Morning Bird: Song of my Heart

I have always loved music. I’m kinesthetic and my body physically responds to rhythm and my muscles want to move. I’ve always got a song in my head. Always. And I’m usually singing along to break the silence around me. Here in Haiti, there is rarely silence. But there is always music.

One of my favorite songs is Morning Bird, by Jasmine Commerce. Interestingly another song by Jasmine, Love Is The One Thing, could essentially be a Haiti theme song. But Morning Bird is a song that I sing a lot. It is the song my heart sings. I sang it to my grandmother on her deathbed. I sing it to V to calm her to sleep. I sing it to myself to calm my own fears about this process. I sing it in hopes that the beautiful energy it evokes will travel across ocean waves, and fly through spiraling winds and find itself planted in my children’s hearts back home.  And I lie in bed at night and silently sing it to myself when I can’t fall asleep.

Oddly though, of all the sounds I wake up to here in Haiti, I rarely wake up in the morning to the sounds of birds. There are many sounds that I wake up to on a regular basis. The confused roosters who think that midnight is the new dawn. The dogs on the street who fight and run in packs to raise havoc and find any left over morsels of trash that were not burned the night before. The clunk and whistle of the air conditioning as it turns on and off with power surges. The chime of my Haitian cel phone as it receives some random text in Kreyol sent to convince me to add more minutes, or upgrade my phone plan.  Lots of sounds. Even the nights are not calm.

But sometimes my mornings are quite placid. Those mornings I wake up to singing. A peaceful and melodic sound that comes from simple men and women gathering and raising their voices. It is a strong but elegant sound. One that causes you to stop what you’re doing and listen. It is a respectful sound. It reminds me of how so many people have lived here for so long – with nothing. They have far more than nothing. They have everything. Everything they need. They have their faith. And they have love for their Savior. They feel so deeply the love they express for God. They gather to humbly say thank you, and when they sing it flows like a tendril of harmony from the hillsides and down the alleys.

While I listen calmly, I can only be once again reminded that I have no strength like the strength I’ve seen here. I have no calm like the calm I’ve seen in the saddest and most beautiful eyes. Eyes that have watched births of beautiful children; the jewels of Haiti, who are destined to walk in the gutters of these streets. The same eyes that have watched in sorrow when there isn’t enough food to nourish these babies, and they become sick. Eyes that have cried tears of joy when cyclones leave a trail of damage but loved ones are not killed. Eyes that speak when there are no words to be spoken. Eyes that have seen death. Real death. Up close. Not in a newspaper or on television. They have seen death that most of us can’t fathom to think of. Long and drawn out death. Death that takes time. Time spent praying for death to come and take their loved one “home” to Jesus where the promise of Heaven awaits them.  My children have eyes that tell story after story. One day I will be granted the key to the door that leads to a cavern of their history. And I will know the depth I see only a sampling of as of now.

The balance of life here is profound. And with life comes death. When you look into the eyes of a smiling Haitian, you know that they have experienced a plethora of emotions and have more to tell you about their day, their week, their month than most of us can find to truly complain about in years of our own lives. None of us have perfect lives that are free of pain. But most of us have never held a child who is dying of an unknown but likely completely avoidable reason. They are simply dying because of the fate of the latitude and longitude of their births. There are few reliable health resources on this island. There are fewer concerns for people who can’t pay for those resources. And a person who has fallen ill may pass away from very treatable illnesses. Like anemia. Malaria. Tuberculosis. Ecoli. Cholera. Rot. Parasites. Malnourishment. And what can be done about all of this? Haitians pray. They sing. They lift their voices and know that God is listening.

I lay my head down at night with Morning Bird in my heart and my mind and hope that God is listening to me too. I hope that others are doing work that I cannot do to take my children home. I hope to wake and see the honest eyes of those who feel my heart for Haiti. The honest eyes of people who know how much I love my children. The eyes of those who toil daily and only rest after more work is done than most of us complete in a week. It is a different kind of work. It is the daily work that is required to survive. The eyes I look into are survivor’s eyes.  And these melodic tapestries I wake up to are the songs of historical survival. They are the songs of dignified lives lived fully.  With little to rely on, but with tender and honest thanks for what has been given. Look into Haiti’s eyes. Hear her song. Above the crow of the rooster. Beyond the dust. Behind the walls. Under the chaos. There is a still beauty. It is calm. It is Haiti.