big bows—probably hand-me-downs from the States. Their brightly colored hair ribbons matched their outfits and blew in the breeze. Most of the boys wore white dress shirts or T-shirts and faded pants that had been passed down brother to brother. Their belts were pulled to the last notch. Many of the children’s shoes had broken straps, no laces, and were either too big or too small. But even with clothes that didn’t fit, they wore them with a dignity I’d noticed over and over in Haiti.

Watching this massive event unfold, I shook my head and laughed as I thought of all the church committee meetings I’d sat through where it seemed to take months, if not years, to get a new project started. Finding volunteers always seemed a monumental challenge. Not here. The community of St. Clare’s had their meal program for 500 up and running within a couple of weeks after receiving the first funding check.

Everyone moved quickly to get the youngest children seated on benches in the two front rooms of the rectory. The meal would be served in shifts, since there was room for only about 150 to eat at one time. A circle of women sat on cement blocks in the back room and started to dish up plates. They sang and talked as they worked. One put a scoop of steaming rice on the plate and passed it to her right, where beans and a piece of chicken were added. Then the plate was passed again and a generous helping of stew was poured over the top, filling it to overflowing. The delicious aroma flowed through the open windows and doors. You could feel the anticipation rise outside as the children waited to be served.

Twenty more volunteers, most of them children, lined up shoulder to shoulder to form a human chain that extended all the way from the circle of women to the tables in the front of the rectory. They were proudly dressed in their aprons and passed the plates of hot food slowly and carefully from one to the next. I was sure they were as hungry as the children at the tables, and there were definitely more than enough volunteers, but they wanted to help. With smiles and concentration they took their task seriously—keeping the plates flowing. I spotted Berry Philippe and the four boys who had helped peel carrots standing in the middle of the chain.

When the food was placed in front of the children, I was amazed that they didn’t eat right away. Even 2- and 3-yearolds sat patiently with their hands at their sides waiting until everyone was served. Then, a woman I recognized from church that morning clapped her hands to get the children’s attention. She lifted her arms and directed them in a song of thanksgiving. They all knew it well and sang enthusiastically. Their voices filled the rectory and were probably heard blocks away. The song ended with everyone clapping and singing, “Mèsi, Bondye, mèsi!” (Thank you, God.) “Amen. Amen. Amen.”

The time they’d been waiting for had arrived. I studied their faces as they spooned in Nennenn’s stew. They were focused—chewing and swallowing with urgency and excitement. Famished. Their eyes were serious, but many of them still had a sparkle. I watched the littlest ones keep up with their older siblings, completing gigantic portions in record time. They scraped their plates clean with their spoons and then ran their tongues over them, licking every drop. I thought of the mother of three from Son Fils and the days we spent together. I wondered if she was still alive, and if her children knew about the food program.

Plates passing, spoons scraping, people singing, children laughing—the scene was festive, like a party. When the first shift of children finished eating, they cleared and washed their plates and another 150 children filed into the rectory.

Father Gerry arrived as the meal was coming to a close. I could hear his laugh over all the excitement. He sat on a bench next to the children and invited me to join him. Helping himself to a plate of stew, he said, “You see, Margaret, we have the feeling of great sharing at this food program. Share, share, share: that produces love, love, love. Love for God and love for everyone. We love each other and we love all of you who are helping us help ourselves.”

“Manje?” a child asked.

“Non, mèsi,” I said as I looked at the growing crowd of adults waiting close by in eager anticipation of the leftovers they hoped would be served to them. The volunteers were eating now. Berry Philippe sat down next to Fr. Gerry and me, looked up, and smiled with relief and satisfaction as he dug into his meal. Paul told me Berry’s father had died a few years before and that his mother was very ill. He had eight brothers and sisters and no source of income. When Paul asked Berry whether he’d eaten the day he’d helped find the chalk, Berry had said yes—he’d had a small piece of bread and a packet of sugar.

As I helped wash dishes and put away pots and pans, I noticed a mother wearing a sun-faded red dress. She was slowly walking out of the rectory with her two young children. I hoped there had been an extra plate for her. She looked weak and tired, as though she was about to collapse. She reminded me of the women at Son Fils. Her face was gaunt and serious as she lovingly held the hands of her children and made her way into the dusty street and disappeared around the corner. Other children filed out of the yard behind her. They looked happy and full, but what did the rest of the week hold for them? I guessed it would be only a few hours before they all felt hungry again.

On our last day, just before we left for the airport, Fr. Gerry took me on a drive around the neighborhood while Paul stayed behind at St. Clare’s to use every minute to touch up his Jesus painting. As Fr. Gerry and I drove through the narrow streets of the St. Clare’s community, he called out “Bonjou” to everyone he passed. A naked 3-year-old boy tore out of his house, jumped up and down, and squealed with excitement when he heard Fr. Gerry’s voice.

“Okay, okay,” Fr. Gerry laughed, pulling over and reaching for the plastic container of jellybeans he kept on the front seat. Within seconds, a dozen giggling kids swarmed his window, hands outstretched. He placed a jellybean in each palm. “Mèsi! Mèsi!” they said as they cradled their treat. I watched them lick and carefully chew their jellybean, and I thought of Luke’s annual pillowcase filled with Halloween candy, his overflowing Christmas stocking, Easter basket, and the morethan-occasional treats I bought him at the store. Here, one jellybean was precious!

We had started to pull away when a young mother ran up to the jeep holding a piece of paper that had a scrap of green-and-white-checkered cloth pinned to it. That was the fabric needed for a school uniform. She fought back tears as she whispered something to Fr. Gerry, who listened patiently, then reassured her. Looking relieved, she walked away.

I asked what was wrong, and he explained that she couldn’t afford to send her daughter to school. Only 10 percent of schools in Haiti are public. Even though President Aristide and President Préval had built over 300 new public schools during their terms, all of them were full. The alternative, private school, costs $100 U.S. per year or more, well beyond the means of this mother and most Haitians.

“Can you help her?” I asked.

“I’m going to try,” he said.

I sat back and stared out the window. How could he be so hopeful in the midst of such overwhelming poverty? I couldn’t forget the face of the mother in the faded red dress at the food program. Her sunken cheekbones and fragility made me think she didn’t have many days left to live. The excitement of watching the children eat faded for me as soon as they left the rectory. The reality of their lives, the daily hunger, filled me with sadness. Yet, Fr. Gerry didn’t seem tired or weighed down by the struggles of his community.

“Margaret, I have something to show you,” he said as we pulled into the driveway of the rectory, a short way down the hill from St. Clare’s Church. The building was quiet, an empty shell compared to the day before. It was rarely used during the week, although Fr. Gerry had big plans. We walked across the dusty yard to the right side of the building.

“This is where the outdoor cafeteria will be. A large space for the food program to be served. Three hundred children will be able to sit down at once.” His eyes smiled and his voice was convincing.

“An outdoor cafeteria?” I said, confused.

He nodded. “With a roof and sturdy tables and benches for the children, and a concrete floor so they won’t hurt themselves on the rocks and glass.” He led me around the corner and pointed to the back of the rectory building. “Right here is where the new kitchen will go. With running water and a big stove to cook food, so we can serve meals to the children all week long.”

I squinted in the sunlight, trying to imagine the new kitch en and the possibility of more days of food.

With a big smile, he continued, “Over here is where the school will go.” He pointed to the empty half-acre lot on the left side of the rectory. “With a daily lunch, a library, and a health clinic. And over there”—he spun around and pointed to the road leading to the rectory—”I see the roads paved. No more roads that wash away each time it rains. No more struggling to get up the hill.” Then he turned slowly in a circle, pointing to the homes surrounding us. “Margaret, I see all the children fed and their parents working. Everyone has enough food to eat and electricity and running water.”

I looked with him into the neighborhood, past the piles of garbage and the dark interiors of the dilapidated homes, trying to imagine his vision. But I couldn’t. The bleak reality overwhelmed me. So I shut my eyes and tilted my head back. The sun burned my cheeks as I tried to picture a school next to the rectory. After a few seconds, it began to take shape. It was three stories high—bright blue, orange, and yellow. Happy colors. I imagined a bell ringing and dozens of children skipping through the gate, books in their arms, chatting and laughing as they walked into classrooms and sat behind new desks, their teachers greeting them.

“Father Gerry?” I opened my eyes quickly, excited about this vision. “Do you think I should start exploring grants to raise money for the school? How much do you think it will cost?”

He laughed, “First Margaret, we feed the children, we keep them alive. Then the school.”

Fr. Gerry glanced at his watch. It was time to pick up Paul and drive to the airport. As we walked through the yard and back to the jeep, Fr. Gerry turned to me and said:

We have a Creole saying I want to teach you. Piti piti na rive. That means little by little we will arrive. One step at a time, Margaret. In Haiti, sometimes they are very, very small steps. Sometimes we go backward. But it’s important to keep taking steps, even though they are small. Never lose hope. Never give up. One day, maybe not during my lifetime, but one day, we will get there.