“sometimes it’s the smallest victory that gets us through the day.”

It was my third Christmas in Haiti. It seems that Christmas only gets better as the years go by. Of course, some may think it’s crazy that my family spends one of the most anticipated holidays of the year in a third world country, the poorest country in the western hemisphere. But the experience is indescribable and I wouldn’t trade it for the world. And, as my dad said, it feels more like home each time. It’s true. Although I do sometimes miss waking up to an abundance of presents underneath the tree on the morning of the twenty-fifth, being in Haiti is like home to me and there is no place like home.

This past week, we did just about everything. We wrapped about two hundred presents, passed gifts out to one hundred school kids who otherwise would not have received anything, browsed store after store for extra odds and ends, shopped for food (because keeping the pantry full for twenty five people is a little tough), listened to Toby Keith, attended a wonderful church service on the new property with four hundred people, watched It’s a Wonderful Life, and, of course, watched the faces of twenty three Haitians light up as they opened their gifts, one of them twenty years old and receiving Christmas gifts for the first time in his life.
It’s hard to imagine what life would be like without a present to open on Christmas, without a meal to eat during the day, without clean clothes to wear, without shelter from the storm, without a bed to sleep in at night. But in Haiti, people do it every day. Beggars walk the streets, praying that they will make just enough money to buy food for that day. And it was one of these moments that really struck me.

Tom had taken my family to town on Monday, four days before Christmas, searching for last-minute gifts. Right when we got out of the truck, we were swarmed by three or four pitiful boys, hot from the sun, with their hands cupped out in front of us, speaking in Creole, which I could not understand, but I understood what they wanted. We sort of brushed them off to get into the store, but when I see that kind of poverty, it breaks my heart. After we had gotten what we needed, we left the store, and, of course, waiting outside in the parking lot were the same boys. As we got back into the KIA, they followed us over. We climbed up into the seats and as we shut the doors, they pressed their faces against the glass, two on each side of the car. Knowing he had extra money in his pockets, Dad got out four dollars. He rolled down the window and handed the bills to the boys as their faces lit up like they had just been given a hundred dollars. As we backed out and were ready to pull into the chaotic street, the boys ran into the street, stopping the traffic so we could cross the street to the other side. And Haitian traffic is not like it is in America; no laws, no speed limits, no lines, no signs. And people aren’t as gracious either. But even so, the boys threw themselves in front of those cars to let us through. With beaming smiles, they waved goodbye to us as we drove away and as they would remain there for the rest of the day, every day, to scrounge up whatever money they could. You don’t realize how blessed you really are until you see what other don’t have, until you see a child begging for money, until you see that someone is grateful for a dollar; just one dollar.

As I sat at home later that day watching my favorite show, Scrubs, JD said something that I will not forget. “Sometimes it’s the smallest victory that gets us through the day.” He was exactly right.