THE ACCIDENTAL MISSIONARY
“How many brothers in the church want to go on a missionary trip to Haiti with me?” Pastor Harry Frazier asked the congregation of approximately 100 souls that Sunday afternoon in January, 1976. A couple of brothers raised their hands immediately, a few others asked questions, “Is it safe?” “How much will it cost?” “How long will we stay?” “How long does it take to get there?”
On the way home from church my father discussed the possibility of his going to Haiti. “I want to go!” I shocked them. A quiet, painfully shy, sixteen year old, who had never been out of the United States, I was not a likely candidate for anything more than taking care of the plants, I so dearly loved, in my greenhouse where I did not have to face people.
“Are you sure?” Mom asked as she turned in the front seat to look me straight in the eyes. “You’ll have to ride in an airplane and no telling what kind of food you’ll have to eat.”
“Yes, I would like to go to.” I quietly replied.
“No, he’s too young, maybe he can go in a few years.” Pastor Frazier said when Dad asked him. It was decided and that was the end of it. Dad prepared to go along with a couple of other brothers from our small church in Jerseyville.
That night as I lay in my bed in our farmhouse seven miles outside the small town of Pittsfield, Illinois, I was about to doze off. I was laying on my right side with my face toward the open bedroom door. I opened my eyes in time to see a tall, thin, dark-skinned woman in a print dress, belted at the waist, with a huge woven basket sitting on her head. She was looking straight ahead as she walked from the hallway in through the bedroom door. As soon as she entered the room, she disappeared. I never felt afraid…in fact I don’t remember feeling anything,, which is a miracle, because I was always afraid of everything. I then drifted off to sleep.
The next morning, the experience was forgotten as I looked up Haiti in the encyclopedia. Interested to see what the country would be like where my Dad and Pastor Frazier were traveling, I wanted to read all about it. As the page turned, showing the bold letters spelling HAITI, I froze in amazement. A large photo, in the middle of the page, exhibited the very same lady who had entered my room the night before. She was complete with the same dress, basket on her head, and even the same “staring straight ahead” expression on her dark face. That is when the chills went down my back and the goose bumps rose. Reading the text, I learned the country was an island, close to Florida, which was inhabited by dark skinned people. It is the poorest country in the Western Hemisphere.
Upon telling Pastor Frazier my experience, he told Dad, “Let the boy go.” Thus, my Haitian experiences began.
Leaving the cold Illinois countryside, we flew to Miami where we changed planes and continued on to Haiti. My first airplane ride was just a taste of the many firsts I was about to experience. Arrival in Haiti saw the sun just going down. Passing over the mountain ridges, the only lights we could see were small cooking fires outside of the small African style huts.
The airport was all a buzz with people pushing their way in to the single, ancient conveyor belt bringing in the luggage. Young men were everywhere offering their services to grab the luggage and carry it through customs and outside to waiting cars and pickups. “Pastor, Pastor,” they called out to me, “Let me carry your bag.” Not realizing the honesty and security in the country at that time, I was afraid someone would steal my suitcase so I refused help until a young man showed me a small laminated cardboard badge which he insisted proved he was deemed trustworthy by the airport to help visitors. He grabbed my bags along with Dad’s and pushed his way to the front of the line to go through customs. Opening our bags and messing up the contents, the uniformed man motioned us to go on outside where even more bedlam ensued. “Taxi, taxi…!” men everywhere were shouting. People where thronging to see their loved ones who were arriving from the U.S. Finally, through the throng pushed through a couple of hands grabbing ours and leading us to a waiting van. Arriving at the van I desperately searched for the young man with our suitcases. To my relief, he finally came pushing his way through the masses leading two of his buddies (who were doing the actual carrying of the suitcases.) After placing the suitcases in the van, all three came for their tips. “That is the way it is done in Haiti,” he said calmly when I protested that he was the only one I had hired. “I’m not supposed to carry any suitcases outside of the airport.” After giving them each a dollar, which I soon learned, at that time, was a lot of money for them, they ran back into the airport to grab another traveler before they were all spoken for by the other skycaps.
Coursing through the city streets of Port-au-Prince, on the way to the mission house in the suburb of Fontamara, I sat in the back of the van wishing I could see the street activity better. There were little tables set up on many of the corners with one or two little kerosene lamps as the only light. Women were sitting beside the tables frying mashed plantains, sausages, and small pieces of pork. People were crowding around the tables to buy this “fritay” along with “picklais” (a delicious type of cole slaw spiced with the hottest habanero peppers found.)
Listening to the driver and the other young Haitian man sitting in the front seat jabber away in Creole, I remember thinking, “Someday, I am going to live here in Haiti just like a Haitian and speak this beautiful Creole language.” Little did I know how prophetic that thought was…