This morning, on the 8th anniversary of the catastrophic Haitian earthquake, I did something I hope none of you ever has to do.
I told my daughters that the President of the United States called their country a “shit hole.”
They both shook their heads, looked down into their coffee cups and quietly whispered, “Wow.”
With tears in my eyes, I told them that I had really debated whether or not to tell them. “I didn’t want you to know,” I said, “But then I was so afraid you might go to school and some mean kid would throw it in your faces. I didn’t want you to be blindsided.”
“Who would do that?” my 14-year-old said.
But my 17-year-old nodded in somber agreement. Yes, in a world where our leader has set a standard for callous cruelty, someone at school might hurl the insult her way. Experience had taught her the lesson.
Then, she did the most remarkable thing. She said, “You know, it doesn’t bother me that much. President Trump’s opinion doesn’t really matter to me.” Then she held her fingers an inch or so apart as she said, “He is so small. So small to me.”
And there it is… This is the spirit of Haiti. Strong. Resilient. Dignified. This, my friends, is “why Haitians.”
I can’t say that I, their mom, am able to scarecly touch their example. I am filled with fury and sorrow. I want to rage against the injustice of not only President Donald Trump, but of those so crippled by their own self-serving cowardice that they refuse to say “enough.” I am consumed with blind rage against the followers of Jesus Christ who have sold a beautiful Gospel for a shadow of empty moralism.
All I know to do is pray. It is all I have. My only comfort. My only hope.
“May God’s Kingdom come. May His will be done. May he make our faith strong and pure. And please, please Father…Deliver us from the Evil One. Amen.”
