Broken

There was a definitive moment in college when my walls went up, when I resolved to never allow the feeling of hurt again. It was not a reaction to singular heartbreak, but the culmination of losses and pain throughout my adolescence that built like a silent wave. There is a name for these – ACES, adverse childhood experiences, a psychological battery that attempts to quantify the damage. I don’t know where I fall on the scale, but whatever the measure I had hit my magic number, and through force of will I built my hard shell. For three decades my barrier held with only chips and scratches. Then I went to Haiti.

A close friend had called a few weeks ago asking me to consider a trip with him a year hence, and only as an aside mentioned he would also make a quick but urgent Haiti visit over the coming Thanksgiving holiday. My friend Res is deeply involved in a ministry attempting to build a social network and support system with committed locals in the town of Montrouis. It is a grassroots effort still in the early stages. I considered his offer then realized I would have a more intimate experience if he would entertain me as a third wheel for his Thanksgiving run. One email later he eagerly obliged and the plan was set. Be careful what you ask for.

So it came that I departed home at 2:00am Friday morning to join up with Res and Adam for the journey southward. After a day filled with tense moments in Port-au-Prince, and a death defying drive up the coast, we settled into an unfinished house in the center of Montrouis. We were hosted there by a resident Haitian, Alex Vixamar, and his fourteen-year-old ward, Christo. Alex is a “big brother” to Christo, and he and the ministry provide a sanctuary for Christo from the dark forces and disconsolate future Mountrouis would otherwise hold.  

Our first morning I found Christo and his friend Jadin reveling in new Legos, and with Alex’s blessing I sat in. Their English was as good as my Creole, but through pantomime and shared Lego love we built a rapport. We moved on to balloon art and pipe-filter creatures, then they found my Connect Four board. They launched in with virtually no instruction. After three games they decided “four” was boring, henceforth it became “Connect Five.” They proceeded to whip me game after game amid laughter and floor rolls.

In due time Res and Adam summoned me for our day’s work. I attempted to ask Christo how to say “I will come back.” He and Jadin looked at me with blank expressions, and Alex chimed in, “M’ap vini.” I clumsily uttered “my beignet” eliciting more rolls of laughter. At laughter’s end Christo faced me with an earnest expression, slowly repeating “m’ap vini” and would not release me until I mirrored the phrase fluently.

In the ensuing days our play continued - courtyard soccer, tennis ball catch, games on his flip-phone, and endless “Connect Five” until my proficiency grew. Our Creole-English barrier left town, and we communicated effortlessly with winks, eye-rolls, nods, and head-tilts. We became one another’s shadow.

On the morning of my departure as I kneeled over my pack, I turned to find Christo standing silently behind me, his arms straight at his side. He whispered in intelligible English, “You go back to America today?” I nodded yes.

He said, “I will pray for you.”

I was caught off guard not grasping the nuance of his sentiment and reflexively replied, “I will pray for you, Christo.” With that he left the room.

Res, Adam, Alex, and I gathered on the porch to discuss the itinerary for our departure to Port-au-Prince. I assumed Christo had left for school, but Alex told me no, school did not start until afternoon and Christo was in his room. I entered the house, pushed aside the bedroom curtain and found Christo lying on his cot. He turned his head slowly toward me revealing a single tear running down his cheek. He would not meet my gaze and locked his stare back on his flip-phone.

Pieces began falling on the floor. My deepest feelings of childhood hurt unleashed their rusted chains and squeezed my chest. More pieces fell away cascading like broken china. How many times past had someone cast a spell on Christo only to disappear? My shell was broken in a hundred pieces, strewn about my feet.

I laid next to Christo, but he refused to acknowledge me. I slid back slightly, attempting to contain the flood welling in my eyes. We would not part like this, so I resolved to simply remain by his side. Be present.

Minutes passed and Christo held tightly to his phone randomly picking through ring tones and game settings. In time a song arose and Christo mouthed the words. I recognized the tune and began singing too. Our voices rose to finish the song. He turned toward me with a reluctant smile, “You sing badly.”

Laughter. Selfies. Alex shouted it was time to go.

Now, thirty years on, I walk defenseless once more. Though my shield is gone, my heart is open. Sorrow is joy’s brother.

Live. Love.

M’ap vini, Christo. M’ap vini.

Gut Check

I woke up this morning with a premonition I would be in an auto accident. I don’t normally have these, but what can you do? I tucked it a way, and promised myself I would drive with utmost care on my weekly three-hour commute to Virginia.

A few hours later the peaceful morning sun warmed my face as I crested a hill on Route 15 just past Point of Rocks – then, almost instantly I could not process the scene on the roadway ahead. A white pickup was rolling away from me in my lane onto the grass. A black Escalade was stopped in opposite lane facing the oncoming traffic, and a small sedan was skidding sideways toward it. I had an audio book blasting and heard no crunching metal, just a silent, sickening, slow-motion movie playing out before me.

I had plenty of room to stop and braked hard. In my rearview a long line of cars braked behind me. I punched on my flashers, and stared for a soul-searching moment. A part of me wanted to sit right there and pretend it was a dream. It was not. I turned off the ignition, took a deep breath, swallowed, opened my door and ran headlong for the white truck.

It lay on its side in front of a trail of smashed metal and glass. Black smoke poured out of the crumpled hood. I looked around as I approached; the scene was still only seconds old and I was by myself. Another deep swallow and I climbed up to the driver’s side window which faced the sky. Below me a middle-aged man was pinned motionless behind the steering wheel. The collapsed, sagging airbag looked pitifully small.

I shouted, “Can you hear me?” Nothing.

I shouted again. This time he stirred slightly. He began to claw out the open window. I grasped his forearm imploring him to stay still, help was on the way. He moaned. I told him my name and said I would stay there with him until help arrived. He whispered his name, Scott.

I heard a hissing sound behind me, and looked over my shoulder. Bystanders had gathered and someone was dousing the hood with a fire extinguisher. I was glad, as I realized the black acrid smoke had been searing my nostrils. Only then, when I turned back to Scott did I see the small child lying below him against the smashed window pressed to the ground.

I stepped down from truck trying to figure out how to get in. The back window was intact with the pilot window shut tight. The front windshield was shattered and crumpled but still clinging tightly around the edges. I took off my fleece, wrapped it around my hands and pulled at it through some fist sized holes, but it would not budge. I felt so incredibly helpless and wanted to kick it in but realized I would do more harm than good to the small child behind it and resolved to return to Scott and try to keep him still.

He was thrashing again with his free arm, so I held his shoulder, spoke and asked him about his girl. He mouthed her name was Savannah. I saw that she had moved, and my worst fears were allayed.

After minutes that seemed like hours I heard sirens. I reiterated to Scott that help was almost here. I stopped talking - I wanted so much for him to hear the sirens too.

The first fire truck had just four, maybe five men. They ran hoses to each of the two smashed cars. A single fireman came to the white truck and asked me about who was inside. He then shouted to a second fireman to bring a sawzall. He did, and cut out the windshield as easily as he might pull film off a microwave dish. To my astonishment and relief the little girl stepped dazed through the open windshield.

The firemen led her several feet away as I followed and instructed her to lay down. He asked me to hold her head still while he did a thorough assessment. Other than bleeding from her scalp, she said only her back hurt. She told the fireman through her tears that she was eleven and her father was taking her to her softball game. Another fireman brought a backboard. The first fireman, another bystander, and I carefully rolled her on with carefully synchronized counts. Now several more rescue units had arrived, a medi-vac helicopter hovered overhead, and my participation was done.

As I walked back to my car a sheriff stopped me to ask if I had seen the collision – No, only the aftermath. I think I heard other bystanders say the Escalade had crossed the centerline and hit the truck head-on. Both vehicles were likely traveling forty, fifty, maybe faster.

On their way to softball. Jesus. How precious each and every day is. 

Long May You Run

I’m not a car guy. Don’t get me wrong – I love the sleek lines of a sports car or luxury sedan as much as anyone – but when spending frivolously, I throw my money elsewhere. Given this ambivalence I was surprised to feel a pang of sadness at letting go of our 4-Runner this past month. 

She came to us in 1998 only slightly used. Our boys were two and four and I realize now we raised our family in that car. She was our snowmobile and our beach-mobile. Fate set that role from the very start…

I had taken my father-in-law, Denny, and the boys for a drive on the high-tide line in Corolla, the 4-Runner’s first sensation of sand between her toes. We encamped by a perfect tidal pool, I provisioned the boys with shovels and buckets, and Denny and I turned our attention to Coronas and solving the world’s problems.  After some time they appeared excitedly by our side eager to show us their creations.

I was bewildered to find bare sand by the pool. Instead the boys led us to the 4-Runner, its doors wide open. Adorned with seashells, sandcastles rose seat-high filling the rear foot wells. The boys beamed.

Parents will recognize this as one of life’s pivotal moments. A lump rose in my throat. A smile slowly spread across my face and the embodiment of childhood wonder overcame shallow material impulse. I laughed and hugged them tight. After the boys exhausted their narratives, I carefully collected the shells gingerly relocating them to the small pocket console beneath the stereo, and we de-excavated the back seat. Those shells remained in the front console for the next eighteen years. 

For not being a car guy, those wheels sure made some memories. Ol’ girl, “Long May You Run.” *

(click on any photo for full-screen)

* Credit to Neil Young (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MQhw02fZkkw&nohtml5=False)