Alright, it's time to catch up on some reader questions, as well as post my last comment on the Sex Abuse Scandals in the Church.
Back when all the hullaballoo hit the media regarding the sex abuse problem in Ireland (January 2011, specifically), the media had reported that the Irish bishops had received orders from the Vatican that actually instructed them to hide the problem. Kane, a dear friend and frequent reader (and occasional thorn in my side), emailed me a link to one such article and asked, "How does this sort of information affect your confidence in Catholic authority?"
I replied to him with three points, which I have reproduced below. The first is an expression of distrust in the mainstream media's ability to report objectively on Catholic subjects; the second was to actually offer a brief apologetic on the specific case; and finally, I gave a direct answer to his question. His question was not about bad Irish priests or Vatican cover-ups, so much as it was about how these things affect me, personally. So I below take the opportunity to express my faith in the Church--not because I think its leaders are all peachy models of virtue, but because the authority of the Catholic Church simply isn't about them. Read on--and be sure to click the links as they come up, to provide the context for my statements.
The first thing to note about this situation is, frankly, that I have a genuine and sincere difficulty with taking anything that the mainstream media writes regarding religion in general and the Catholic Church in particular at face value. It has demonstrated time and again that it either can not or will not accurately report the facts of the case. This has been amply demonstrated by the hubbub surrounding the Pope's booklength interview with Peter Seewald, and the media's horribly unprofessional twisting of Benedict's comments regarding condoms, as well as by a recent article I read about a lawyer's report that about half of the allegations of priestly sexual abuse are completely fraudulent. This is further commensurated by the fact that the article you linked me to shows only a low-resolution, illegible image of the letter purportedly from the Vatican and allegedly instructing Irish bishops to cover up the priestly scandal, about which we are left to depend on the journalist's firm grasp of Catholic policy. If that's the only article you read on it, you must admit that you didn't get the whole story.
Second, in light of the fact that, if Steier's assertions are correct (second link, above), that so many allegations are indeed baseless and fraudulent, then irreparable damage is being done to good, faithful, virtuous clergy, particularly if mandatory reporting of allegations were to be instituted. I'm not saying these things shouldn't be reported--but then, the document in question isn't either. If you actually read the letter, rather than the media's interpretation of it, it only says that the norms of Canon Law must be followed meticulously in each case, specifically so that no priest can have recourse against the Church through some legal loophole, and the Apostolic Nuncio expressed particular concern with the idea of mandatory reporting of allegations. The stress seems to be laid on "mandatory" rather than "reporting", and says that further concrete directives would be forthcoming (which seemed to have happened in 2001). As such, I do definitely think that Vatican spokesman Fr. Federico Lombardi is completely sincere and accurate in stating that this document has been grossly misunderstood by the media.
Finally, and most importantly, even if we acknowledge that in many cases the Church hierarchy seriously dropped the ball on many aspects of the sex abuse crisis, I am not sure why it would "affect my confidence in Catholic authority." My confidence in the Church has nothing whatsoever to do with how they conduct themselves in a crisis, or their personal moral failings, or any such thing. I am as confident in their leadership as I am confident in the leadership of any other particular person who has some authority over me. What I have utmost confidence in, when it comes to Catholicism, is something that particular members of the hierarchy, even the pope himself, has no effect on whatsoever in terms of dealing with such situations. My confident faith simply is that when the Pope or the College of Bishops intends to define a matter of doctrine pertaining to faith or morals as being binding on all Catholics, that such a doctrinal definition will be free from error. This is not confidence in the hierarchy of the Catholic Church per se, but confidence in Christ Jesus, that he will keep His promise that the Church will never be destroyed, but that the Holy Spirit will guide us into all truth--the sins, bungling, and outright and utter failures of those in charge notwithstanding.
The Church, after all, has always been a mix of good and bad--even its leaders. Any student of history knows that many popes themselves have been terrible scoundrels (to say the least). But despite the world's best attempts to destroy the Church, and our own best attempts to sabotage it from within, the Barque of Peter continues to sail on, not because we're oh-so-great, but because Jesus Christ is.
We should keep this sure and blessed hope in mind as we journey through Lent. Easter is the time of Christ's resurrection, but it is also the time of the most virulent attempts by the media to undermine the Church He founded. When we know Him in Whom we have believed, and stay close to Him, He will make sure we are not shaken.
God bless,
Gregory
Feast of the Annunciation
Friday, 25 March 2011
Wednesday, 23 March 2011
More "Notes on a Scandal"
His Excellency, Timothy Dolan, Archbishop of New York, recently wrote a pithy anecdote about an encounter with an angry man at an airport (linked in the title of this post, and below). With honesty and humility, he ponders the sex abuse crisis in the Church, and in so doing, re-presents both the spirit and the facts that I posted in my previous article, Notes on a Scandal.
It pains me, as well as him, to see the damage done to both Catholics and non-Catholics alike--not only by the priests who have abused children, but by how the media has subsequently portrayed the state of things in the Church. The facts are bad enough. The misconceptions and the lies have compounded the problem.
Please read Abp. Dolan's thought-provoking article, and offer a prayer for the victims of abuse, for the priests--both those who perpetrated the crimes, and those good and holy men who form the much larger majority, and pray for those who have been scandalised, that they would find the truth and the healing they need.
It pains me, as well as him, to see the damage done to both Catholics and non-Catholics alike--not only by the priests who have abused children, but by how the media has subsequently portrayed the state of things in the Church. The facts are bad enough. The misconceptions and the lies have compounded the problem.
Please read Abp. Dolan's thought-provoking article, and offer a prayer for the victims of abuse, for the priests--both those who perpetrated the crimes, and those good and holy men who form the much larger majority, and pray for those who have been scandalised, that they would find the truth and the healing they need.
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee.
Blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.
Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the our of our death.
Amen.
Tuesday, 22 March 2011
What I Saw in Haiti: Chapter 6
O non Papa a, ak Pitit la, ak Lespri Sen An! Amèn!
One of the things that certain so-called "traditionalists" in the Catholic Church lament about the results of the Second Vatican Council is an increasing lack of reverence at Mass. People don't dress up as nicely, they talk too much, the music is blasé, etc. etc. ad infinitum. After having been in Haiti, I would contend that the lack of reverence experienced in the celebration of various Novus Ordo masses throughout North America has next to nothing to do with the liturgy itself. Fr. Bill and I discussed this at one point, and he commented that he remembered the Pre-Vatican II Masses, and quite frankly, people weren't much more "reverent" when they were praying in Latin, than when they are praying in English. Traditionalists, he opined, are longing for something that never really existed in the first place. Reverence is primarily a matter of the heart. External actions can reflect, and, to a certain extent, promote an internal attitude of reverence, but they will never replace it.
The village of Beau-Sejour is spread out for miles through the mountains of Haiti between Port-au-Prince and Jacmel. It has no roads except for rough trails through the hills, which are typically muddy and difficult to traverse. The regular rainfall every afternoon during rainy season ensures that the trails are never dry for long. Worse still, the earth is very ruddy and clothes are easily stained. Yet the residents of Beau-Sejour rise especially early every Sunday morning, in order to walk sometimes as much as three hours in order to come to Church. They clean themselves up, and get dressed in their nicest clothes. They take their Sunday shoes and tie the laces together, and string them across the back of their necks, and then set out on this three hour hike through the mountains in the pre-dawn hours, barefoot, so that when they get to the Church, they can clean their feet and put on their nice, clean shoes before entering God's House. When you walk three hours, barefoot, through the mud, to go to Church, you can talk to me about "reverence" and "hunger for God".
Once at the church, the parishioners gather outside and greet each other warmly, as family--as Haitians. They enter the shabby building and begin the opening hymn as Père Ronal and the altar servers process in (on this occasion joined by Fr. Bill and Mark, from our team, who served at the altar as an act of solidarity). I began to describe the church into which they processed in my last chapter, but it's only once you enter in that you begin to realise what a "church" is. The already meagre structure of St. Gabriel's had been destroyed in the earthquake. All that remained were some steel girders within, poorly made and badly damaged pews, and the cracked concrete floor. The altar was a long folding-table covered in an altar linen. The pulpit was damaged, and on the front, someone had lashed a hubcab with a cross-like motif in lieu of a Cross. It summed up the fact that the building was furnished with whatever they had at hand. They had enough to make it a "church" without any of the extra gildings to which we become so accustomed. They didn't even have proper walls--the roof, supported in the middle by the steel posts, was supported around the edge by bamboo posts. These had large tarps tied to them to make "walls". And yet, the building was still a sacred space. Jesus' people gathered to worship Him and to offer His Sacrifice. All the little extras weren't even missed.
One of the "perks" of Catholicism is its universality. No matter where you go to Mass (hopefully), the liturgy is the same. We read the same Scripture as our fellow-parishioners back home at St. Margaret Mary. We ate of the same Eucharist. We prayed the same prayers--only we prayed them in Creole. Not knowing the language made paying attention somewhat more difficult, but due to the structure of the liturgy, we could pray along in English (or try to attempt to at least imitate the Creole sounds), and enter in very nearly as fully as if Mass had been in English! I'd further asked if we could be seated somewhere where we could see the faces of the parishioners, as well, in order that I could try to discern what they were saying by reading their lips, and thus attempt, at least feebly, to pray with them in their own tongue. We thus were seated to the right of the Sanctuary in pews that faced the Sanctuary and were perpendicular to the congregation. It afforded us a wonderful view of both the altar and the congregation, and helped to immerse us more fully into the Haitian Mass.
On the other hand, another "perk" of Catholicism is its embracing of culture and cultures. In the liturgy, which is the same everywhere, distinct cultural flavours help to incarnate the Message of the Gospel into the lives of the people. Music is one of the key means by which this happens, and the music of Mass in St. Gabriel was far removed from the usual fare at St. Margaret Mary--Dancing (reverently, of course), hand-waving, clapping to the beat of the djambes--these people were in to the Mass! They knew what it was to express their worship and love for God with their entire beings, body and soul! Nowhere was this more apparent than the offertory, when a basket was set in the aisle before the altar, and these poor people danced up the aisle to give what little money they could! It gave "cheerful giving" a whole new meaning, and I was reminded of Jesus' words about the poor widow who gave more than the richest of men, because she gave from her lack, while they give from their abundance. I remarked to Nassrin that I wished the Catholics back home had this much passion behind their worship. The blessings of this Twinning Project are indeed a two-way street, if we are humble enough to recognise that the Haitians have so much to offer us, as well as us giving to them from our abundance.
Haiti is home to an indigenous vodou religion. Itself a synthesis of Catholic spirituality and African spirituality, it has a strong and growing following among many Haitians. Part of the problem with the vodou religion is precisely that it is so syncretous that many people believe that they can be a devout Christian and a practitioner of vodou. It's a similar phenomenon to many here in North America who think that the practice of Yoga or other New Age practices are fully compatible to the Christian faith.
Of the more sinister practices of vodou are various spells and sacrifices that actually involve the desecration of the Eucharist. For this reason, reception of the Eucharist in the hand, as is commonly practiced here in Canada, is forbidden in Haiti. The traditional practice of receiving the Host directly on the tongue is maintained, in order to more effectively prevent the theft of the Host by a secret vodou practitioner, who might otherwise palm the Eucharist and spirit it away to perform his unholy rites. This face-to-face encounter with the more diabolical side of religion, and of Haiti, gave us missioners some pause. For me, it showcased an interesting reality, emphasising the Truth of the Catholic Church's teachings on the Eucharist. If vodou priests see the presence of Jesus in the sacramental Host as a source of power in their rituals, it offers something of a hostile witness to the fact that Jesus is indeed truly present, Body, Blood, Soul and Divinity--and that He is present with power. After all, no vodouists bother trying to steal the bread and wine or crackers and grape juice from Protestant churches; they know that all they are is bread and wine. In the Catholic Eucharist there is power--power that yes, those who live in the darkness try to pervert to their own ends--but power that should make any sincere, devout Catholic marvel in wonder at the great gift that Jesus makes to us of His very Self. It should give those who do not believe in this great gift pause, to wonder why it is that even the devils believe, and tremble.
One of the most unusual (and perhaps uncomfortable--especially for Nassrin, as I mentioned in the introduction) things about Mass in Haiti vs. Mass in Canada, is that their celebration lasts! Sunday Mass was two hours long! So perhaps Nassrin is to be forgiven for succumbing to the heat of over 100 bodies in essentially a big tent in the tropical sun! But it wasn't long. For me (who, after my initial heat shock on the trek up, wasn't bothered by the temperature for the rest of our time there), it was like one of those get-togethers that you just don't want to end. Indeed, every Mass, I think, should be like that. These people came together for a purpose--to worship God. They sacrificed much, to walk three hours barefoot to get there, and to make the same trek home later. I tell you, they weren't leaving until they felt that that journey was worth it! And one hour just isn't long enough to contain their love and devotion to Jesus and His Presence in the Eucharist!
When we have that kind of hunger for Jesus, that's when the Gospel will come alive to the world around us.
Camping out behind the church of St. Gabriel afforded us the blessing and opporunity for daily Mass, of which I took advantage. But it was Sunday Mass especially that was the main event in Beau-Sejour. It also happened to even the playing field a little. I may have succumbed to the heat on the trek up the mountain, but Nassrin buckled during the two-hour liturgy.Shortly before my own venture to Haiti, a Protestant friend of mine, with whom I attended Bible College, had travelled down there on a mission trip of his own. Based on the status updates he left on Facebook and Twitter, the primary purpose of his trip was to evangelise the Haitians through giving concerts. Leaving aside the absurdity of having a concert tour in an earthquake ravaged country, what really offended me was one comment of his, praying that God would give the Haitians a "hunger". He meant by this, of course, a greater desire to know, love, and serve God. But to suggest that the people of Haiti don't have this hunger is, it seems to me, to have been utterly blind to the religious devotion that abounded everywhere one looked--as I remarked in the third chapter of this series. Nowhere was this ardent love for the Lord more evident than in the Haitians' celebration of Sunday Mass.
One of the things that certain so-called "traditionalists" in the Catholic Church lament about the results of the Second Vatican Council is an increasing lack of reverence at Mass. People don't dress up as nicely, they talk too much, the music is blasé, etc. etc. ad infinitum. After having been in Haiti, I would contend that the lack of reverence experienced in the celebration of various Novus Ordo masses throughout North America has next to nothing to do with the liturgy itself. Fr. Bill and I discussed this at one point, and he commented that he remembered the Pre-Vatican II Masses, and quite frankly, people weren't much more "reverent" when they were praying in Latin, than when they are praying in English. Traditionalists, he opined, are longing for something that never really existed in the first place. Reverence is primarily a matter of the heart. External actions can reflect, and, to a certain extent, promote an internal attitude of reverence, but they will never replace it.
The village of Beau-Sejour is spread out for miles through the mountains of Haiti between Port-au-Prince and Jacmel. It has no roads except for rough trails through the hills, which are typically muddy and difficult to traverse. The regular rainfall every afternoon during rainy season ensures that the trails are never dry for long. Worse still, the earth is very ruddy and clothes are easily stained. Yet the residents of Beau-Sejour rise especially early every Sunday morning, in order to walk sometimes as much as three hours in order to come to Church. They clean themselves up, and get dressed in their nicest clothes. They take their Sunday shoes and tie the laces together, and string them across the back of their necks, and then set out on this three hour hike through the mountains in the pre-dawn hours, barefoot, so that when they get to the Church, they can clean their feet and put on their nice, clean shoes before entering God's House. When you walk three hours, barefoot, through the mud, to go to Church, you can talk to me about "reverence" and "hunger for God".
Once at the church, the parishioners gather outside and greet each other warmly, as family--as Haitians. They enter the shabby building and begin the opening hymn as Père Ronal and the altar servers process in (on this occasion joined by Fr. Bill and Mark, from our team, who served at the altar as an act of solidarity). I began to describe the church into which they processed in my last chapter, but it's only once you enter in that you begin to realise what a "church" is. The already meagre structure of St. Gabriel's had been destroyed in the earthquake. All that remained were some steel girders within, poorly made and badly damaged pews, and the cracked concrete floor. The altar was a long folding-table covered in an altar linen. The pulpit was damaged, and on the front, someone had lashed a hubcab with a cross-like motif in lieu of a Cross. It summed up the fact that the building was furnished with whatever they had at hand. They had enough to make it a "church" without any of the extra gildings to which we become so accustomed. They didn't even have proper walls--the roof, supported in the middle by the steel posts, was supported around the edge by bamboo posts. These had large tarps tied to them to make "walls". And yet, the building was still a sacred space. Jesus' people gathered to worship Him and to offer His Sacrifice. All the little extras weren't even missed.
One of the "perks" of Catholicism is its universality. No matter where you go to Mass (hopefully), the liturgy is the same. We read the same Scripture as our fellow-parishioners back home at St. Margaret Mary. We ate of the same Eucharist. We prayed the same prayers--only we prayed them in Creole. Not knowing the language made paying attention somewhat more difficult, but due to the structure of the liturgy, we could pray along in English (or try to attempt to at least imitate the Creole sounds), and enter in very nearly as fully as if Mass had been in English! I'd further asked if we could be seated somewhere where we could see the faces of the parishioners, as well, in order that I could try to discern what they were saying by reading their lips, and thus attempt, at least feebly, to pray with them in their own tongue. We thus were seated to the right of the Sanctuary in pews that faced the Sanctuary and were perpendicular to the congregation. It afforded us a wonderful view of both the altar and the congregation, and helped to immerse us more fully into the Haitian Mass.
On the other hand, another "perk" of Catholicism is its embracing of culture and cultures. In the liturgy, which is the same everywhere, distinct cultural flavours help to incarnate the Message of the Gospel into the lives of the people. Music is one of the key means by which this happens, and the music of Mass in St. Gabriel was far removed from the usual fare at St. Margaret Mary--Dancing (reverently, of course), hand-waving, clapping to the beat of the djambes--these people were in to the Mass! They knew what it was to express their worship and love for God with their entire beings, body and soul! Nowhere was this more apparent than the offertory, when a basket was set in the aisle before the altar, and these poor people danced up the aisle to give what little money they could! It gave "cheerful giving" a whole new meaning, and I was reminded of Jesus' words about the poor widow who gave more than the richest of men, because she gave from her lack, while they give from their abundance. I remarked to Nassrin that I wished the Catholics back home had this much passion behind their worship. The blessings of this Twinning Project are indeed a two-way street, if we are humble enough to recognise that the Haitians have so much to offer us, as well as us giving to them from our abundance.
Haiti is home to an indigenous vodou religion. Itself a synthesis of Catholic spirituality and African spirituality, it has a strong and growing following among many Haitians. Part of the problem with the vodou religion is precisely that it is so syncretous that many people believe that they can be a devout Christian and a practitioner of vodou. It's a similar phenomenon to many here in North America who think that the practice of Yoga or other New Age practices are fully compatible to the Christian faith.
Of the more sinister practices of vodou are various spells and sacrifices that actually involve the desecration of the Eucharist. For this reason, reception of the Eucharist in the hand, as is commonly practiced here in Canada, is forbidden in Haiti. The traditional practice of receiving the Host directly on the tongue is maintained, in order to more effectively prevent the theft of the Host by a secret vodou practitioner, who might otherwise palm the Eucharist and spirit it away to perform his unholy rites. This face-to-face encounter with the more diabolical side of religion, and of Haiti, gave us missioners some pause. For me, it showcased an interesting reality, emphasising the Truth of the Catholic Church's teachings on the Eucharist. If vodou priests see the presence of Jesus in the sacramental Host as a source of power in their rituals, it offers something of a hostile witness to the fact that Jesus is indeed truly present, Body, Blood, Soul and Divinity--and that He is present with power. After all, no vodouists bother trying to steal the bread and wine or crackers and grape juice from Protestant churches; they know that all they are is bread and wine. In the Catholic Eucharist there is power--power that yes, those who live in the darkness try to pervert to their own ends--but power that should make any sincere, devout Catholic marvel in wonder at the great gift that Jesus makes to us of His very Self. It should give those who do not believe in this great gift pause, to wonder why it is that even the devils believe, and tremble.
One of the most unusual (and perhaps uncomfortable--especially for Nassrin, as I mentioned in the introduction) things about Mass in Haiti vs. Mass in Canada, is that their celebration lasts! Sunday Mass was two hours long! So perhaps Nassrin is to be forgiven for succumbing to the heat of over 100 bodies in essentially a big tent in the tropical sun! But it wasn't long. For me (who, after my initial heat shock on the trek up, wasn't bothered by the temperature for the rest of our time there), it was like one of those get-togethers that you just don't want to end. Indeed, every Mass, I think, should be like that. These people came together for a purpose--to worship God. They sacrificed much, to walk three hours barefoot to get there, and to make the same trek home later. I tell you, they weren't leaving until they felt that that journey was worth it! And one hour just isn't long enough to contain their love and devotion to Jesus and His Presence in the Eucharist!
When we have that kind of hunger for Jesus, that's when the Gospel will come alive to the world around us.
I've been writing this reflection since the 10th of March. Distractions aside, it simply has taken a while to really process the singular experience of Mass. I'm sure I'll never adequately plumb its depths. And look, Dan! Not one comment about how you were falling asleep! Oh...Wait...
It was immediately following Mass that we were forced way, way outside of our comfort zones! But that story is for the next chapter...
Monday, 21 March 2011
A Reader Asks...Whatever Happened to Sean?
Okay, so, no, no one asked that in so many words. However, I thought the title would be a good way to reintroduce this particular aspect of the blog.
One of the initial reasons it was started was because a dear friend, Sean, would ask me various theological questions, and thought that it would be beneficial to more than just him if I posted the answers for others. As such, there was a plan to have a semi-regular series of posts titled, "Sean Asks..." Sean hasn't been asking a whole lot of questions of late. In fact, due to life and his utter distaste for the new MSN Messenger layout, I haven't talked to him much at all. As such, I thought I'd reorganise things and relabel the Sean Asks... tag to "A Reader Asks..." Such readers could be those, like you, who visit me here, or those who read Barque of Peter and happen to ask a question there that I think would be suitably answered here. Or they could be people who comment on my Facebook page. In fact, it could be such a vague catch-all that "a reader" might simply be any literate person who asks me a question. Anything that will get the blog aimed back toward its initial purpose. If you have a question you'd like featured here, leave a comment, or email me at doubting - thomist @ hotmail . com.
Like Sean, if you ask a question, unless you don't want me to, your first name will appear in the text. That said, comments on this blog, as per the Rules, can't be anonymous. So if you want anonymity, it would probably be better to email me your questions directly.
I'm a good chunk into Chapter 6 of "What I Saw in Haiti", but I had some writer's block, as well as some good questions come my way lately, so I thought I'd take steps to get things rolling again.
God bless
Gregory
One of the initial reasons it was started was because a dear friend, Sean, would ask me various theological questions, and thought that it would be beneficial to more than just him if I posted the answers for others. As such, there was a plan to have a semi-regular series of posts titled, "Sean Asks..." Sean hasn't been asking a whole lot of questions of late. In fact, due to life and his utter distaste for the new MSN Messenger layout, I haven't talked to him much at all. As such, I thought I'd reorganise things and relabel the Sean Asks... tag to "A Reader Asks..." Such readers could be those, like you, who visit me here, or those who read Barque of Peter and happen to ask a question there that I think would be suitably answered here. Or they could be people who comment on my Facebook page. In fact, it could be such a vague catch-all that "a reader" might simply be any literate person who asks me a question. Anything that will get the blog aimed back toward its initial purpose. If you have a question you'd like featured here, leave a comment, or email me at doubting - thomist @ hotmail . com.
Like Sean, if you ask a question, unless you don't want me to, your first name will appear in the text. That said, comments on this blog, as per the Rules, can't be anonymous. So if you want anonymity, it would probably be better to email me your questions directly.
I'm a good chunk into Chapter 6 of "What I Saw in Haiti", but I had some writer's block, as well as some good questions come my way lately, so I thought I'd take steps to get things rolling again.
God bless
Gregory
Saturday, 26 February 2011
What I Saw in Haiti: Chapter 5
What on Earth are We Doing Here?
The strangest sight, I think, were the cell phones. It seemed everyone had a cell phone, and the Haitians are very proud of them. People would be walking around without shoes, but they had a cell phone. I suppose everyone needs their toys, and a cell phone would be a particularly useful thing in a remote mountain community where your closest neighbour might otherwise be an hour's walk. Nevertheless, it was often a startling juxtaposition.
Fr. Bill and Nassrin, being the priest and the only woman on the trip, were afforded relatively comfortable lodgings in Père Ronal's temporary rectory, while Dan, Mark, Michael our translator, and myself slept in a very large tent out behind the Church. This location did afford us close proximity to the one structure that our church helped build in Beau-Sejour that was not damaged in the earthquake: the washroom. I said earlier that the people of Beau-Sejour don't have running water--at least, not plumbing in the conventional North American sense. They trap rainwater in large reservoirs which also act as filters, and are tapped. Water is then carried to wherever it is needed. Carried, on the heads of the people! That itself is a sight to see: an elderly woman carrying a gallon of water on her head, without spilling, over rocky terrain, without adequate footwear, as if the water hardly weighed more than a couple pounds! When us young, strapping men had to carry our own water, on occasion, holding the buckets by their handles, and trying to nearly drag them up the hill from the reservoir to the bigger barrel outside the washroom, I can only imagine what was going through the minds of the locals! «Les blancs sont foux!»
The larger barrel, into which we dumped the water carried by us with such indignity, and by the Haitians with such grace, was used for washing and for flushing the toilet. One had to dump a pail of water into the toilet after its use to flush the contents down a pipe and out down the mountainside. It also wetted our toothbrushes, and theoretically, at least, was used to "shower", or, at least, to dump on top of us in lieu of showering. However, this didn't happen as such, at least not for the guys. Turns out, it rains every afternoon, and by rain, I mean, that being up in the mountains, the clouds rolled in around you, and then sort of "erupted" right above your heads. So it provided a nice effective shower!
When one enters "downtown" Beau-Sejour, after passing a few homes just outside of town, one enters into something of an archway and a low wall--at least, we entered the remains thereof--into a patch of level ground. It's more or less the highest point of "Beau-Sejour" proper, and as such, the Church is there at the back end of this level area. Well, what's left of St. Gabriel, anyway--bamboo posts holding up a large tin roof with some metal posts on the interior, and tarps strung up as "walls". Out behind the church, as I mentioned, was our tent and the washroom. The level area drops off sharply just beyond our tent with a wall of sorts, and right below was the framework of Père Ronal's new rectory. Out front of the Church, on the other end of this level area, was the clinic that St. Margaret Mary parish had helped to build, and which housed the medical and dental mission teams that we sent down. The earthquake, however, had entirely destroyed this building, and what was still standing was doing so quite precariously. Between the old clinic and the remains of the Church is a downward sloping hill of loose rock and earth, about four or five people wide, surrounded by banana trees and other thick vegetation (all around us was "jungle" it seemed). At the bottom of the hill was Père Ronal's current home, with his housekeeper and family, and the nurse from Léogane who tried to look after the needs of the people. It acted as a bit of a hub for the community. On the other side of the lane was the "Boutique", which was a sort of general store from which you could buy chips, candy, beer, and anything else you needed, which the proprietor "imported" from Léogane or Port-au-Prince. It too was the centre of life for the residents of Beau-Sejour. Further down the lane were more homes, and well off on the opposite hillside were the Petit Frères de Ste. Thérèse, whom I mentioned in a previous chapter. Surrounding all of this were steep slopes into luscious valleys, which would have been even more lush had they not been stripped of their trees. As it is, they're fighting to produce vegetation again despite the soil erosion caused by the denuding. In spite of this environmental reality, Beau-Sejour is a beautiful place.
As I mentioned, our purpose for going was ostensibly to teach First Aid. I say "ostensibly" because only Nassrin was actually equipped to teach it (and it's probably something of a stretch to suggest that anyone else on the team even knows First Aid!) So while Nassrin was able to get down to business, working out with Père Ronal the hows and the whos of the rest of the week, and began teaching on Saturday morning, Fr. Bill, Dan, Mark, and I were left wondering just what it was that we were supposed to do. We couldn't help teach First Aid. We weren't construction workers. We couldn't help build Père Ronal's rectory. We didn't have proper equipment to help demolish the damaged clinic and other buildings. To make matters worse, our translator, Michael, was helping Nassrin teach, so we could hardly even communicate!
I was discussing our dilemma with Fr. Bill, and I said, "I don't even know what I'm doing here anymore. What do I have to contribute? Nassrin is teaching First Aid. What do I do? I draw pictures!" Fr. Bill stopped and said, without missing a beat, "Why don't you do that?" I replied, "That counts as 'doing something'?" Father simply answered, "Why not?" He'd hit on the real reason we'd come--not to teach First Aid or to build buildings, but primarily to build relationships--and he saw my art as one very good means of doing so. So I ran back to the tent and got my sketchpad, and moseyed down to the Boutique, pulled up a chair across from the few villagers lounging under the veranda out front, and began to draw them. This, of course, drew their attention, and they tried to figure out just what I was doing. A few walked over to see my work, and started laughing and pointing (which is always good for one's self-esteem, when someone laughs at you in another language!) I understand people enough, thankfully, to know that they weren't laughing at me, but with joyous wonder, saying "Look! That looks just like Tijor!" Once everyone had caught on, they began asking me to draw specific people's portraits, of which I had time and opportunity to draw two (after all, despite their desire to be drawn, their desire to sit still and let me draw them was significantly diminished). So I drew the portraits of a lovely woman named Anite, and her daughter L'ovlis, which is actually pronounced "lovely". This was on top of the initial sketch of the Boutique's veranda, seated in which were old Tijor, already mentioned, as well as two youths, Willie and Pierre-Renaud, who eagerly inscribed their names (and ages) beside their likenesses. While I gave Anite's and L'ovlis' portraits to them, I kept this initial sketch of Tijor, Willie, and Pierre-Renaud as a souvenir of my own. It was, after all, the thing that I could do, which broke the language barrier and made us even more than family--it made us friends. And that friendship led to other wonderful events later on in our stay. But for those stories, you, dear reader, will have to wait.
Having arrived in Beau-Sejour, we were warmly welcomed with a wonderful meal of Creole cooking: fried chicken, plantain chips, caseroles of corn, potato, beets, peas, and other good things, and ice cold Coca-Cola, and beer. Everything was fantastic! Well, except the beer. They gave us Colt .45, which is American beer. It wasn't until later that they unleashed their award-winning "Prestige" Haitian beer--which was wonderful! I guess they were worried we wouldn't be able to handle it! After our welcoming lunch, our exhausted troupe took a siesta to recover from our long climb and proceeded to unpack.Beau-Sejour is a remote mountain community. "Village" would be almost too generous a term. Throughout the mountains there are little huts and "gardens" that are almost like vertical farms, planted down the side of the mountain. All around are gorgeous vistas and Edenic scenery. The poverty of the residents of Beau-Sejour isn't like the poverty of homeless beggars in the inner city. These people are "poor" in the sense that they don't have running water, or proper toilets, or cable television. But they have food, if not in gluttonous abundance, and they have shelter. In fact, thanks in part to our parish's help, everyone's home had been rebuilt, except for Père Ronal's rectory and the Church itself, as well as the various schools. Père Ronal's rectory was under construction when we arrived. I'll talk more about the Church in my next chapter.
The strangest sight, I think, were the cell phones. It seemed everyone had a cell phone, and the Haitians are very proud of them. People would be walking around without shoes, but they had a cell phone. I suppose everyone needs their toys, and a cell phone would be a particularly useful thing in a remote mountain community where your closest neighbour might otherwise be an hour's walk. Nevertheless, it was often a startling juxtaposition.
Fr. Bill and Nassrin, being the priest and the only woman on the trip, were afforded relatively comfortable lodgings in Père Ronal's temporary rectory, while Dan, Mark, Michael our translator, and myself slept in a very large tent out behind the Church. This location did afford us close proximity to the one structure that our church helped build in Beau-Sejour that was not damaged in the earthquake: the washroom. I said earlier that the people of Beau-Sejour don't have running water--at least, not plumbing in the conventional North American sense. They trap rainwater in large reservoirs which also act as filters, and are tapped. Water is then carried to wherever it is needed. Carried, on the heads of the people! That itself is a sight to see: an elderly woman carrying a gallon of water on her head, without spilling, over rocky terrain, without adequate footwear, as if the water hardly weighed more than a couple pounds! When us young, strapping men had to carry our own water, on occasion, holding the buckets by their handles, and trying to nearly drag them up the hill from the reservoir to the bigger barrel outside the washroom, I can only imagine what was going through the minds of the locals! «Les blancs sont foux!»
The larger barrel, into which we dumped the water carried by us with such indignity, and by the Haitians with such grace, was used for washing and for flushing the toilet. One had to dump a pail of water into the toilet after its use to flush the contents down a pipe and out down the mountainside. It also wetted our toothbrushes, and theoretically, at least, was used to "shower", or, at least, to dump on top of us in lieu of showering. However, this didn't happen as such, at least not for the guys. Turns out, it rains every afternoon, and by rain, I mean, that being up in the mountains, the clouds rolled in around you, and then sort of "erupted" right above your heads. So it provided a nice effective shower!
When one enters "downtown" Beau-Sejour, after passing a few homes just outside of town, one enters into something of an archway and a low wall--at least, we entered the remains thereof--into a patch of level ground. It's more or less the highest point of "Beau-Sejour" proper, and as such, the Church is there at the back end of this level area. Well, what's left of St. Gabriel, anyway--bamboo posts holding up a large tin roof with some metal posts on the interior, and tarps strung up as "walls". Out behind the church, as I mentioned, was our tent and the washroom. The level area drops off sharply just beyond our tent with a wall of sorts, and right below was the framework of Père Ronal's new rectory. Out front of the Church, on the other end of this level area, was the clinic that St. Margaret Mary parish had helped to build, and which housed the medical and dental mission teams that we sent down. The earthquake, however, had entirely destroyed this building, and what was still standing was doing so quite precariously. Between the old clinic and the remains of the Church is a downward sloping hill of loose rock and earth, about four or five people wide, surrounded by banana trees and other thick vegetation (all around us was "jungle" it seemed). At the bottom of the hill was Père Ronal's current home, with his housekeeper and family, and the nurse from Léogane who tried to look after the needs of the people. It acted as a bit of a hub for the community. On the other side of the lane was the "Boutique", which was a sort of general store from which you could buy chips, candy, beer, and anything else you needed, which the proprietor "imported" from Léogane or Port-au-Prince. It too was the centre of life for the residents of Beau-Sejour. Further down the lane were more homes, and well off on the opposite hillside were the Petit Frères de Ste. Thérèse, whom I mentioned in a previous chapter. Surrounding all of this were steep slopes into luscious valleys, which would have been even more lush had they not been stripped of their trees. As it is, they're fighting to produce vegetation again despite the soil erosion caused by the denuding. In spite of this environmental reality, Beau-Sejour is a beautiful place.
As I mentioned, our purpose for going was ostensibly to teach First Aid. I say "ostensibly" because only Nassrin was actually equipped to teach it (and it's probably something of a stretch to suggest that anyone else on the team even knows First Aid!) So while Nassrin was able to get down to business, working out with Père Ronal the hows and the whos of the rest of the week, and began teaching on Saturday morning, Fr. Bill, Dan, Mark, and I were left wondering just what it was that we were supposed to do. We couldn't help teach First Aid. We weren't construction workers. We couldn't help build Père Ronal's rectory. We didn't have proper equipment to help demolish the damaged clinic and other buildings. To make matters worse, our translator, Michael, was helping Nassrin teach, so we could hardly even communicate!
I was discussing our dilemma with Fr. Bill, and I said, "I don't even know what I'm doing here anymore. What do I have to contribute? Nassrin is teaching First Aid. What do I do? I draw pictures!" Fr. Bill stopped and said, without missing a beat, "Why don't you do that?" I replied, "That counts as 'doing something'?" Father simply answered, "Why not?" He'd hit on the real reason we'd come--not to teach First Aid or to build buildings, but primarily to build relationships--and he saw my art as one very good means of doing so. So I ran back to the tent and got my sketchpad, and moseyed down to the Boutique, pulled up a chair across from the few villagers lounging under the veranda out front, and began to draw them. This, of course, drew their attention, and they tried to figure out just what I was doing. A few walked over to see my work, and started laughing and pointing (which is always good for one's self-esteem, when someone laughs at you in another language!) I understand people enough, thankfully, to know that they weren't laughing at me, but with joyous wonder, saying "Look! That looks just like Tijor!" Once everyone had caught on, they began asking me to draw specific people's portraits, of which I had time and opportunity to draw two (after all, despite their desire to be drawn, their desire to sit still and let me draw them was significantly diminished). So I drew the portraits of a lovely woman named Anite, and her daughter L'ovlis, which is actually pronounced "lovely". This was on top of the initial sketch of the Boutique's veranda, seated in which were old Tijor, already mentioned, as well as two youths, Willie and Pierre-Renaud, who eagerly inscribed their names (and ages) beside their likenesses. While I gave Anite's and L'ovlis' portraits to them, I kept this initial sketch of Tijor, Willie, and Pierre-Renaud as a souvenir of my own. It was, after all, the thing that I could do, which broke the language barrier and made us even more than family--it made us friends. And that friendship led to other wonderful events later on in our stay. But for those stories, you, dear reader, will have to wait.
We've gotten through Saturday so far. Up next, Sunday and Mass in Haiti! After which followed perhaps the scariest part of our journey, and, for some of us, our lives. Stay tuned!
Friday, 18 February 2011
Angels (Commissioned Painting)
Well, crap--when I was posting Tulips, it seems when I copy-pasted this post for the description, I somehow managed to post the edited Tulips description here inadvertenty, and then saving it! Just noticed it while I was working on the Reconciliation post. So I'll have to try to remember what I had here before the gaffe, and repost a reasonable facsimile...!
Thursday, 20 January 2011
What I Saw in Haiti: Chapter 4
Not Exactly the Ascent of Mount Carmel
L'Assyle, as I mentioned, was as far as the pick-up could take us, and so we disembarked and prepared for the rest of the hike. All around us gathered curious and friendly Haitians, who unloaded our luggage from the truck and loaded it onto three mules. Then we began our slow, long, and hot ascent the rest of the way to Beau-Sejour.
When you see pictures of Haiti in the news, especially in the time since the earthquake, you end up having a difficult understanding of why this country is called "The Jewel of the Carribean." All one sees, primarily, is the decay and desperation of Port-au-Prince. Outside of that city, however, the beauty of Haiti really takes hold. The name of the country in Creole is "Ayiti", which means "mountainous"--and a more apt name could not be found. Every glance was breathtaking; every view was a vista. Though denuded of its trees, leaving the soil eroded, Haiti's mountains nevertheless had much vegitation, primarily banana trees and bamboo. How much more lush would this tropical paradise have been had previous generations been more environmentally-conscious? Nevertheless, I wore out my fellow-travellers with my continual exclamations of "I want to paint that!"
I already mentioned our three load-bearing companions, but there was a fourth mule who travelled with us. He wasn't for our luggage, but rather for us, if we came to have need of him. After my spell of exhaustion back home exercising with Nassrin (mentioned in the introduction to the last chapter), I was determined to not be the first person who needed the mule. I persevered up the hill on foot, trying to keep myself hydrated, but I could feel the tropical mid-morning beating down on me. I looked behind and realised that Nassrin herself, who had expressed doubts at my fitness to travel in Haiti, had been the first to succumb to the heat and mounted the mule. With smug self-satisfaction, I continued on for about another five minutes when I could feel the effects of the heat, and my pride, take its toll. I thus promptly asked (ordered, really) Nassrin to get off the mule so I could ride it. While she obliged, it was too little, too late. As I rode the mule, I began to feel nauseous. More, my hands began to seize up, and finally, my left leg went completely numb, causing my foot to come free of the stirrup! Père Ronal kept looking back at me and seeing me looking more and more ill, and asking, "Koumon-w ye?" Which is "How are you?" I kept replying, "Pa pi mal," meaning, "Not bad." But when I couldn't even pronounce the "l" in mal any longer, I knew it was getting bad, so I asked to stop in a grove of banana trees and lie down.
This simple request turned out to be more complicated than anticipated. First, when they asked me to dismount, I immediately began to climb off on the right side of the mule, since my right leg still had feeling, and my right foot was still in the stirrup. As soon as I made to go in that direction, a host of Haitians began yelling at me to stop and dismount on the left side (I never did find out why one should not dismount on the right side of a mule). Père Ronal started to guide me off the left side of the mule, and I slid sideways in order to get my left foot onto the ground, while still having my right leg slung over the mule's back! This is an uncomfortable position for a person in good health! Since I had no use of my seized-up hands, this ungraceful dismount caused me to spill my remaining water that I was barely holding on to. Once off the mule, I tried to lie down, to the protest of everyone present. But I didn't care--I had no choice! So I laid down in the red terracotta mud of which Haiti's mountains are composed, and all the concerned Haitians gathered 'round and looked down at me. I'll never forget one older man, concern for me etched in his wrinkled face, as two bright eyes peered at me from below a woollen toque! While I was suffering from heat exhaustion, this man had on Canadian winter-wear!
Nassrin had moved on ahead since my mounting of the mule, and one of the Haitians was quickly sent to bring her back. Meanwhile, blessed Michael began massaging my hands and working the muscles in my legs. When Nassrin rushed back, she nearly panicked at the sight of me on the ground, but kept her cool and instructed Père Ronal to make sure I too was kept cool. Water was brought out and they removed my shirt and soaked it. Then they tied it around my head. After about ten minutes, I had sufficiently recovered enough to resume our trek. One thoughtful Haitian man took his machete and cut bamboo staves for both me and Nassrin. I kept that staff for every hike during our remaining time in Haiti, and would have brought it home with me as a souvenir, but it was too long to pack away in order to get it on the plane. Nevertheless, it came in very handy throughout the week, keeping me from stumbling on the rough, muddy-clay mountainside.
Thankfully, this spell of heat exhaustion did indeed serve to make me stronger. It seems to have sped up the acclimatisation process to the warm tropical weather, because from that point on, the heat never really affected me in any extreme manner, though others on our team had their own difficulties later in the week. It seems a principle of life that suffering can be to our good. Perhaps "whatever doesn't kill me only makes me stronger" is a bit too glib to be a universal law, but there is truth to the adage, "no pain, no gain." The difference is in how we react to it--what we choose to do with the suffering. Had I continued to tough it out and ignore the symptoms, it could possibly have killed me. But being humbled and recognising my weakness and my need, I could accept the help required to recover.
What is true in the physical is equally so in the spiritual realm of life. Life often sucks. Just last night, my car was broken into, my GPS and several CDs were stolen, and I'm out a couple hundred dollars replacing the window. And that is just a small trifle compared with what so many people, like my friends in Haiti, go through every day! When we suffer alone, railing at the heavens in futility, then the devil steals our joy. Spiritually we begin to waste away, to die. But there is an alternative. We must choose to trust in God, to offer our suffering to Him. In so doing, He unites it to the suffering of His Son on the Cross. Our pain takes on a new, redemptive, healing dimension in the lives of others--maybe even others we'll never meet, and never know how our gift has influenced them; maybe our own friends and family. We can waste our suffering, or we can make it fruitful.
And in the end, we'll arrive at the top of that Mountain, just as I arrived with my team in Beau-Sejour.
Having finally made it to Haiti, we were now about to commence our rigourous trek up the mountain--and I was going to learn a lesson in humility.After two and a half motion-sick hours of insane traffic and death-defying mountain "roads", we arrived at the little settlement of L'Assyle, which was the end of the line for our "tup-tup". Once we had left Port-au-Prince, we stopped briefly at a gas station in Leogane, and picked up Père Ronal's cousin, and our translator for the trip, Michael (which he pronounced Mi-kay-el). Since the five of us were already crammed into the cab of Père Ronal's Hylux, Michael rode in the tail, seated on top of our luggage and holding onto the straps, literally for dear life. He did, however, inform us that his seat was the most comfortable of all of ours, which, after wanting to be ill for most of that journey, I had little trouble believing. This bit of information led us to each take a turn riding in the back on the way back to Port-au-Prince on our way home.
L'Assyle, as I mentioned, was as far as the pick-up could take us, and so we disembarked and prepared for the rest of the hike. All around us gathered curious and friendly Haitians, who unloaded our luggage from the truck and loaded it onto three mules. Then we began our slow, long, and hot ascent the rest of the way to Beau-Sejour.
When you see pictures of Haiti in the news, especially in the time since the earthquake, you end up having a difficult understanding of why this country is called "The Jewel of the Carribean." All one sees, primarily, is the decay and desperation of Port-au-Prince. Outside of that city, however, the beauty of Haiti really takes hold. The name of the country in Creole is "Ayiti", which means "mountainous"--and a more apt name could not be found. Every glance was breathtaking; every view was a vista. Though denuded of its trees, leaving the soil eroded, Haiti's mountains nevertheless had much vegitation, primarily banana trees and bamboo. How much more lush would this tropical paradise have been had previous generations been more environmentally-conscious? Nevertheless, I wore out my fellow-travellers with my continual exclamations of "I want to paint that!"
I already mentioned our three load-bearing companions, but there was a fourth mule who travelled with us. He wasn't for our luggage, but rather for us, if we came to have need of him. After my spell of exhaustion back home exercising with Nassrin (mentioned in the introduction to the last chapter), I was determined to not be the first person who needed the mule. I persevered up the hill on foot, trying to keep myself hydrated, but I could feel the tropical mid-morning beating down on me. I looked behind and realised that Nassrin herself, who had expressed doubts at my fitness to travel in Haiti, had been the first to succumb to the heat and mounted the mule. With smug self-satisfaction, I continued on for about another five minutes when I could feel the effects of the heat, and my pride, take its toll. I thus promptly asked (ordered, really) Nassrin to get off the mule so I could ride it. While she obliged, it was too little, too late. As I rode the mule, I began to feel nauseous. More, my hands began to seize up, and finally, my left leg went completely numb, causing my foot to come free of the stirrup! Père Ronal kept looking back at me and seeing me looking more and more ill, and asking, "Koumon-w ye?" Which is "How are you?" I kept replying, "Pa pi mal," meaning, "Not bad." But when I couldn't even pronounce the "l" in mal any longer, I knew it was getting bad, so I asked to stop in a grove of banana trees and lie down.
This simple request turned out to be more complicated than anticipated. First, when they asked me to dismount, I immediately began to climb off on the right side of the mule, since my right leg still had feeling, and my right foot was still in the stirrup. As soon as I made to go in that direction, a host of Haitians began yelling at me to stop and dismount on the left side (I never did find out why one should not dismount on the right side of a mule). Père Ronal started to guide me off the left side of the mule, and I slid sideways in order to get my left foot onto the ground, while still having my right leg slung over the mule's back! This is an uncomfortable position for a person in good health! Since I had no use of my seized-up hands, this ungraceful dismount caused me to spill my remaining water that I was barely holding on to. Once off the mule, I tried to lie down, to the protest of everyone present. But I didn't care--I had no choice! So I laid down in the red terracotta mud of which Haiti's mountains are composed, and all the concerned Haitians gathered 'round and looked down at me. I'll never forget one older man, concern for me etched in his wrinkled face, as two bright eyes peered at me from below a woollen toque! While I was suffering from heat exhaustion, this man had on Canadian winter-wear!
Nassrin had moved on ahead since my mounting of the mule, and one of the Haitians was quickly sent to bring her back. Meanwhile, blessed Michael began massaging my hands and working the muscles in my legs. When Nassrin rushed back, she nearly panicked at the sight of me on the ground, but kept her cool and instructed Père Ronal to make sure I too was kept cool. Water was brought out and they removed my shirt and soaked it. Then they tied it around my head. After about ten minutes, I had sufficiently recovered enough to resume our trek. One thoughtful Haitian man took his machete and cut bamboo staves for both me and Nassrin. I kept that staff for every hike during our remaining time in Haiti, and would have brought it home with me as a souvenir, but it was too long to pack away in order to get it on the plane. Nevertheless, it came in very handy throughout the week, keeping me from stumbling on the rough, muddy-clay mountainside.
Thankfully, this spell of heat exhaustion did indeed serve to make me stronger. It seems to have sped up the acclimatisation process to the warm tropical weather, because from that point on, the heat never really affected me in any extreme manner, though others on our team had their own difficulties later in the week. It seems a principle of life that suffering can be to our good. Perhaps "whatever doesn't kill me only makes me stronger" is a bit too glib to be a universal law, but there is truth to the adage, "no pain, no gain." The difference is in how we react to it--what we choose to do with the suffering. Had I continued to tough it out and ignore the symptoms, it could possibly have killed me. But being humbled and recognising my weakness and my need, I could accept the help required to recover.
What is true in the physical is equally so in the spiritual realm of life. Life often sucks. Just last night, my car was broken into, my GPS and several CDs were stolen, and I'm out a couple hundred dollars replacing the window. And that is just a small trifle compared with what so many people, like my friends in Haiti, go through every day! When we suffer alone, railing at the heavens in futility, then the devil steals our joy. Spiritually we begin to waste away, to die. But there is an alternative. We must choose to trust in God, to offer our suffering to Him. In so doing, He unites it to the suffering of His Son on the Cross. Our pain takes on a new, redemptive, healing dimension in the lives of others--maybe even others we'll never meet, and never know how our gift has influenced them; maybe our own friends and family. We can waste our suffering, or we can make it fruitful.
And in the end, we'll arrive at the top of that Mountain, just as I arrived with my team in Beau-Sejour.
Coming up, a taste of good ol' southern hospitality, as we meet the community with which St. Margaret Mary had twinned--our brothers and sisters in Christ.
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