Twenty years ago, on a night filled with possibility, I walked into a neighborhood church, winding my way down narrow hallways, trying valiantly to find a group comprised mostly of strangers. I peeked into one door, then another, finally emerging into a large room where I found doctors, nurses, and therapists, as well as those skilled in constructing, and teaching, and capturing sights and sounds and learnings of what was to come. We were meeting to prepare ourselves for a mission trip to Haiti. One that would bring healing and strengthen relationships, not only for the people of a remote village deep in-country, but for those of us journeying from the DC metro area. For we were an intentionally multi-racial, multi-faith group.
There were a few handfuls of us, mostly hailing from two different churches: one white, the other black. The trip was a new initiative in a series of them, reaching back nearly a decade, to foster relationships, conversations, and insights. A joint Good Friday service, swapping venue each year. Combined teams building a house for a local family through Habitat for Humanity. We met often so we might get to know each other, so we might absorb what to expect. An idea to live and work side by side, somewhere far away, so we might spend significant time in each other’s company. So we might say out loud the obvious and then address it: the one mile separating our congregations might as well have been one hundred. We were from different denominations, different backgrounds, different understandings, different everything. And yet, before we knew anything else, we recognized we had at least one thing in common: we believed in God. And from that place, we had at least one more: we believed in loving and serving one another.
And so, we began with that.
Flying into Port-au-Prince. Crossing the tarmac to board a tiny Cessna, one group at a time. Watching as the terrain below grew hilly, mountainous. Landing on a dirt air strip. Driving to the place we would call home for ten days, trailed by laughing, chanting, bashful children. And, soon enough, working alongside the villagers to help tend the sick, teach the children, craft homes, and build water purification systems: our gift to Haiti.
Before too long, the days were determined by the rhythm of the country. The sound of roosters crowing day and night. The sound of singing in the dark, as people worshiped before their hours-long trek to work. The sound of animals toiling, of people walking, of children learning.
We leaned into these rhythms as we encountered each new and unique day. Sharing rooms, sharing labor, sharing joy and heartache and tears and surprise and gratitude. Seeing and hearing so much which shocked our senses, which lifted our spirits. Our initial awkwardness, trepidation, worry at saying or doing the wrong thing, given the circumstances, soon melted away. We became fellow sojourners: listening deeply, watching intently, laughing boisterously, nodding sympathetically.
And then. The night came when a small group of us decided to take advantage of being in a place with so little electricity. We headed outside our lodging and began walking in the dark, on a ruddy road, towards the widest, flattest spot in town, the soccer field. We walked with our flashlights until we realized we were better off without them. We switched them off, walked a ways further, stopped mid-field, and looked up.
We fell silent at the sight. And then, we started to marvel. Stars upon stars upon stars, with a moon so full it was as if we were standing in the daylight. Everyone’s face pointed in the same direction, until I turned my head and saw, in the beauty of the night, Haiti’s gift to us. In the illumination of the cosmos, everything and everyone had become the most glorious hues of blue. Blue sky, blue houses, blue dirt, blue clothes, blue people. I shook my head, laughing, and said, look! Look at us in the light of the moon! Look at us in the brightness of the stars! Everything is different shades of blue!
We looked at each other, at ourselves, and laughed as one. We who are from so much that is so different are, when it comes down to it, so much the same: covered by the love of God, created to be part of one very big and interesting family. One where each member is equally cherished, equally protected, equally heard, equally upheld, equally comforted, equally strengthened, equally empowered, equally honored.
As the others turned back to watch the sky, I kept my eyes focused on them, and asked God, in that moment, to help me remember, always. Decades later, God continues to answer that prayer.
Born and raised overseas, Kim Jackson continues to travel far and wide, collecting stories of hope and healing. As an artist and a pastor, Kim seeks to foster forgiveness and reconciliation.