Kembe

Back in February, I started asking around to figure out where the nearest Catholic church is. After a very tangled chain of questions/people, I established that a very ambiguous "we" think the blue and white church you can see across the ravine might be Catholic. Armed with that information, Nate and I ventured out one Saturday morning and attempted to find it. This was more difficult than it sounds, because to get there you have to go all the way down the hill, get across the ravine, and then work your way back up the hill trying to maintain your bearings through windy narrow streets. After several dead ends and much backtracking, the blue and white bell tower finally popped up in front of us, and we found an office tucked in the wall of the courtyard where I was able to ask what time mass was the next morning. She told me 6am. I was so excited about the chance to get to Catholic mass that I didn't even realize this would mean waking up while it was still dark. But, get up early I did, and stalled until it wasn't quite 'dark' anymore (although it sure wasn't 'light' either!) before setting out for mass. And I was so glad I did! Turns out the service didn't actually start until 6:30, (more like 6:45, Haitian time), but getting there early meant I actually got a seat. The church was absolutely packed, even by Haitian standards. And mass was wonderful, great worship, the congregation was awake and involved, and everyone clapped after the sermon! (Don't know why, but this made me really happy).

One of the colorful characters I've met in our neighborhood is Madam Girard. I think she's probably over 60, but still a ball of energy. Her house is situated about 2/3rds of the way up the hill with a clear view in all directions, and she takes it upon herself to know everything about everybody in our neighborhood. When you need to coordinate something, or find someone, you mention to anyone within earshot that you'd like to talk to her, it spreads by word of mouth across the neighborhood, and 10 minutes later she appears. Last week she appeared unexpectedly on Friday afternoon and announced that she was taking me to church. I was very confused; this was the first I'd heard about it! And unfortunately I was in the middle of something and couldn't go with her. A few days later I realized that she was probably trying to take me to Stations of the Cross, a prayerful meditation on Jesus' walk to Calvary that happens in Catholic churches around the world on Friday afternoons during Lent. Yesterday I made sure to keep my Friday afternoon clear, and headed over at 3:15 (Madam Girard was pretty sure it started at 3:30), and arrived to a nearly empty church. Shoot, apparently it's not happening. Now what. Frustrated, and wanting to escape the piercing stares and whispering I inevitably attract whenever I go anywhere, I tucked myself into a pew in the corner and bowed my head. Crankily I thought, "Well, I walked all the way over here, I might as well stay and pray for a while." Thank goodness when I don't make time for prayer, God steps in and makes the time for me.  Thirty minutes later, more people started to trickle in and it became obvious that something would be happening in the church eventually, so I decided to wait around until it did. Gradually the section I was sitting in filled up, and I realized I had unknowingly chosen a seat in the tiny old lady section. I was surrounded by very short, mostly deaf, at least 70-year old women. This got awkward later when every time we stood up I literally towered over everyone around me.

Deciding to wait around for something to happen in Haiti can be a rather large commitment. Sometime after 5pm the priest arrived and the Stations of the Cross started. By this time the church was full, and I have never seen people take this meditation so much to heart. For starters, it took over 2 hours to get through the 14 stations. Very few people had programs, but everyone seemed to know the accompanying prayers and songs from memory. The songs that go with the stations are more like laments. In American churches, they have an unfortunate tendency to become emotionless dirges sung by less than enthusiastic participants (Americans just aren't very good at music, I'm starting to think). But here people poured their whole heart and soul into these songs, and sang them lovingly, powerfully, as the laments they are; reaching into places of pain and suffering in their own lives and connecting that to Jesus' suffering on the way of the cross. I suppose in most of the Stations of the Cross I've ever led or participated in, the meditations have centered on the emotional anguish. Yesterday I realized that in America we tend to have little to no experience of physical suffering, and we too easily gloss over the physical suffering of Calvary. It's hard for us to relate to, it's messy and uncomfortable. But here in this church, on a steep hillside in a Port-au-Prince slum, I was probably the only person there who hadn't experienced physical suffering as a part of daily life, especially during the past year. Carrying a cross up the hill to Calvary? The women around me could relate, they've carried water weighing nearly as much as themselves up the steep hill under an unmerciful sun every day of their lives. The people who gathered in the church were tired, coming from the end of a long week. Here was a place to pour out their suffering, their pain, their despair, and know that Jesus carries it all with them, every step of the way. They drank in the words of the service like they were filling up on strength and energy.

There's a creole phrase, "kembe", which literally translates to "keep", but also means "hold on" or "stay strong". It encompasses a lot of Haitian life: the patience, the waiting, the quiet strength. As we ended the last station, with Jesus lying in the tomb, the final words of the priest "kembe, zanmi(friends), kembe" followed us as everyone drifted out of the church and hurried towards homes in the enveloping darkness. Kembe through another week of life and pain and uncertainty. Kembe until next week when they will gather to pray these stations again, and again every week until finally...Easter, the victory, the symbol of everything we kembe for.