Author: Paul Glyman

It was mid-summer 1981. In the midst of our six week stay in Haiti we had two or three days off where the team was able to go to Roi Christophe Hotel in Cap-Haitien for an afternoon.  Christophe’s is still a favorite of mine. At one time it was Napoleon Bonaparte’s sister’s home. It’s quaint. As one Canadian girl put it, “it’s rotic!” I was confused so she explained,”it’s romantic without the man!”. We were able to hang out and act like tourists. We enjoyed  burgers, pomme frites and ice cold Cokes poolside. It was a slice of heaven in Haiti.

I found myself in a poolside chat with a fellow American who lived in a boat off shore. He said he was providing much needed jobs for Haitians. I had already discovered while many people may not always be “pro-Christian”, when they find out that you are there constructing a nutrition center to feed 500 malnourished children a day, well, their tune changes.  Such was not the case with this gentleman. I will never forget what he said to me. He told me I was compounding the problem. By feeding those that were weak and vulnerable I was keeping them from perishing. And not only that, this would sustain them such that they would grow up and have children making matters even worse. I was stunned. I responded by saying I would one day give account of my life to my creator and specifically what I did for those who were not in a position to help themselves. The conversation ended.

Fast forward to January 2020. We were serving in Milot and I wanted to show some of the team members around the Bon Berger Mission. This of course is where I met Christian, where he originally lived and also where he is now the second in command in the ministry. Though he wasn’t present I was able to give a brief tour pointing out buildings that our loved ones had helped build back in the ‘80’s and ‘90’s. Serendipitously a Haitian man approached me. He seemed familiar. He introduced himself as Guy (hard G, long E). His English was impeccable. I introduced myself. He smiled and nodded indicating he knew me. He said he knew I was Christian’s papa. We chatted a bit. And then he said something that I will always remember. He pointed across the interior courtyard at a building I knew well. It has many uses today but back in 1981 it was the home for the orphans. Then he told me that it all started there for him and for Christian and for Jacquelin, New Hope’s on field director. I once again was stunned. I knew they were all connected but I only knew that Christian lived in the orphanage.

This erudite young man who is now the principal of the Bon Berger school walked me through some details. He is 49. Jacquelin is 50. Christian is 51. This meant so many things. It meant in 1981 I played with all three of them. I would chase them, scare them and make them laugh. We taught them to say “Whopper beat Big Mac”. They had no idea what they were saying. It was hilarious. They nicknamed me Jean-Fuca.

But here is what moved me. These three good men were exactly who the man by the pool was talking about. They were the most vulnerable. He said let them die.

Yet here they are, leaders of their generation, kicking at the darkness in Haiti. And yes, they all have children. And all have at least one child studying here in the States. In addition I am currently working to get Christian’s daughter here to study to be a physical therapist. I have nothing but respect for these three good men. I am a better person for knowing them. I don’t know that I teared up that day with Guy. But I am now.

Cleanta aka Madam KK was amazing in the kitchen. It was her cooking that taught me to love Haitian Creole cuisine…her rice, beans and chicken …oh my goodness.

In addition to her culinary expertise she was such a kind person. She received our endless compliments with a sweet smile. Of course, I was only acquainted with her because she worked at Mission Bon Berger. I knew nothing more about her until one afternoon in January 1989.

Imogene Dixon founded the mission at least a decade earlier. She was getting ready to retire but someone had a different plan for her life. She couldn’t turn her back on what she’d seen and experienced in Haiti and thus the mission with the schools and feeding centers. She invited me to take a walk with her into the town of Milot . It wasn’t long before we arrived at Cleanta’s home. By Haitian standards it was pretty decent. It was a long time ago, and I don’t remember the exact numbers but I’m sure that she had four or five children of her own. What I discovered that day was that she had taken in a similiar number of children from the community. I know that at least a couple of them faced physical and mental challenges. It’s a moment I’ll never forget.  As an American, I feel like I’m doing some good when I send money to a developing country to help a child in need. Yet here was a woman IN a developing country who took multiple children into her own home. She not only shared the space of her home but she shared the love, time and attention that otherwise would’ve gone to her own children. And this was for children that no one else wanted. Her home sorely needed a significant addition to house the children.

Next we walked a bit to where Christian lived. By now he was about 20 years old and lived on his own. I believe it was an aunt who left a small home to him. He’d been trying to communicate to me that there was a problem with the roof and that when it rained the water came down on him in his bed. So I came to see if I could help. It was a pretty standard old Haitian home replete with a rusted tin roof and baked mud walls…painted brightly blue and pink. The dimensions were perhaps 9’ by 25’. In general the house was very dilapidated. What I learned next amazed and dumbfounded me. He lived in a small room on the left side of the house perhaps 9’ x 6’. Through an interpreter I asked what about the rest of the house? He said a Haitian family lived there. I wondered if they paid him rent. The answer was a simple no.

Many people think that we go on mission trips to bring Jesus to someone else. I learned a long time ago Jesus is already there and I’ve encountered him in some of the poorest and most desperate places on our planet in a profound way. That afternoon I might as well have walked through Milot with Him.

As we walked back to the mission I knew that I could never forget what I’d seen and heard that afternoon. That evening I shared what I had experienced with our team of adults. Before the day ended we had a plan in place to make a difference for some beautiful Haitian people.

I returned that summer with a youth team. As I recall, the addition to Cleanta’s home was completed and a brand new home for Christian was well on its way. That was 30 years ago and that’s the same home that Christian  lives in today with his wife and children. But I’m getting ahead of myself…

When I returned in August I purchased my first home in Westmont. My father, always a generous man helped me with the down payment. I love the parallel and the symmetry of Christian and I moving into our new homes the same year…with some assistance.

In retrospect it’s hard to put a finger on exactly when it happened…but it was around this time that Christian stop calling me Pastor Paul or Jean Paul (long story)…and simply called me Papa Paul. Which is what he calls me to this day…

I returned home from my trip to Haiti in mid August 1981. And as I had done the previous three summers, I experienced the real culture shock… not entering into a world that is very foreign from my own…no instead, after weeks in a different world…I was returning to my home. And the shock would set in.

On more than one occasion I would return home and head to someplace like Butterfield Country Club for an all you can eat buffet on the first night back in “reality”. I can remember looking at Yorktown shopping center at night when I had returned home from Mexico…and I realized the shopping center was using far more electricity at night when it was closed, than the village I’d lived in for six weeks used all week.

The buzz of the trip from Haiti was now worn off. I was headed to school in Santa Cruz, California. I dreamed for years of studying Bible and theology and this was my opportunity. But as soon as I arrived, I was summoned back home because of the death of my mother‘s mom, Grandma Duffy.

Back in California I was finally settling in when I received a letter in the mail from Orphans, Inc.

The letter said that the ministry felt it was best to break up the orphanage. They believed it was better that Haitian children grew up in Haitian homes, not in an orphanage. However to do so they would need sponsors for the individual children to live with Haitian families that were willing to open their homes. They were asking me if I would be willing to sponsor one of the children from the orphanage. I was excited to put a check in the mail and say yes I wanted to sponsor one of these beautiful children.

Most of you probably already know where this story is headed. I was blown away when a couple weeks later I received a dossier with a photograph and the story of Christian LaVeaux, the Haitian boy I knew the best by far. At the time I was just amazed. Almost 40 years later I see the providence and the fingerprints of God all over it.

This would make a great ending to the story. That I had the opportunity to sponsor Christian and to help pay for the food, education and medical care for this young boy that I’d grown to love.

But what would happen after he graduated from school? He’s not just a dossier. I know him.

Christian did well in school and graduated. In 1989 I was in Haiti and went on a walk one day with someone who helped me to see Haiti more clearly.

Perhaps that was the day that I realized that there never would be “closure” with Christian…

Because we were becoming family…

I had just graduated from George Williams College. Our Air Florida flight had just landed in Port-au-Prince, Haiti. I remember it as if it were yesterday. I believe I brought up the rear for our team of 20 some students. As I approached the immigration desk I handed my passport to the Haitian agent. She looked me squarely in the eye…stamped my passport and with an unforgettable authority she said directly to me… “You will love our country.”

Game on.

We traveled to the north of Haiti to the small town of Milot. We worked with a ministry called Orphans, Inc. Later it would be known as Good Shepherd…or Mission Bon Bergér.

I’d been on three previous mission trips…to southern Mexico in the state of Oaxaca…to the Navajo reservation in New Mexico…and to a youth camp in Oregon. But to be honest, nothing to that point in my almost 22 years had prepared me for what I encountered in the Republic of Haiti.

The sights…smells…the abject poverty…and yet the joy and generosity of the people was overwhelming. I was far from the western suburbs of Chicago.

During our six week stay in the beautiful nation of Haiti we constructed a nutrition center that as far as I know continues to feed 500 children a day. Even at that point having just received my college diploma, this was the proudest achievement/contribution of my life.

Orphans, Inc. obviously ran an orphanage…and  school. We slept in the classrooms on the back of the property…the children lived in the main building in the front of the property. One of the boys who was about 11 years old would come out to the worksite each day as we worked on the nutrition center. He brought with him a styrofoam chest with essentially one ice cube and a dozen bottles of Coca-Cola which he sold for $.50 a bottle to benefit the orphanage. The lukewarm soda was a treat at lunchtime and as the days and weeks went by, the young lad became dear to me. His name was Christian LaVeaux. I wish I had the old profile photograph that I’d taken of him that summer, he looked like a young, handsome Patrick Ewing. He was a kind and gentle boy.

A month or so into our stay in Haiti we returned from the worksite one afternoon and Christian seemed very down. I tried to cheer him up which I thought I could do.…but I failed.

I found Eddie, one of our Haitian translators and explained to him that I was concerned about Christian. He was happy to take some time to reach out to the young boy. Afterward he came to me and simply explained…and I quote… “Sometimes the wind comes down from the mountain and you’re sad.” At the time the saying didn’t resonate as much with me as it does today.

I had just earned a bachelors of arts degree. I’m not an unintelligent person. But I write this today with the same raw emotion that I felt that day. That was the day that I learned what an orphan is.

Of course I could tell you what the definition of an orphan was. But that was the day that I realized that this young boy had no relatives that were in his corner. I had just finished 16 years in private schools because of the sacrifices of my mother and father. Who would be there for him when he was 21? Who would be there for him when it was time to get married? An orphanage only goes so far…

A couple of weeks later before the sun had risen our “cameo”…our transport vehicle arrived. It was crazy…and emotional as we hugged our Haitian friends goodbye in the early morning dark. We handed out clean socks and shirts…anything that we thought they could use. And then we loaded up and we headed over the mountains back to Port-au-Prince.

I was sitting up front and I had an experience I’ll never forget…seeing the sun rise over the Caribbean island of Hispaniola.  And I will always remember that the driver was listening to a Jethro Tull 8 track. The sights of that sunrise we’re like the creation of the world…sublime.

We would spend the day and that night in the Haitian capital of Port-au-Prince. The next day Air Florida would return us to Miami.

But this is only the beginning of the story of Christian…a young man who has profoundly changed my life.

summer will be over in less than two days…one last memory…for the third summer in a row i’ve traveled to Whitley City, Kentucky…in our nation’s poorest county…McCreary…we’ve done home repair and more for some families who were in need and who have now become our friends…most evenings we venture out to Dairy Bar…a slice of Americana for everything we “need” from root beer floats to fried pickles…our second evening there unfortunately 65 other people had the same idea at the same time…as i waited impatiently for my battered, deep fried vegetable…i began to realize who was ahead of me in line…65 teenagers laughing, flirting and making memories…they too were doing home repair…sleeping on a school floor…they were representing Jesus…they came from the violent west side of our beloved Chicago…to love on total strangers…before i knew it i was back in 1978…at the Sonic in Farmington, NM…i was the teenager in line for food i didn’t need…we’d come to build homes for Navajo orphans…one of the best choices i have ever made…it was life changing…no really…it changed my life…because of that trip i have attempted over 50 times to replicate it for students and adults…and those who need a helping hand…the last few nights at Dairy Bar i gladly waited and took time to get to know some of the beautiful students and their stories…our nation was embroiled in racial tension and hatred this summer…the west side has been torn by senseless killing…and yet these students…well they inspired me…i walked out of Dairy Bar more than one evening with a belly too full…a mist in my eyes…and hope in my heart for our troubled land…