Acts 23 – 25
The rooster started crowing at 3am outside my small REI wrought tent pitched on the family compound of Madame and Samuel Cassius in Montrouis, Haiti, a verdant banana palm village on the coast 90 miles North of Port-au-Prince, Haiti. The perimeter of the compound was surrounded by fire-bush, and just beyond was an avocado tree 30 feet tall, which provided the large, light-green fruit that constituted the main breakfast staple, and abated mid-day hunger too. The family inhabited a cane and mud wattle hut. There was a pump down the road from which we drew water, which, filtered three times, became questionably safe for me to drink.
Madame (she was always, only, Madame Cassius) and Samuel were my hosts when, as a college sophomore, I spent my first summer in Haiti on a TB inoculation drive with the Episcopal Church, a major ecclesiastical outfit in Haiti, and still the largest Episcopal Diocese in the U.S. Episcopal Church, and operating most schools in that country. There was an Episcopal Seminary in Montrouis, and it had the only refrigerator in the area…the necessary repository for the serum used for TB inoculation. Pere (Father) Desir ran the seminary, and was very much in charge. Mid-thirties, tall, and muscled…he ran a tight ship.
Some mornings the children came to us, trapesing five hours down from the mountains, proof that educational campaigns were working. They received their inoculation, a conciliating lolli-pop, and a certificate proving the TB vaccine had been received. In 1979, this was a big deal in Haiti, which had not, at that time, proven effectual in the inoculation of children against the disease. Once a week or so, our team would trek into the mountains.
It was that summer that my long-simmering sense of summons to pursue ordination as a priest unfolded with compelling power. The varying factors of that emergent discernment are difficult to untangle. I felt useful in a way a suburban young-man had never previously experienced utility. Pere Deir took a brotherly interest in me, instructing me in Creole, on how to harvest whelks and urchin fresh from the sea, and taking me to my first voodoo ceremonies. But I think it was the hardship of the summer that sealed the deal. With that rooster, I never slept past 3am. I travelled often alone by tap-tap for supplies to Port-au-Prince, landing in some harrowing situations in unspeakable slums, and I was more than once dreadfully sick and hallucinating. FOR THE POOR AND NEGLECTED |
St. Paul’s Anglican Church Calzada del Cardo, 6 Centro 37700, San Miguel de Allende, Mexico 415.121.3424 www.StPaulSMA.com |