Great Wonders!

Since last time we spoke, I have seen great wonders! I've baffled and stood speechless at the innumerable beauties of our Creator.

We left Vegas and made our way to Santa Barbara, California. The reception and the genuine sense of welcome we recieved gave our hearts a sense of freedom to retreat. Surrounded by the peace and perfection of nature we used our time there as retreat time, to look within and balance ourselves and recieve Love.

From there we marvelled at the sound of the cracking of oysters in otters mouths and their cuteness as they lay floating on the waves and their little hands agility to toss the empty shells from their bellies in Monterey, CA. The personality of the seals while they flirted with us in the sea and played michieviously with the seagulls seated at sea showed us yet another face of God's humor and creativity. The squirels were ginormous and the scallops exquisite.

We spent four days in Berkeley visiting my future university and the Holy of Holies made it perfectly clear that that is where I am being called in the fall. On Holy Thursday we went to the mass of the washing of the feet in a parish whose parishoners were half Central American and half African American. The gospel choir vibrated in my soul and moved my hips (which doesn't take much) and heart. The bilingual mass and homily (done by two students of my future school) stayed with me for the week to follow. I left the mass feeling blessed for my biculturalism and my faith.

From there I spent a little time in the Catholic Worker in Oakland, where yet again God showed me that where the Spirit guides me I will feel at home.

We spent Holy Saterday in Yosemite National Park, beholding the splendor of God! That night we went to Easter Vigil where I laughed, laughed, and laughed throughout the mass delighting in the obvious presence of New Life, of the risen savior, in the Chicano family seated in the pew in front of me composed of all women of different ages. The excitment I feel during Easter Vigil mass is that of a child's when she's listening to her favorite story and discovers that there is a happy ending. Each time it's as if I didn't know the ending (or better put, the beginning of Jesus' story... of all stories).

Easter Sunday we wandered around the ginormous trees and the majesty of the Great Artist in King's Canyon and Sequoia National Park. My breath was taken from me in soo many accounts. I honestly believe that I found heavenly resplendence there. We drove back to Vegas that night laughing, bealting out songs with the stirring wheel as our microphone, dancing and delighting as children do.

What freedom and peace, knowing that after death comes life! The cycle continues, it never ends in death, it continues.
  
Throughout our whole journey we have been centered in prayer focused on Lent, using books of reflections and meditaions, with one in particular by Richard Rohr. Part of the homily of Thursday's mass spoke about the decision to either continue working on cleaning out our souls after lent or of stuffing all the piles into the closet for postponment. (The homily sounded alot better than my summary.) I've chosen to continue working at the piles I've been sorting out throughout lent and continue throwing out what I need to detach myself from, what I need to embrace, and what needs more attention. So I've dedicated this whole week until next for a deep Spiritual retreat. It's hard work, but I'm grateful for it. It's all part of the baffling wonders of God.

With you,
Luisely

P.S.: Prayers are more than welcome.
P.P.S.: Nazareth and Rose wrote me saying the following:
            "...[we] visited Kay Pov, and it was a changed atmosphere, they were happy, clean clothes, food cooking, Alex brought us around to see the shower... Walter... gave us hugs! Tiffany did not run away, said hello, it was special...the good work continues." Amen! God is Good!

anything asked in faith

I saw them again! On my way to find a motorcycle to give me a ride to Kolet for Theater of the Gospel a lady balancing her merchandise on her head passed by me, “They left.” I turned without fully hearing what she said, “Excuse me Madame?” “They tore down the club because they’re going to build a hotel there.” I never remember seeing the lady, “Do you know where they are?” “Port-de-Paix.” My eyes filled with joy as I smiled.


Today Jara needed to go to Port-de-Paix, I went along. I asked Wilmar, a dear friend and the one driving us to Port-de-Paix, if he could take me to Kay Raul to look for the ladies there. The new place for the ladies must be known because he said we could find them. After Jara´s visit to the bank we took the car, stopped it in the mists of the donkeys, wooden, portable kiosks and walked down a crowded alley full of women selling dried fish, kineps, garlic, shampoo and more. We turned into an even smaller alley and walked into what seemed to work as the alley sewer canal and out of a flimsy door came a figure of pure beauty, Ingrid. Her hair was wrapped with a scarf; one of her sleeves was under her armpit while the other barely clung to her arm. I couldn´t believe it. Neither could she. Ingrid, one who tries to hide all emotion, couldn´t hide the flush of her smile, “Luisely,” she affirmed, as if helping herself believe. She searched for chairs and went to find the others.

My skin filled with goosebumps as I looked into their eyes, laughing and sharing our stories of the past few weeks and the odyssey of finding them after thinking they were lost. I asked them about the change of quarters and of owner, “There’s less respect. The breeze doesn’t flow through, there’s no current of air, the owner charges 20 Haitian dollars per day, 30 on Sundays, when in Jean Rabel we paid 50 for the whole week. All the waste of the alley flows in front of the door. It’s filthy.” They plan on moving to a place closer to the airport until the hotel is built in Jean Rabel, hopefully in June. There, they say, their conditions will be better.

As I listened to them it seemed surreal. Anything asked in faith can and will happen, we were reunited. The conversation ended with hope of a sequel to the encounter. They walked us out into the alley. Ingrid with her eyes locked in mine allowed all her love to flow into me and thanked me. I continued with my eyes in hers as I walked through the kiosks until the chaos of the streets blocked the gaze.

I saw them again! Zaloa’s candy is now in the right hands.

With you,

Luisely

bearing gifts

Zaloa wrote me. She sent me a novel, mixed nuts (my slight addiction), and a bag of candy. The book and the nuts were for my devouring, but the sweets were to be distributed to our loved ones in Kay Pov and the Disco. I counted the candies and made sure the sizes and the flavors varied equally and head off to Kay Pov. After a few hours of laughing and talking in Kay Pov I was on my way to the disco. An emptied container of Planters NUT-rition carried the goods sent from Spain. The edges of my mouth drew closer to the sky and the haste of my step augmented as I approached the green iron gates of the club. Two weeks had passed since I last saw the women. When I passed the last kiosk to my left before turning into the discotheque, my feet stopped. The thick chain hung heavily on the opened gate and from wall to wall of the property concrete floors and debris were all that remained. The rooms I shared moments of laughter, anger, fear, and hope could not be found. They were gone.


I turned to three women behind me who seemed slightly shocked at my motionlessness, “Do you know where they have gone, the women who worked here? Do you know when they left?” They voiced my observations, the disco closed, nothing and no one remained. I thanked them with grief, turned once more to what used to be my friends’ abode and hell and left, still carrying the container full of bonbons with both hands in front of me.

I’ve collected little bits of information and have returned since. According to a man who sat underneath the mango tree on a broken chair in the empty lot, Ingrid left to Port-au-Prince and Magali and Mauza went to work for a man named Raul in Port-de-Paix. I’m not sure how accurate this information is, if I will see these women again, or if they continue working in the same profession. All I know is my love for them and how much I pray for them and all women in situations of oppression.

With you,

Luisely

Sheets and Plywood

Walking in, I pass two grandmothers washing clothes and two preteen boys simply sitting. The group of men are assembled to the left, over a dozen, immediately their attention is on me. They stand up and start salivating, starving beasts. I glaze over them until my eyes meet one, a smooth-skinned glorious lady sitting by the column. My face and hers rejoice, mine with a sense of relief. I feel safer with them around. This is their home more than mine and they know the norms, the language, and who to trust. I go directly towards her and sit in front of her, with our knees interlocked closing the conversation for us.
As we begin our conversation they begin to surround us, attempting to gain strength with their numbers and their size. As we sit, they stand, closer and closer, interrupting our conversation with attempts to speak Spanish, French, English, and insulting me in Kreyol. The “owner,” not the pimp (the ladies pay rent and keep all their earnings), pushes my shoulder, I continue my conversation with the magnificent being in front of my eyes. The man raises his voice and pushes my shoulder again. Lourdette raises her eyes, with them asking me to acknowledge him, I look up and the man demands something in Kreyol, although I imagine his command I tell him I do not understand. Another yells, “Que le dez un beso!” The owner puckers his lips. I turn my head and continue to converse with Lourdette. The men feel the loss of power and we can sense their irritation rising. The owner places a chair to my right and eyes fix on me. The man tells Lourdette that he wants to be part of the conversation; I look at him and tell him that I came to visit the “madames.” The men start saying loudly, “Sorti blon,” “leave white one, you don’t belong here.”
Lourdette smiles at me and invites me to her home. We stand up and walk through the men to a tin room with one hallway with doors with letters painted on them. Plywood divides the room into six sections big enough for crib mattress and a tiny night table. Lourdette unveils the sheet used as a door to reveal her home. Hers is the nook farthest from the entrance (more importantly, exit) in the right corner. As we walk in men enter and block the door. We continue and start our conversation in whispers. She shows me the condoms we gave them earlier and opens one and grabs a candle. She demonstrates while explaining in Kreyol that if they do not put on a condom the men have to leave. I ask her if they respect the rule and she responds yes adamantly. She goes on to tell me about her seven year-old daughter who lives with her aunt to whom Lourdette sends money to maintain her. Her daughter is preparing for her first communion, to be held on the 19th of May. Curious to know if she still receives communion I inquire, she nods, my smile grows. “It gives my spirit strength,” she replies. A handful of rocks fly over us, landing on the sheets that protect us. She yells at them to stop and I continue the conversation keeping my eyes tenderly in her gaze.
The men’s aggravation grows with the continuous lack of attention. Their means of intimidation begins to have its affects on me, but I refuse to show it. I am attentive to what I can use to defend ourselves since there is no means to escape. She tells me about her family and how she misses her grandmother. She’s been working in the club since February 7th, but has been maintaining her family financially for a year outside of the house, in the same industry. In the middle of our conversation she leans over and kisses my cheeks and hugs me with bliss. I am her guest. This repeats itself as stories are shared and our legs interlocked on the small mattress. The second batch of rocks cascades over the sheets. I look at her and listen to her telling them to stop. The oppression before my eyes nauseates me. “Do they scare you?” I ask. “Non,” she replies devoid of the smile I have grown accustomed to. Her assertion of courage strengthens me.
Less than a minute later she invites me to visit Ingrid’s home. Ingrid, the lead prostitute, demands respect from all, carrying herself with elegance with her twisted natural hair and her thirty-two years. Not knowing whether this is Lourdette’s attempt to protect me or if she simply wants to visit Ingrid, I agree. We leave the sheets and plywood to themselves, walking through the hallway towards the light. Outside I pay attention to a 12 year-old boy washing his feet and ignore the men roaring for le blon to leave, we walk passed them towards the right of a smaller tin structure separated in three with a letter accompanying each door. When we arrive to the last door Lourdette calls Ingrid on her cell phone to make sure she is not working. With only tin and plywood dividing us I hear Ingrid’s response, “I’m sleeping, come back later.” I ask Lourdette if she wants to continue talking, she smiled and says, “Allez. No, go, come back later.” “What time?” “Four.” I kiss her plump cheeks and turn around.
Not acknowledging the men, I pass the 12 year old boy and the two grandmothers still washing clothes as the two preteen boys simply sit. Leaving the steel doors I ask myself if my response to the salivating men was too passive or if it was more effective than assertively addressing them. Although they oppress and their acts disgust me, I know they starve for Love, of whom I am called to be a vessel of. I pray for wisdom and will be back at four.
O Love, that You may bless me indeed
and enlarge my territory,
that Your hand be with me,
keep me from evil,
and that I may not cause pain.
Amen.
With you,
Luisely