A Vehicle

Dear Friends and Family, 

The last two years have been some of the most exciting times in my life.  I have been working full-time at a Maternity Center in Port au Prince, Haiti with Heartline Ministries.  The work is intense and rewarding and exactly why I went to Midwifery school.  I love what I get to do.

The last two years have flown by and I’ve come to know Haiti as home. I often get asked, “What is your time commitment? How long do you plan to stay in Haiti?”  I don’t know. I don’t have any definite answers to give. I don’t have a time commitment or an end date, because when you’re home, you don’t usually plan to leave.  I am not planning to leave. What I do know is that I couldn’t have dreamed up a better place to live and work. The mission of Heartline’s Maternity Center matches my heart and passion for women in the developing world and I’m honored to be a part of loving and caring for moms and babies in Haiti. 

Because I have put down roots in Haiti and consider this home there are a few things I need to stop procrastinating about. One of those things is purchasing a vehicle. A reliable vehicle is very important in Haiti. I have borrowed and shared and found ways to get around up until now, but at this point I need autonomy and independence of owning my own vehicle here in Haiti. 

The cost for a reliable vehicle, licensing, and insurance will be between $18,000-$20,000USD.

 I need to raise these funds to purchase a vehicle here.  

Will you help me purchase a vehicle?  

If you are able to give towards the purchase of a vehicle, you can click here to give online. Please note that your donation is for the vehicle fund. All gifts are tax deductible. 

You can also give by mailing a check and specifying your donation for Beth Johnson’s vehicle fund. Checks can be made out and mailed to: 

Heartline Ministries

PO Box 898 

Sunnyside, WA 98944

If you have any questions, feel free to email me at beth.johnson@heartlineministries.org 

Thank you for your love, prayers, and support!

Grace and peace, 

Beth Johnson 

Remembering

This time last year we were just coming up for air as the acute phase of the Chikungunya epidemic was starting to slow down in our area. Little did we know we'd have long-lasting pain and depression from living with chronic pain as a result. It took months before getting out of bed in the mornings wasn't a task I completely dreaded. The pain still pops up every now and then to remind me that we survived. A visit from Marven this week reminded me we did more than survive. With a little love, Jesus, and medicine we're thriving. 

It was so fun to see Marven and his sweet mom, Christella this week. Marven continues to grow and develop without any noticeable lasting effects of encephalopathy caused by Chikungunya. I'm thankful for his little life, health, and his committed momma. 

Marven, a few weeks post ChikV

Marven 6-24-15

a few thoughts on cultural differences

Sometimes cultural differences are so beyond our own paradigm that we think they’re absurd, dangerous, fascinating, amazing or just downright hilarious. I’m in a place right now where I’m trying to see cultural differences as just that…differences. I hope that I can stay open and humble enough to not always assume that my culture is the best or right culture. I’m not going to  lie; it’s not always easy, especially when it comes to pregnancy, birth, and medical practices. I can honestly say that no matter what other thoughts pop into my head about certain cultural practices, I’m always fascinated by the differences, though often I don’t fully understand them. 

Pregnancy and birth are events in life that we all view through the lenses of our own culture. Sometimes I wonder how something so common, something that is in and a part of every culture, can be so different.

We have a young, first-time mom here at the maternity center right now. She’s not actually in labor, so her stay has been a long one. When she came, a few days ago, she brought her

Yvonite's mom waiting to kick a dog

mother with her. Since there isn’t much happening on the labor front, I’ve had some time to get to know her mom. She fascinates me!  She’s what Haitians would call “moun andeyò” (a country person).  She’s 60 years old and gave birth to six children, at home.  (As a side note: a cultural difference, when asking a woman how many children she has had, it wouldn’t be rude to ask her how many of them are still living.) When Tara asked her, she said, “They are all living. It’s true.”  She seemed almost as amazed as we were. It’s really unusual for “moun andeyò” to have six living children who were all born at home. As sad as it is, that is a reality in a culture of poverty. 

After finding out Yvonite’s mother had six children, at home, in a Haiti village, I wanted to hear more details of her births. She had already informed us that it took almost six days of laboring before she gave birth to her first child. Last night, our nurse, Nirva and I were sitting on the front porch and as the sun was setting, she told us about the whole six days of labor. There wasn’t one detail of what she said that didn’t surprise me. I’m not going to tell her whole story here, because much of it was too shockingly disturbing for the cultural lens through which most of us view birth.  I did learn if labor is taking too long, perhaps a natural form of Pitocin can be made from a tea of little HOT peppers and ginger and given to the laboring mom to drink.  If that doesn’t work and labor is still progressing slowly after four days, it would be appropriate to gather all the women in the community, find a dog, give it a bath, and let each woman give it a good kick. Since her daughter (not actually in labor) seems to be taking her time, I’m thinking we may need to remove the dogs from the maternity center unless Grandma wants to get in trouble for kicking Heartline Mastiffs. 

At the end of last week, we had a mom who needed to be transported to a hospital up the mountain. She wasn’t in labor and the situation wasn’t emergent. It was dark by the time Beth M. and I started, slowly, up the winding mountain road. Beth and I were chatting and the mom was sitting in the back seat with her sister. All of the sudden I heard a sound like running water. I didn’t turn around to see exactly what was happening as I thought, “She must be peeing in one of the basins we keep in here for that very purpose.” Before the running water sound stopped, I had a second thought, “I didn’t see one of those basins when we got into the ambulance.”  I pulled out my flash flight, turned around, and shined the light on the floor. Sure enough, there was no basin. Just a river of urine on the floor. I said to Beth, “She just peed on the floor.”  To which she responded, in a shocked tone, “She peed on our floor?! What? Are you sure?”  I couldn’t help it…I burst out laughing. It was all very entertaining. It was so normal for her to pop a squat and pee on the ambulance floor like ya do in a place where there are very few toilets. I asked her to let us know if she needed to pee again and we’d stop for her. I said, “Sorry. Peeing on the car floor isn’t a system we’re used to.”  She smiled and I’m sure thought something along the lines of, only crazy Americans want to stop, in the dark, on these mountain roads to pee! 

I realize there are probably things in every culture that are wrong and things that are right. The more I’m exposed to the ins and outs of this culture, a culture I’ll never fully understand, the more I hope I can really see people for who they are and not for who they appear to be through the lens of their culture. 

Traveling to Pestel

Last week was busy, but who am I kidding? Most weeks feel busy here.  Last week felt extra busy as a few friends and I revamped the birth room between program days. Every night I went to bed praying we wouldn’t have a birth until the chaotic uproar of that room was put back in order. The prepared midwife side of me went to bed each night mentally checking off the last place I saw the pitocin, the ambu bag, and the chucks pads.

Sunday afternoon, in the middle of birth room messes, Beth M. asked if I would like to join her to travel to Pestel, a village in the south of Haiti. She was headed there to take a, now grown, adopted child there to meet her birth family. I looked around the room and thought, “There is no way I can leave with this room in such a mess.” As the afternoon went on and few more people came to help bring organization to the chaos, I decided maybe I needed to get out of Port-au-Prince and the birth room for the day.  

Early Monday morning, before the sunrise, a group of seven of us climbed into Beth’s truck and headed south. Beth M, Rosie (the adult adoptee), and I rode in the back of the truck. The still dark sky was filled with stars…stars always seem more abundant here with the lack of electricity and street lights. Riding through dark, empty, Port-au-Prince streets always feels a little eerie. During the day the streets are filled with too many cars, people everywhere- going places, selling things, washing cars, sweeping streets, etc. It seems impossible that all that activity ceases in the dark of night and the streets are empty.

We quickly made it out of the city, thanks to no traffic, but by the time we arrived in the next town, Haiti was awake.  The sun was up, markets were open, music was blaring and the road was blocked. Our detour, thanks to a bank robber and demonstrations, added about two hours onto our trip, but it didn’t so much matter as we took in the beauty outside of the city we are so accustomed to. We traveled over paved mountain roads until the mountain roads became unpaved, uneven and filled with red clay potholes.  We kept on until we arrived in what felt like, the middle of nowhere. Eight hours after leaving PAP, a few pop-a-squat pee breaks, and two detours later, we arrived at the village pastor’s house where Rosie’s family had gathered to meet her. 

The anticipation had been building as Rosie was anxious to meet her family. Her story is hers to tell, so I’ll leave out all the details. It was sweet to get to watch her connect with family she wasn’t even sure she had. Shortly after meeting her family, Rosie asked if the house she was born in, twenty-two years ago, was still standing. Her family said that it was and her brother and his wife had been living there. We were assured the house was only an hour walk up the mountain.  Beth M. and I both assumed that meant more like two hours, but everyone in our group was on board and excited to see where Rosie took her first breath. We started up the rocky, mountainous path and joked along the way that we’d have to take it slow for us Americans who aren’t used to such climbing. The Haitians laughed and agreed that we were indeed not experts at this climbing thing. About two hours into the hike…straight.up.the.mountain. we asked, “How much further?”  Their reply, “Just 30 more minutes.” We kept on for another hour, stopping to only to snap a few pictures and take in the beauty around us, a great disguise for taking a moment to catch our breath. As we started up an even steeper incline of mountain with more unsteady rocks, it started to look like it might rain, so again we asked, “How much further?”  Again their reply, “Just 30 more minutes.”  It was like the Haiti version of “are we there yet” that I endlessly bugged my parents with on long road trips between Texas and Illinois while growing up. At that point we decided it would be best to split up. Half us would continue on and half of us would head back down, hoping the half that headed back down the mountain would be able to find a road for the truck to meet those of us who continued on our way up the mountain.  We said goodbye, hoped nobody got rained on, and went our separate ways. Because it looked like rain, those of us who decided to go up the mountain speed climbed up, up, up for another hour before FINALLY arriving at the house where Rosie was born. It was a simple little hut, with a tin roof, red clay-stained rock walls, and a dirt floor. We were far beyond any place that had running water or electricity.  

As I stood in the middle of this little house, in the room where Rosie’s mother had given birth to her along with five other siblings, I was in awe of Rosie’s story, amazed that she was getting to put the pieces of the beginning of her life together, and struck by the strength of the Haitian people. I felt like we midwives usually do…honored to be watching stories unfold and witnessing the strength of the people we are with.  

We didn’t stay in the village where Rosie was born for long because it still looked like it would pour rain at any point. Someone said we should hurry because they could smell rain and I kept thinking there was no way me and my birkenstock sandals were getting back down that mountain if it was raining. The rocks were giant and I almost face planted 50 times. Every time my foot would slip, the guy behind me would remind me, “we are in hurry. This is meant to say you must go slow or we will not be getting back down the mountain.”  Yes, thank you. I just didn’t verbally need to be reminded 50 times that climbing or descending a mountain in birkenstocks was not exactly what I had planned for the day. My bleeding feet were a sure reminder, but regardless I was high with the joy and amazement of our little adventure.  We hurried half way down the mountain where we were met by the other half of our group and the truck! We piled in and head back to the village pastor’s house. It was almost dark by the time we arrived and it was decided we should stay there for the night instead of driving 6-ish hours in the dark. 

The village pastor and his wife graciously fed us dinner and gave us a bed in a small concrete room with a tin roof. We could just imagine our Port-au-Prince peers laughing at the Haiti adventures we were experiencing as we made the short trek through the trees to the outhouse, and shined the flashlight in to make sure there were no tarantulas hiding before entering. As Beth and I pulled back the covers on our bed and climbed in, she said, “We forgot to check for bugs.” In one swift movement we threw back the covers and shined the flashlight to check for any other living thing to trying to share a bed with us. There was lots of laughter all around as we were all aware of how ridiculous the comforts of our own lives seemed in the poverty of this rural place.  

There’s an element of simplicity, peace, and minimalist living that rural Haiti seems to show off for visitors, but there are so many things that feel complicated for the people who live there. There is very little access to schools, no access to running water, electricity, jobs, or healthcare. The people of rural Haiti show their strength in their day to day lives. Having access to life’s basics like a place to sleep, water to drink, and food to eat seem to consume all their time. These people work hard for what they have. They are strong and they are relentless. It’s that midwife thing again…I’m just here and I feel so honored to get a view into their lives…different, hard, filled with superstition, pain, and imperfection. For all that feels sad and hopeless here at times, there is still beauty and I loved drinking it in this week. 

Systemless Systems and Laughing For Longevity

In the back of my mind I'm resolved to be better at giving you little glimpses into life here.

For me, living here is a strange sort of normal.  When I moved here over a year ago there weren't many things in my day to day life that felt like major adjustments. There were a few small things that took some getting used to, like using three different energy sources for electricity, not having the ability to jump in a car and go somewhere when I needed to, and not speaking the same language.  They were all small adjustments, but typical ones you make when moving to most third world countries. They were all adjustments I made and feel fairly comfortable with these days.  I haven't written much, partly because much of what I do feels normal to me and the day-to-day life feels like it could be boring to readers.  I've been encourage to write regardless of how I feel my life looks to the outside world.  Here it goes...let's see if I can do better this year.

Over the past year I've been working to be a legal resident of Haiti. I finally got all my papers this summer before I spent a few weeks in America. The next step was getting a Haitian driver's license. I submitted my paperwork a few months ago to start the process. I tend to be a procrastinator when it comes to these things...all the rigamarole and the unknown procedures and systems here confuse me greatly.  On Monday, all my paperwork was done and all I had left to do was go downtown and get my picture taken for the license.  Beth M, Jimmy- a teacher here, and I left our little neighborhood at 9am for a 10am meeting time with guy who helps us process all our paperwork.  

From our place in Clercine to Downtown Port-au-Prince is about 5miles.  Traffic in Haiti is a crapshoot.  You may encounter very little traffic or you may sit in a “blokis” (traffic jam) for hours on end.  We finally arrived at the old US Consulate and what is now Haiti’s version of a DMV, near what (pre earthquake) used to be the National Palace. A lot of has-beens…and that’s indeed what this building was.  

There was a line of people standing outside…we were pushed through a door and squeezed through small hallways of people into a large room at the back of the building.  The room had rows of metal chairs and was filled to almost double what the “max capacity of 60” sign noted was safe for this room. There wasn’t much sitting room, but it is very cultural to think there’s always room for one more. Beth and I squeezed our bums into a row of chairs. We both looked around the room and noted there were only three other women besides us in the whole room. Haitian women driving is definitely a newer thing. Hats off to the brave women who do it! 

Beth and I spent almost an hour chatting…her reminiscing about processing adoption paperwork and applying for US visas in the very room we were sitting in while I tried to imagine US citizens accepting this building as a place of government. The walls were painted, long ago it would seem, sky blue.  Dirt smudges abounded and the drop ceiling in the room was a piece of work. We finally realized this ‘line’ of people ahead of us was going nowhere.  Beth laughed like you do when you’ve been here for 25 years and accepted that any number of things could be keeping this line from moving. She noted that it was probably a computer down and shortly after we were told that was indeed the case. We decided to wait another hour and see if the line was moving before deciding to make our 5 mile, 1.5 hour trip downtown unsuccessful and come back another day.  

Thankfully within a few minutes the line started to move and we began the game of musical chairs. I think, though I’m not entirely sure, it is very cultural to sit.your.booty.down. if there is a chair to be had. As the line moved the 100+ people closer to getting their license picture taken, we literally changed bum locations 15 times. It felt something like this:

 Move one row back, one row to the left, and two chairs to the right. Stand up, touch your toes, submit your paper to the lady at the desk, do a confused dance while you decided how this chair changing system works and sit down. Now move three chairs to the right, two rows forward and one row the right. Sit for 3.5 seconds. Now stand in a line of 40 people and wait for your picture to be taken. 

At one point I thought, “Aha! I understand this pattern of moving people.” There was one, unofficial, guy in the room telling everyone where to sit. I studied him while trying to figure out the system and finally gave up because there was just no pattern.  Sometimes getting logistical things done here feels like a systemless system. Oh how there are systems, but I do not understand them. 

Listening to Beth call her husband, John, and tell him the process was taking us so long because of the blokis and a computer system being down was a good reminder. Her joy in telling him and the laughter that reverberated over the phone reminded me that longevity in a place you don’t really understand takes a lot of laughing sometimes.  

In the end, we got our license pictures taken. It’s amazing to me that what I see as the systemless system will actually produce a little card that looks like a license in the, supposedly, near future.  Now…we wait. 

Haiti traffic blokis

Enlarging Borders

Remember several years back when The Prayer of Jabez was all the range amongst Christians?  Everyone was doing the christianese thing: buying the book, jumping in, and maybe a little hesitantly praying the prayer.  

“Oh Lord that you would bless me and enlarge my borders…”  

Praying that prayer felt a little bit like singing 'Oceans' for the first time…”Spirit lead me where my trust is without borders. Let me walk upon the water, wherever you may call me.  Take me deeper than my feet could ever wonder…”

Let’s be honest. Those are just downright scary things to say.  Most of the time I think enlarging my borders sounds overwhelming, demanding, and stretching.  If I’m honest, I don’t like change and enlarging borders is usually a whole lot of change.  If enlarging borders means adding new people and new relationships, I tend to think more emotional energy and time will be required of me.  If enlarging my borders looks like adding a task or an event, I usually give a deep inner sigh and dread it for a while before embracing it and moving on.  I know having my borders enlarged isn’t all bad, all scary, or all overwhelming...it just takes me time to accept, adjust, and embrace the change the comes with border expansion.  Often after adjusting and embracing the new border, I realize how ridiculous it was to be so hesitant and full of sighs in the first place.

~   ~   ~

We’ve been enlarging our borders a little at the Maternity Center lately.  With the help of another missionary in PAP (Port au Prince), we’ve been able to establish a relationship with a government maternity hospital.  They’ve graciously allowed us to come in on Wednesday mornings to teach the women in their postpartum ward about breastfeeding. I’ll just say this…I do not have very many positive experiences with any third world medical system. Being somewhat on the ‘inside’ of that system scares the crap out of me.  It’s usually a system where I’m hated and a system I usually find very unjust, among many other things. 

~   ~   ~

 Breastfeeding is, unfortunately, not the norm here.  There are a lot of cultural beliefs that hinder successful breastfeeding.  In a country where milk is expensive and potable water sources are lacking, exclusive breastfeeding can often be the difference between life and death for babies. At Heartline Maternity Center, we are passionate about teaching our women to breastfeed exclusively and successfully. We are intentional about educating, encouraging and helping them in this. Women who give birth in hospitals are often told little bits of information here and there, but the medical system here isn’t one of education and support. 

~   ~   ~

We’ve only been at this lactation support thing at this government hospital for three weeks now.  The first week felt scary, intimidating and overwhelming.  It’s kind of a big deal to, tactfully of course, give someone a lot of information that is exactly opposite of what their culture believes is true, followed by asking them if you can grab their boob and their baby to help them get this show on the road. The second week was slightly more familiar, but the teaching still felt awkward and useless.  Being culturally appropriate requires greeting and making conversation with each woman in the room. A power point and a lot of information didn’t seem like it was making any headway.  One of our Tete Club members, April, is a great guitar player and suggested we write a song with all the teaching facts we wanted the ladies to know.

So, yesterday afternoon we sat down to write a song about breastmilk and colostrum and what transpired was totally fun!  All the main points we wanted to teach were incorporated into a fun tune with some amazing vocals! 

Today, we had breakthrough! We tried our song out this morning and it was a hit! Most of the hospital was singing along while the postpartum ward was filled with dancing nurses, doctors, and midwifery students. It’s a catchy enough tune that the lyrics get stuck in your head!  I’m sitting in Miami airport and I keep catching myself singing, “Kite bebe souse l.” (Keep the baby sucking.) Whoever thought songs of boobs and milk would be so catchy?!?

~   ~   ~

We asked one of our sweet Momma's, Mica, from the Maternity Center to join us too. Mica went through our program this past year and found her way to the Maternity Center when she found out she was pregnant as a result of rape.  This momma was forced to step down from her position as worship leader at her church after becoming pregnant. She struggled during her pregnancy and questioned her ability to truly love her baby based on her circumstances. Her sweet boy was born sometime last April and she has become an amazing mother who truly loves her little man. She has also been leading worship for child development on Tuesdays at the Maternity Center and it has been such a sweet picture of redemption and healing. Mica will graduate from the program in October and we’ve been doing some early grieving over her departure.

Seeing how this 'border enlargement' has unfolded has me now rolling my eyes at the initial hesitation I had.  I’m thankful to have team members who say things like, “This is uncomfortable, intimidating and scary, but let’s just do it. We’ll do different things and figure out what works.”  They are right. Having my borders enlarged isn’t usually a place of great comfort, but it is a place where God can do some awesome things. I’m glad He still moves and works in spite of my hesitation and resistance. We love that we are able to involve this momma from our program as well. Her story is one of redemption, and through redemption, her borders are being expanded to love and care for other new moms. 

I’m sure I’ll have endless opportunities to work on my response to border enlargement in the future. Praying the prayer of Jabez and singing ‘Oceans’ isn’t going to become any less weighted and I’ll still struggle with border enlargement from time to time, but for Wednesday’s lactation support group (or whatever it is we are called), I’m embracing it. 

Song writing 

SoIL

Endless, winding, two-lane roads lined with corn and soy bean fields are my scenery as I pull into the driveway.  The quaint farmhouse with a red door and white picket fence are my sign that I've arrived to the arms, the many arms, of my family.  There are many of us...seven girls and five boys to be exact.  We don't all live in this cute little house anymore.  Actually, I've never lived here. My parents moved in after I moved away six years ago. There are only six of the twelve Johnson children still living at home.  Six still sounds like a lot kids to most people, but it feels like so few to those of us who are oblivious to the normal chaos of life with so many people under the same roof.

I always enjoy coming back here...the pace of life is slower even with such a large family, believe it or not.  There are exactly two stoplights, two decent restaurants, and a Walmart in the closest town with a population of 5,500. Life is much more laid back here. I look out the window and see miles of cornfields instead of miles of subdivisions (Texas) or seas of people and mounds of trash. All that green is breathtaking and the stars at night are big and bright deep in the heart of...SoIL.

As much as I love it here, I usually feel a little out of place. Everyone has a routine and my routine is nonexistent here.  The slow pace of life eventually catches up with me and I realize I'm terrible at doing nothing. I try to tell myself to just be still and soak up this time of rest where nothing else needs my attention. It works for a few days before I start to feel a little stir crazy, so in the midst of my stir crazy, nonexistent routine of rest, I end up having conversations about life with six and eight year olds that go something like this...

Abraham, 8 years old: "Bethany, why aren't you married yet? Are you ever going to get married?"
Of course he can't wrap his little mind around why I'm not married. All of my younger siblings 17 years old or older are either married or soon to be married. Two of them even have babies.

Me: "It's just not time for me to be married yet and I'm happy with that.  Why do you think I wouldn't get married someday?"

Abraham:  "Because you're too old."

I can't help but chuckle. I am old in his little world.

Hadassah, 6 years old, adds: "I don't think you'll get married because people don't like your job."

I laugh again. She's probably right. Goodness, I don't know if I'd want to marry someone who has my crazy midwife lifestyle.  I love hearing their thoughts on life.  They are pure and there's no chance that they'll withhold their opinion for fear of offending me.  I'm certainly not easily offended, nor am I desperately desiring to get married and start a family.  Their honest words are more comical to me than anything. Their sweet little voices and view of life on the porch swing that cool rainy evening make me grateful for this little time of nonexistent routine.