But the real world is hard, and the real world in Haiti is even harder. I struggled over the decision to adopt a child who actually has a father, but I could no longer justify a situation where a child was living with people who didn’t want her, feed her, or keep her safe. I chose to rise above my anger over the unjust situation and trust that God knows Michaëlle and her past. He knows why things happen like this, even if I don’t.
For weeks after she came to live with me permanently, my heart broke every time I’d drop something on the floor because she was immediately on her knees, cleaning it up. My mind is seared with the memory of the time I stepped in mud and she bent down and used her own shirt to wipe off my feet. Her sweet gestures were rooted in a corrupted idea of her role in this world. After her mother died, she was given over to another family to serve them, whatever that took, whatever that meant, and with no one to protect her.
Slowly, though, her sweet spirit began to break through the protective shell of anger that had formed around her. The darkness she’d been exposed to was being replaced with light and truth. And at the age of seven, she was finally learning how to color with crayons, how to play, and how to be held and hugged.
Not long after I became Micha’s mother, a group of Americans came to Gressier to visit Respire Haiti. Back then, it was unusual to have visitors. It was even more unusual when they asked to do a skit and a Bible story at the two-room school. But Rita Noel, whom I had met at Son of God Orphanage a few months earlier, wanted to visit Gressier, Bellevue Mountain, and the school. But when they arrived, I second-guessed myself, thinking anxiously, These kids aren’t used to visitors . . . or Americans.
I had already been into the church school once to give a warning speech to the students: “Please don’t yell at the top of your lungs. Please don’t ask for their electronics or the pieces of jewelry you see. Please don’t stab each other with pencils. Please be good.” Whatever that meant.
I held my breath as the team of fifteen entered the makeshift classroom, and I winced as I saw a few students reach out into the aisle to touch the side of a white leg or a white arm. The visitors performed a skit about putting on the armor of God, and I was delighted to see the children’s eyes glued to the presentation. One of the team members, a cute guy named Josh Anderson, wore a vest made out of a paper bag and a Burger King crown on his head. The kids laughed and seemed to love every moment. After the skit the children went from station to station, making their own armor of God. My heart filled with joy.
After about an hour at the school, the team headed back to my house for peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. During lunch, someone asked about the land up on the mountain: “Is that where you are going to build your school?” I responded that it was, and they all wanted to see it. So I led the group across the road and along the winding path through the mango trees, where the goats grazed in the weeds. As we slowly began the arduous uphill walk to Bellevue Mountain, one of the men started running up the hill backward. “Spring training,” he shouted, as we all laughed, and he picked up his pace.
Up on top of Bellevue Mountain, I explained the importance of this land, that people from all over the world and Haiti have come here for years to perform animal sacrifices and a plethora of voodoo ceremonies. The group listened intensely as I showed them the remains from a ceremony the night before, broken glass and white powder. Then everyone spread out to pray; we breathed in the fresh air and looked out toward the waters of the Caribbean. I stood between Rita and Josh, and we linked our hands and lifted them high, offering my plans for the school to the Lord. After we finished praying, the backward-running guy approached and talked to me about Respire and the school. He was a huge man, towering over me, but I was caught up in his heart for children, for education, and for the future school. I thanked him for the encouragement as we headed back down the mountain.
Back at the house, someone came up and said, “Do you know who you were just talking to?”
“Some sweaty guy who loves Haiti?” I laughed.
“His name is Adam Hayward, and he plays football for the Tampa Bay Buccaneers.”
I laughed out loud again, thinking about his “spring training” up the mountain. I thought he’d just been kidding. I also thought about how wearing shorts and a T-shirt and sweating in the Haitian sun makes everyone look pretty much the same. There are no superstars here; we’re all just servants.
TWELVE
The Sting
Speak up for those who cannot speak for themselves.
—Proverb 31:8 NLT
I woke up that morning listening to the now familiar noises outside my window—children’s voices, people walking by to get water or take their children to school, and roosters crowing to greet the sun. Then it hit me. Today’s the day.
The months of meetings, plans, and courthouse visits were over, and I felt a surreal sense that the final piece of the puzzle was about to be set. Today it’s all going to happen. Lord, be with me. Be with Gabriel. Be with us all.
One last time I climbed up into a tap-tap with Gabriel and rode to Son of God Orphanage. I knocked on the gate and was led into the all-too-familiar waiting room. As soon as Gabriel recognized where he was, he buried his face into my chest and clung so tight his nails were digging into my arms. As we waited, Gabriel squirmed in my lap, anxious to leave, and my heart beat so fast I thought I might hyperventilate.
Not many of the adults at the orphanage really knew I spoke Creole, so I brought a translator, Nathanial, with me. In fact, a few weeks earlier he and some of the detectives had blended in with a visiting team to secretly inspect Son of God Orphanage. As we walked through the orphanage, Pastor Joe pointed out the empty cupboards and the need for food while I quietly directed their eyes to where they hid the food and other supplies. Although I had only met Nathanial a few times, I liked him; he was a huge, friendly man with a serious face and kind eyes that seemed to constantly reassure me.
Pastor Joe walked in and sat down across the coffee table from me. He had an arrogant smirk on his face and immediately asked in Creole if I’d brought the money. He never even looked at Gabriel.
Nathanial translated, and I nodded slowly. Then he asked again, and I realized he wanted to see the cash. I pulled the bulging envelope out of my bag, remembering what the team had warned. “Don’t let him grab it. And don’t give it all to him at the same time.”
Holding the envelope in both hands, I asked Pastor Joe to confirm the arrangements. “Are we leaving right away to go meet Gabriel’s family and get his paperwork?”
Pastor Joe nodded his head in affirmation, then stuck out his hand for the envelope. I pulled the stack of money out and began to quickly count it into his outstretched hand. When I’d given him half, I put the rest back inside the envelope and shoved it down into the bottom of my purse. “You’ll get the rest when we get there,” I said, releasing a deep breath. I was shaking as I waited for his reaction.
Pastor Joe shrugged and stood up, waving for us to follow him outside. Nathanial stood up first, and I followed. Outside, Pastor Joe turned to me, pointed to his car, and asked, “Do you have any money for gas?”
I had expected this request and had a twenty-dollar bill ready in my pocket. As I pulled the money out, Pastor Joe grabbed it and shoved it in his pocket. He opened the door and climbed in the driver’s seat. Nathanial opened the back door for me, and I awkwardly worked my way in, Gabriel’s head still buried in my chest. While I was getting us settled, Gabriel peeked up at Pastor Joe, and his eyes shot wide open in fear. I heard a small whimper from him; then I covered his face with my hand and gave him a gentle hug.
Pastor Joe yelled, and before I knew what was happening, a tall, lanky young man jumped in the backseat with me. I had no idea who he was but figured out he was asked to tag along so Pastor Joe wouldn’t be by himself. He smiled at me, and I tried to smile back, but I could see his eyes reflect my own confusion and fear, and he turned to look out the window. He probably wished he was somewhere else. S
o did I.
As Pastor Joe started the car, I began to pray in earnest. At first I felt peace, knowing I’d been following God’s leading in all this. God, I know You have a better plan for the children in this orphanage. But as we drove, my worry and fear began to rise and dissolve my quiet confidence. I was scared and confused. I am an idiot for doing this, I thought. What was I thinking? Am I doing the right thing?
I thought about the police officers, government agency officials, and international task force members who were involved. We’d planned the operation out carefully, but it was my neck and Gabriel’s on the line right now. The thoughts came hard and fast now, flooding my mind as we bumped along. What if everything goes wrong? Does Pastor Joe suspect anything? What if he figures out what I’m doing and why? What if he attacks me? Am I going to die today? I thought about sweet Micha, who was at my house in Gressier with my friend Kat. I breathed in deep and began praying again. Lord, You are in control. Please give me the peace that surpasses all understanding, and I felt it—the same peace that had carried me through the last six weeks of planning this day.
Pastor Joe pulled the car onto the highway, and as he accelerated, he reached into the back pocket of his pants and pulled out an object I couldn’t quite see. I heard a clunk as he dropped it on the center console. I looked down in horror. It was a handgun, the barrel pointing toward the dashboard. I stared at the gun, my arms tightening around Gabriel. Fear rose up again as I began praying over him and over us. Once again I felt God’s presence, reminding me, You are not alone. I am with you.
I closed my eyes and rehearsed the plan again in my head. You will pass through a police checkpoint. The police will pull us over and ask Nathanial to get out of the car. Nathanial will hesitate. Then the police will ask everyone to exit the car. It seemed simple enough.
But when I opened my eyes, I saw a road chock-full of cars, tap-taps, motos, and people walking. A typical Haitian traffic jam. Pastor Joe let out a loud, annoyed grunt, slowed down, and pulled to the side. Then he yanked on the wheel, turning the car around in a cloud of dust, and stomped angrily on the gas pedal.
No. No! I wanted to scream, the words fighting to pour out of my mouth. This is not the plan. This is not the route. This is not the way! I fought against a scream as I realized we were going to miss the checkpoint. I looked up at Nathanial in a panic, and he began asking Pastor Joe, in a calm and quiet voice, why we had turned around. “The way we were going was the best way,” Nathanial said.
“Yes,” Pastor Joe said, “but I don’t want to sit in traffic.” Fortunately traffic was terrible in this direction, too, and it wasn’t long before he grunted again and made yet another U-turn, pointing us back in the original direction. Whew. I breathed out in relief. That was close.
We picked our way through the traffic, and before long I saw the police checkpoint in the distance. The Haitian police officers were in their usual dark uniforms, big and burly, with shiny reflective sunglasses on. I looked out my window and saw a familiar face, an officer who’d met with us the night before for one last preoperational briefing. Just as we were about to roll up, he turned his back to the cars, plugged his left ear with his finger, and listened intently to the cell phone held up to his right ear. We kept rolling. Are they not going to stop us? I wanted to bang on the window and shout or throw something at him. You’re supposed to stop us, and your back is facing us. You are going to miss us! What am I going to do?
I tried to hold down my panic, and as we drove by, I turned my whole body around to look out the back window. Nothing. The officer was still turned around, still on the phone. Just as I turned back around in complete despair, a man wearing an orange safety vest stepped in front of our car, waving his arms and pointing to the side of the road. Pastor Joe grunted again, pulled over, and stopped the car. Nathanial’s door flew open, and he exchanged words with the man in the vest. They began shouting, and I covered Gabriel’s ears with my hands. The police officer bent down and looked at all of us inside the car. “Where are you going?” he asked in a loud voice. I said nothing. My job was to be silent and look afraid; both were extremely easy for me to do.
Next, the police officer yelled at Pastor Joe. “Get out of the car!” He didn’t wait for Pastor Joe to move but bent down and reached over him to grab the gun from the console. Pastor Joe, outraged at both the traffic stop and losing his gun, yelled back at the officer. “What is the meaning of this? What is happening?”
The police officer searched Pastor Joe’s pockets and quickly found the wad of hundred-dollar bills. “What’s this for?” he demanded.
“For my church,” he said. “I am a pastor.”
“Oh. A pastor with a gun on the console and a child in the car,” said the officer with a smirk. “Okay.” He turned toward the car and yelled at the lanky young man in the backseat to get out of the car too. “Who are you? How do you know this man?” he demanded, but the boy, clearly terrified, mumbled something about him just being asked to come along for a ride.
Next, the police officer pointed at me, still inside Pastor Joe’s car with Gabriel. He waved for me to get out, and I scooted over and climbed out, clutching Gabriel for dear life. The officer pointed to me, then to a car with tinted windows, and shouted, “You! You need to go over there now.”
I looked at Pastor Joe, relieved that I would have some space between myself and him. I was still afraid he might figure out what was really happening. He noticed my stare and, thinking I was looking for his permission to move, tilted his head and told me to do what the officer said: go over to the other car.
I walked with Gabriel to the car with the tinted windows. The back door popped open, and I saw familiar faces inside. I jumped in the car with Gabriel and quickly shut the door. Then I watched out the window as the police arrested Pastor Joe, cuffing his hands behind him. His face registered a mix of surprise and fury as he kept talking in a loud voice, trying to explain that he was a pastor and he was on a very important errand. Tears ran down my face, and the others in the car said something about me doing a good job, but all I could do was pray that we were almost finished.
I looked at the official nearest me and asked, in confusion, “Can I go home now?” I’d forgotten the next part of the plan.
“No,” he answered. “We have to go to the police station now, remember?”
As we took off for the police station, I stroked Gabriel’s cheek. This is all for you and for the other children, I thought. They’d been through hell with this man.
We had concluded, after dozens of visits with careful observation and comparing records with the organizations that supported Son of God Orphanage, that Pastor Joe had set up the orphanage as a business, with the children as the product. Joe had made the rounds of poor neighborhoods, presented his services as a provider of a safe place for children to live, and set up his facility. The orphanage was run-down and lacking beds, latrines, plumbing—just about anything that would make it functional for so many children to live there.
But American churches had come to the rescue, raising money, collecting donations, and hopping on flights to bring clothes and food to the poor, sick, orphaned children. Teams typically spent five days in Haiti with the children, handing out clothes and food, and then leaving, feeling they had really helped, when in reality Joe would hide and later sell all the donations. The organization that continued to introduce churches and groups to Son of God Orphanage seemed continuously misguided. The leadership of that organization changed frequently, and the team leaders were extremely young and inexperienced. It was apparent that no one really picked up on or addressed the red flags along the way. All this confusion proved that the “savior” mentality of many Americans can blind people to real evil that is happening.
It was only after I had started visiting the orphanage consistently that anyone discovered all was not as it seemed. Clothes? Gone. Toys and games? Missing. Food and medicine? Gone after a day or so, when the children would return back into their ragged clothes
and lethargy would set in again because they were hungry.
A week or two later the cycle would start all over. A new church group visits, not knowing about the previous one. More food, clothes, toys, and medicine to save the children at Son of God Orphanage. And once again it’s all gone within a few days after the team leaves. For Pastor Joe, children equaled money in his pocket. And even worse, in the few months I’d been visiting the orphanage, more than fifty children went missing, and I didn’t know where they had gone.
But I did have Gabriel, safe in my lap. We were almost at the police station. And, hopefully, we’d be finished soon and on our way back home, never to see Pastor Joe again.
THIRTEEN
The Start of Everything
If you do it with love, you can’t mess up.
—Father Blessing
At the police station I was asked to empty my purse, my pockets, everything. I did what they said, trying to look scared. And once again, I didn’t have to act; I was truly feeling it.
A moment later the police escorted Pastor Joe inside. That’s when I remembered the plan—we were both going to be arrested and questioned, a ruse so that Pastor Joe would not know who turned him in for selling children. As far as he knew, I was in trouble for buying a child. They sat me down in a nearby waiting room, Gabriel still on my lap. Pastor Joe followed and was told to sit next to me. “He is the last person I want to sit next to right now,” I wanted to scream.
A police officer looked at me sternly. “What happened?” he asked.
Seriously? I thought, confused. What am I supposed to say?
“What happened?” the officer repeated louder.
“Nothing,” hissed Pastor Joe.
Miracle on Voodoo Mountain Page 9
