Miracle on Voodoo Mountain

by Megan Boudreaux

  Michaëlle was playing in front of the tent in the same ragged yellow dress she had worn the day before. When she saw me, she ran inside and changed into a blue-and-white princess dress costume with white shoes and ankle socks. Her excitement propelled her ahead of me down the path. I had to walk fast to keep up with her. As I followed her down the mountain, I wondered who she was and why she was living in such a strange situation. Is it because of the earthquake? How did her mom pass away? Why was she trying to eat a bird? Was she really that hungry? Why isn’t she being fed? And why was she wearing that old yellow rag when she had a cute dress to wear? I had lots of questions, and I wanted some answers.

  But first, I needed to follow Michaëlle down the mountain. I didn’t know then that Michaëlle was not just leading me down Bellevue Mountain but into a whole new purpose for my life. I didn’t know that this hungry orphan girl wasn’t just living in a foster home in that blue tent; she worked there. And instead of going to school, she hauled water, scrubbed dirty dishes, swept the floor, washed clothes, and, exhausted at the end of the day, slept on a piece of cardboard under the table. She worked sick or well, fed or hungry, rain or shine. Michaëlle had no one to watch out for her, care for her, or make sure she got an education. At only seven years old she was alone, unvalued, and forgotten.

  But I didn’t yet know this. All I knew was I needed to run to catch up. The waiting was over, and there was work to be done.

  THREE

  Prom Queen Meets Roaches

  You must do the things you think you cannot do.

  —Eleanor Roosevelt

  The bench creaked as I tucked my head as far between my knees as I possibly could and contorted my seven-year-old body into a tiny ball. I was a hot, sticky mess in the Louisiana heat, but I didn’t care. I felt a little safer as I clutched my knees and tried to shove my head down even farther.

  It was the day of my father’s funeral, and I’d bravely walked in with my ten-year-old brother, Zack, and my nine-year-old sister, Lindsey. But somehow I got lost in the shuffle, and that’s when I found the bench. I was trying so hard to disappear. When I realized I couldn’t, I began listening. As people walked by my bench I heard the whispers—“That’s Kenny’s daughter.” “Poor thing.” “She’s so young.”

  Someone came close and I felt a brush of fabric against my leg as she sat down. I tightened my hands around my knees and listened quietly, not daring to look up. Her arm brushed my back. “Leave her alone,” another woman’s voice said. “She doesn’t want anyone near her.” I didn’t look up to see who it was, but my heart sank as those words rang over and over in my ears.

  My parents had been divorced for a long time, my father an alcoholic before I was even born. My mom had fought hard to keep us together and sacrificed much so that my siblings and I would not have to see how terrible this disease of addiction was, but we all knew the truth anyway. I love my mother’s meekness and compassion, which overflow from her sweet spirit. And her determination to fight for her children is something that I grew up with and that I now understand is deeply ingrained in me.

  But my mother’s desire to protect us and fight for us was perceived by some family members on my father’s side as an attempt to keep us from our father, so for this reason she was not allowed to attend his funeral. Instead, she was forced to wait for us in the parking lot.

  I spent the whole day sitting on that bench with my head between my knees trying hard to dream about other, happier days. And those three words kept ringing in my ears: Leave her alone.

  As the tears dripped from my eyes, I wanted so bad to untangle myself and run outside to find my mom. Be brave. Be brave. You are alone, I told myself over and over. But I didn’t have the courage to lift my head up out of my lap. I didn’t want to see people staring at me. I’m alone, and I have to be brave, I told myself.

  Suddenly I felt as if someone much bigger than me had picked me up and set me on his lap. For the first time that day, I raised my head from my knees to look around, but I was still on the bench. No one was there. No one had physically picked me up.

  I looked right and left, confused. Who had made the bench shake? Who was there? But there was nobody. As I sagged down again and put my head back between my knees, these words flowed into my heart: You are not alone. I am with you. You are not alone.

  A comforting feeling began to settle down over my hurting heart. I had no idea where these words were coming from or who said them. I only knew it was a different message from the one I had been telling myself.

  Looking back, I realize that moment on the bench was the first time I ever interacted with the Lord, at least as far as I remember. He reached down and touched the heart of a small fatherless girl that day although I didn’t really understand what it all meant.

  Under normal circumstances I was the type of kid who would talk to everyone I saw, and if there was no one to talk to, I’d talk to my stuffed animals. My teachers usually considered my talkative nature more of a problem than a gift.

  One day at school, on my way out to the playground, my class walked by a classroom where the kids were still inside with the door shut. I asked my teacher, “Why aren’t these kids allowed to go to recess too?”

  “Because they are different,” she said carefully. “They go to recess at a special time.” I didn’t care if the kids were different. I liked different. So I decided to speak up and ask my teacher if I could stay in the classroom with the different kids. She smiled and agreed, and this is how I spent the rest of my recesses that year.

  In high school I continued my busy and friendly ways, ignoring the taboos about who was “cool” and who was not. I signed up for many school clubs and kept every minute full with activities, and my busy schedule taught me organizational skills that would serve me well later. I was full of ideas and plans and projects, so I ended up becoming student council president and was even voted prom queen my senior year.

  I loved surrounding myself with people and couldn’t wait to go to college. My heart was set on Tulane University in New Orleans, but my mom couldn’t afford the expensive tuition. I threw my energy into finding a scholarship, but every search came to a dead end. I determined the only way I could afford to go to Tulane was if I received the coveted Legislative Scholarship, a special full-ride scholarship that could be awarded only by someone who served in the Louisiana legislature.

  In February of my senior year of high school, a special election was coming up in Lafayette, and I organized a voter drive at my school, signing up hundreds of new voters. Afterward I made an appointment with the winning congressional candidate, Joel Robideaux, and shared with him my dream of going to Tulane University. Often these congressional scholarship awards are political in nature, handed out as favors, but this time Mr. Joel understood my desire and rewarded my boldness in applying for the scholarship. He showed me that dreams do come true. My family and I had nothing to give him, but Mr. Joel gave me an amazing gift by sending me to Tulane for four years, all tuition and fees paid.

  Freshman year went well, and I was busy as ever. But while I was preparing to return for my second year at Tulane, Hurricane Katrina roared through New Orleans. As the chaos of the storm and its aftermath settled in, we were told Tulane would not be open for classes in the fall. I had to find another school on the approved list that was provided for us. Overnight, I decided on Washington and Lee University in Lexington, Virginia. I would be there for at least a semester while hurricane repairs were carried out at Tulane.

  That fall I was dropped off in the middle of an unfamiliar college campus. At least when I was at Tulane, I had high school friends attending and was very familiar with New Orleans. But here at Washington and Lee, it felt like my freshman year all over again, except this time I was in a faraway city at a university that I had never visited. I didn’t know anyone and cried the whole way to my dorm room, dragging two suitcases of belongings behind me. I felt lost and completely alone, just as I did on the bench at that funeral home when I
was seven. Alone in my dorm room I began to feel that I had made a huge mistake. What am I doing here? I’m not sure I can do this. I don’t know if I can be brave.

  But that familiar voice spoke to my spirit again, telling me I was not alone. I left my room to take a walk around the campus. Within minutes I met the friendliest guy, named Drew. Drew smiled, bounced around, and invited me to his church. I laughed as I declined his invitation. “I grew up Catholic,” I said. “I’ve been to mass before. I already know what church is all about.”

  I threw myself into my schoolwork and tried to keep busy, but I kept remembering Drew’s invitation. At the same time I felt a growing emptiness in my spirit. Over the next few weeks Drew kept inviting me to the small nondenominational church on campus, and I finally agreed. When I walked into the packed church, I heard the voice again, the One who had comforted me when I was just seven years old and feeling all alone.

  Drew invited me to Bible studies and worship services. For the first time ever I began to understand what having a relationship with God was really all about. I began reading the Bible and realized I could pray all the time. God was always listening.

  I returned to Tulane the next semester as planned, but I was different. My life had begun to change. Even though I couldn’t exactly put my finger on what had changed, I felt different. I felt sure there was something, or Someone, guiding me.

  On my way to cheerleading practice one night, waiting for a squad mate, I meandered down a hall and stumbled upon a Bible study taking place in a dorm lounge. After I had spent a few minutes peering in, someone invited me inside, and I sat down, intrigued by what they were talking about. Wide-eyed and completely enthralled, I missed the entire cheerleading practice that night. I started to attend the weekly Bible study.

  Through this group my eyes were opened to the poverty in my own city. I joined an outreach group that handed out sandwiches on Saturdays to the thousands of homeless people living under bridges and in tents in downtown New Orleans, and my perspective of the poor began to change. The hurricane’s devastation was unlike anything I had ever seen, and my heart was drawn to New Orleans’s homeless. I learned more about the gospel, about freedom in Christ, and about the truth of His Word. My outlook on life began to shift dramatically. Jesus had broken through to my confused and closed heart.

  I finished college and immediately entered the workforce, unsure of what God had planned for me. As I began my first job doing marketing for an industrial construction company, my eight-to-five position began to grow more monotonous and pointless. After months of inner struggle I wondered why I would ever need to know about rebar sizes and foundations on buildings. So I quit my marketing construction job and began working at Prevent Child Abuse Louisiana. Jesus continued stirring a desire for justice in my heart, but His preparation was much more intricate than I could ever imagine. My days at PCAL revolved around learning the importance of prevention and education for families and children. When my time at this job came to an end, I began working at Our Lady of the Lake Hospital, thinking I had finally found the place where God wanted me to serve.

  But it wasn’t until my visit to Bellevue Mountain in Haiti, where I saw the tamarind tree, that a place grabbed my heart so firmly and wouldn’t let go. When my dreams about the tree wouldn’t stop, I knew God was relentlessly pursuing me.

  God was whispering, sometimes shouting, and I couldn’t help but listen. After months of struggling I finally made the decision to return to Haiti . . . to stay.

  And I can tell you right now, there is no way I would have moved to a place where it’s so hot I literally sweat in the shower—where tarantulas, frogs, gigantic roaches, and other disgusting insects are your roommates; where I couldn’t just hop in my car and zoom over to Chick-fil-A or Starbucks or even a grocery store—without the strength of my huge, all-powerful God. Only God could make me take this leap out of my comfortable life.

  Through tears and trembling I quit my job, gave up my car, and had a garage sale to get rid of everything I couldn’t pack in a couple of suitcases. It seemed like God’s perfect timing since my roommate was getting married and moving to Australia the next month, but it was still exceptionally challenging. On the day of the sale, as I watched people digging through my apartment, my anxiety level grew. Every time someone picked up a cute pair of heels and complained the price was too high, I wanted to shout, “I paid sixty-five dollars for those, so that’s a dang good deal!” But I didn’t. I was determined to keep my composure. That unbearable weekend finally ended, and it was time to leave Louisiana.

  I’d loved my job and my car and my life and my friends, and I felt torn. People close to me brought up concerns about my safety, about my plans that seemed to defy logic and reason, and about my money, which was limited. But I couldn’t ever seem to shrug off that nudge from God, rooted on Bellevue Mountain. There were times I thought back to the people and children I’d met in Haiti, and my heart felt like a throbbing wound. I just could not ignore it anymore. I knew this desire to go was from the Lord, even if others didn’t, so I gave in. Okay, God. It’s a green light until it’s a red light.

  My mom drove me to the airport, with tears filling her eyes, as she hugged and kissed me good-bye, anxious about her baby traveling to a foreign land on an unknown, God-driven quest. Then I went through security and boarded the plane. Once again I was by myself. Except I knew for sure I wasn’t really alone. As I found my seat, I knew the Lord was with me; He was in control. And I didn’t need to hide my face anymore—I could lift my head with confidence, knowing my heavenly Father was always there.

  I buckled my seat belt, took a deep breath, and closed my eyes. I was on my way.

  FOUR

  Rice, Beans, and Salami

  Being unwanted, unloved, uncared for, forgotten by everybody, I think that is a much greater hunger, a much greater poverty than the person who has nothing to eat.

  —Mother Teresa

  I couldn’t shake the memory of Michaëlle throwing rocks at the blackbird. It was like a movie playing in my head. What would have happened if she’d hit one hard enough to kill it? Would she have pulled the feathers off and actually tried to start a small fire to cook it? I shuddered at the image my brain conjured up.

  Of course I knew what it meant to be hungry after a workout or when I’d skipped a meal, but I didn’t understand that kind of hunger. Why wasn’t Michaëlle eating? The woman she lived with, who called herself Michaëlle’s “aunt” even though she was not, looked as though she’d been getting enough to eat. Why not this little girl? She was growing and active and needed food. It made no sense.

  I started looking at the children around my neighborhood and wondering if they were getting enough to eat. I had heard on one of my previous trips that 50 percent of the population of Haiti is under sixteen years old. Fifty percent! This means half of the people in Haiti are children. I love the scripture where Jesus said, “Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these” (Matt. 19:14). After registering Michaëlle for school, my next hope was to be able to feed her and the others around Bellevue Mountain.

  I decided Saturday, just two days away, would be the day. I was going to feed as many children as I could up on the mountain. The problem was, I was still pretty much living off energy bars, and I didn’t know how to cook Haitian food. I was sure the local children would not enjoy American-style food, such as spaghetti and meatballs or mac and cheese, so with the help of David and Bernard, I asked Say Say if she would be willing to cook some food for me.

  I’d been watching how she carefully prepared the rice and beans she purchased each day in the market and cooked them in the front yard on the charcoal stove made of metal. Food and charcoal are expensive, so Say Say used only the amount she needed for her family, and there was never anything left over. I watched how careful she was to create a small, hot fire with her charcoal in the wire basket that held the cooking pot. In the mornings I also noticed
the gray ashes coating the bottom of the stove and realized it was the same color as the road in front of the house. There are so many charcoal fires in Haiti that the smoke and the ash cover everything.

  “Can Say Say cook for a hundred people?” I asked Bernard. After he spoke with her, she agreed, but said I needed to go to the market to buy rice, beans, coconut, charcoal, and more. She also suggested salami because “kids love it.”

  Knowing that I would never be able to find everything we needed, and since Bernard didn’t frequent the Gressier market much, I asked Say Say to come with me. Off to the market we went, with Bernard tagging behind. I followed Say Say closely as she bustled quickly to the entrance of the outdoor market and began weaving in and out of the tiny but intimidating rows dotted with piles of onions, tomatoes, peppers, and more. The odor was strong, alternating between the smells of fresh produce and sewage. As I looked about the crowded market, I began to wonder if there were more people than produce.

  After handing some money to Say Say, I quickly grabbed my journal to write down how much everything cost. Rummaging around my purse, I pulled out a pink highlighter and began jotting down amounts and costs. We continued to wind through the rows until I noticed the ground change from muddy brown to a deep black. I’d been watching my feet the whole time so I wouldn’t trip or step on any produce, and now I was surprised to look up and see bags and bags of charcoal on blackened earth. People hunched around small buckets of charcoal pieces, their skin matching their merchandise.

  As we finished with a purchase of charcoal, we called a tap-tap to help transport everything we bought back to my house. The brightly colored truck pulled to a stop in front of us, and we climbed on, struggling to fit the enormous bag of charcoal, rice, beans, salami, filtered water (packaged in little, individual plastic bags), and other ingredients among the tight crowd on board. The tap-tap lurched forward, and we headed out of the market. Once my house came into view, we tapped the side of the truck loudly, and it lurched to a stop. Once again we fought the crowd on board to get all our things off. We stood in our front yard, where Say Say planned to cook, and I took a deep breath and smiled at my new friends. The adventure was successful, and word began to get out about my Saturday project. A few people in the community even volunteered to help Say Say cook the food. What a blessing!