Discipleship

A disciple is someone who learns. An apostle is one who is sent. These two words are used interchangeably when we speak of Jesus’ reign on earth—Jesus chose and sent out his Twelve to do His work. Passionist Volunteers International chose and sent me and my community mates out to be disciples of sorts—to try to do God’s work in whatever ways we can. However, the best example of discipleship in Jamaica comes in the faith that I witness on Sundays.

My Sundays begin at 8:30 in the morning at Immaculate Conception Church; it is like any mass that one might encounter in the United States. It is a well-attended mass in a big, pretty church, there’s a very gifted choir accompanied by guitars and an organ, and people donate generously to the collection basket. But my easy, American-style Sundays at ICC end at around 10:30 when we take off to the missions.

Mass out in Mount Friendship is rustic: there is no electricity or plumbing in the church, and often, it’s is merely a communion service because they only see a priest once per month. But somehow, services there place me directly in the presence of God.

I walk in and I greet the twenty to thirty people who have gathered in their Sunday best. The church must be swept, there is a cloth to be spread on the altar, there are hymn numbers to be scribbled on a piece of slate, and there are candles to be lit. I sit on the left, and soon, a cluster of beautiful children have gathered around me. I am the unofficial “kids section,” and I love that they scramble to sit by me and to share my hymnal. Many of these children come alone—their earnest faith inspires me.

Here, there are no instruments, let alone a formal choir. Instead, the sounds of Jamaican Christian choruses fill the building. The prayer of the faithful response of “Hear us, O Lord,” is always spoken passionately. The collection basket is a plastic flower pot, and people offer whatever Jamaican currency they are able to give. The pot fills slowly with shiny ten-dollar coins and creased fifty-dollar bills.

After mass, no one hurries away. People recline in the pews; they’ve walked miles to be here, they might as well stay awhile. And the children remind me of my work here: “Miss, you keeping the Sunday School, miss?”

Sunday School is always bustling. My tiny pupils scurry into the back room where we read a story about Jesus’ love for us and then head out to play little games in the church yard. This past week, we made Disciple Puppets. My students became Thaddeus, James, Simon, and Judas. They jostled to show off their work, they held their little crayon-colored pictures taped to cardboard high in the air as we talked about how we can become Jesus’ disciples in the here and now. Their answers were pure: Obey God. Visit sick people. Share my food with my friend. Love each other.

It brought me to tears.

I came to Jamaica to be an apostle. I wanted to “take nothing for the journey;” and I wanted to “take up the cross.” I’ve been sent, and I’m learning. But my people out in Mount Friendship are the true disciples; they have shown me what it means to follow God. Their natural faith is what gets them to church and allows them to sing loudly and prayerfully.

The simple nature of the mass on the mountain reminds me of something crucial: God is here. He is the warm church filled with people who struggle over hills and through gullies to be there, He is the heartfelt singing that resounds in the air, and He is the weight of a toddler on my lap.

So, thanks, Mount Friendship. Thanks for teaching me my Sunday School lesson. Like I said, I’ve been sent, and I’m learning. Boy, am I learning.

Skim milk, one Splenda?

My funny, smart, and quirky roommate Nicole introduced me to one of her interesting habit during our senior year in college. She saw the fiscal world in terms of coffee—if she were to pay an electric bill, she might comment that the bill was worth thirteen coffees. A clearer explanation is as followed: 2 dollars roughly equals 1 medium coffee from LaSalle Bakery in Providence, RI. Nicole and I, along with many of our friends, consumed mass amounts of coffee during our tenure as students at Providence College. It was our comfort and our pick-me-up, and we always looked forward to treating ourselves to a cup.

Coffee is everywhere in Jamaica, but in a far different sense than in Rhode Island, where coffee shops appear every quarter mile. No, it is the coffee plant that is omnipresent here, particularly in Mount Friendship, the community where I now work as a volunteer (for 50 coffees per month).


There are many small coffee farmers in Mount Friendship, but I have grown particularly close to one. Jerome is a reflective man who thinks deeply about a host of topics, including Jamaican sports, violence, corruption, and the availability of water for the poor. When he heard about my passion for coffee, he was eager to fill me in on the coffee trade in Jamaica. And I was eager to learn.

As we walked through his small grove, Jerome pausing periodically to pull a slug off of a tree, I learned interesting facts about growing coffee. The coffee bean grows in a soft, fruit-like casing, and a farmer will know when it is ripe when this berry-like bean turns from green to bright red. I learned that when a tree makes more beans than it can sustain, some beans will turn black. I learned that a tree bears the best beans at two years’ maturity. Jerome also proudly mentioned that he would never sell a bean that had already fallen to the ground; this bean could have rotted, and he would not risk his reputation.


Coffee bean buyers come to some of the most rural and poorest communities in Jamaica to buy their harvests. Once these buyers purchase the beans, they will be taken to factories to be pulped (taken out of the casing), laid out in the sun to dry, and then roasted and ground.

Procedures vary, but usually a farmer will take away one payment during the transaction with the buyer and will receive a final payment several months later. The boxes that farmers must fill to the brim are enormous, and most farmers will only take away three thousand Jamaican dollars (roughly forty U.S. dollars) for one box.

Coffee farming is a tricky business. Farmers often lead a hand-to-mouth existence; many families have sadly explained to me that they go without medication, school books, or food until the time of the coffee harvest. Also, these farmers frequently run the risk of being duped by corrupt bean buyers. “It a bad business a bad men,” Jerome warned me once in a thick Patois accent. The health of the plants also depends upon a vigilant, experienced eye and a temperate growing season. Tropical Storm Gustav recently wiped out many farmers’ coffee harvests.

My dear friend Nicole was the first one that taught me how to view the world in terms of coffee, but she isn’t the last. Jerome is one of many farmers throughout the world who measure their lives in pounds of coffee. I once watched my gentle friend lovingly examine one of his coffee plants and I realized just how much coffee means to him. Coffee used to get me through my 8:30 philosophy class, but coffee provides Jerome and his wife with food and with medication for their hypertension and diabetes.

Blue Mountain Coffee, or a nameless blend of coffee from the foothills and the mountains, sells for exorbitant prices abroad, but the farmers are paid a pittance. I do not know how to make Jerome’s farming lifestyle easier, but I can remember the work of the coffee farmers throughout the developing world as I enjoy my morning java.

Mr. Gustav

I know very little about hurricanes. I weathered a few in New England and I saw the remnants of Katrina’s devastation in Biloxi. I was wholly unaccustomed, however, to the hurricane fever that sweeps through the Caribbean from August to November.

Hurricane Gustav, or Mr. Gustav, as the Jamaicans liked to call him, blazed through the Caribbean and then continued on his path of destruction into the Gulf Coast from August 26th until August 31st.

Mr. Gustav took 11 lives in Jamaica, and displaced 4,000, but I barely noticed him at the time. My roommates and I evacuated to the home of our friend Rosie’s. Rosie is a hurricane guru who has taken pity on the volunteers and our window-filled home for as long as PVI has been in existence. We were well-fed, safe, and dry, and only ventured out of Rosie’s home during the calm moments to bring in extra water from her pool.

On my first post-Gustav run, I noticed a few landslides and downed branches. The tall grasses that line my favorite path had been only temporarily beaten down by wind and rain. Immaculate Conception Church in Stony Hill had stayed dry and snug. The biggest problem our own home faced was the half-inch of water that covered our kitchen floor

It was not until Sunday when Father Gaston and I headed out for mass in my mission, Mount Friendship, that I realized exactly what Mr. Gustav had been up to. Father’s standard-shift, four-wheel-drive truck struggled over the piles of dirt and rocks on Junction Road, but it was the sight of one of the mountains that took my breath away. Completely stripped of its usual vegetation, the mountainside was now a tangle of mud and rocks.

As we drove deeper into rural Jamaica, the landslides were more frequent, the downed branches more numerous. We had just reached Mount Friendship when the already treacherous road became impassable. Reluctantly realizing that the truck was not going to get us—or the food bags in the truck bed—any further, we climbed out and walked the rest of the way, Fr. Gaston lifting the hem of his Passionist habit high above the rubble.

Mass was smaller than usual and the floor was covered by a layer of muddy water, but a small crowd still assembled to praise God for His greatness. People were rapturous; they spoke of Gilbert and Ivan and Dean, of losing much more with previous hurricanes. In 2004, Ivan killed 23 in Jamaica. Last year, Jamaicans saw wind speeds of 145 miles per hour with Hurricane Dean. Gustav wasn’t getting them down this year. Mr. Brooks, an 85-year-old renegade bush farmer, arrived wearier than usual and without his standard Sunday tie, but bearing the grapefruits and mangoes that he had managed to salvage. He handed them out to the parishioners, eager to feed his friends in the wake of the storm.

On our way back to the abandoned truck, Fr. Gaston and I saw that the men of Mount Friendship had appeared, machetes in hand, to chop away the fallen trees, garbage, and bushes that had obscured the road. They too were in high spirits, directing me to the sturdiest stones and joking with Fr. Gaston.

The people in the missions are still without water in their communal taps, and much of the island is still without electricity. Some have lost roofs. Others, living in gullies, have homes that have been completely flooded. Others have had their homes battered, their crops of coffee or bananas "mashed up." But what we have to realize is that this is a blip on the radar for Jamaicans. Mr. Gustav wasn’t a hurricane when he hit; he was a tropical storm, and they’ve weathered much worse. They’ve spent the past week picking up the pieces, putting their homes back together, and clearing away the countless landslides.

My next fear was for my own countrymen—we receive little bits and pieces of American news here. I was able to eek out some information, and from what I was able to glean, the people of New Orleans and the Gulf Coast needed prayers as much as the people of the Caymen Islands, Jamaica, Haiti, and the Dominican Republic.

I still know very little about hurricanes; Rosie is quick to tell people how the volunteers slept through the worst of Gustav. However, I am beginning to learn of the resiliency and courage of the human nature, particularly in the developing world. We humans pick up the hem of our clothing and tramp through the rubble, for it’s all that we can do. We have nothing else to do but be grateful for what we have, even if it is only a few tired mangos and a bruised grapefruit.

Sorry, Gustav. As my friends in the missions say, “Mr. Gustav? He not trouble me too much, mon. We okay.”

Praise be.

We all love the Olympics—we love raw talent and there’s just something about hearing your national anthem played as a gold medal is hung around one of your own. One of Jamaica’s newspapers, The Daily Observer, reported that more than two billion people around the world watched the opening ceremonies alone.

But the Olympics are more than evening entertainment here in Jamaica. Televisions in corner shops and homes are on constantly in order to follow the athletic achievements of countrymen. Location matters little—from Kingston to Negril, everyone watches with bated breath. Pride and patriotism, always present in Jamaica, have exploded to epic proportions during this Olympic season.

This past month, I was at the home of a parishioner to collect food bags that needed to be moved down to the church when I realized just what the Olympics mean to Jamaica. Mrs. Hylton was directing me as I dragged the rice sacks full of food down the hallway when one of her helpers, Celine, started shouting.

“Praise be! Praise be to Jesus! He’s done it!” Celine yelled loudly as she danced around the television set in Mrs. Hylton’s living room.

I pushed my hair out of my face, stopped struggling with the food bags, and headed towards the TV. “What’s up, Celine?” I asked.

Celine made the sign of the cross and wiped away a few tears. “Usain Bolt won the gold medal!” She grinned widely as she pointed at the TV. “Praise Jesus!” I looked, and saw a man clad in the blinding yellow and green Jamaican uniform perform some Jamaican dance moves before the crowd in Beijing. Bolt was so far away, but his victory was precious to those at home.

For weeks, Jamaicans speculated about the chances of a gold medal for their country in the 100 meter men’s sprint. They had pinned their hopes on two worthy candidates: Usain Bolt and Asafa Powell. Tyson Gay of the United States and Great Britain’s Tyrone Edgar were also eyed as being contenders in preliminary heats. But on August 16, 2008, Bolt broke a personal record, a world record, and scored Jamaica’s first gold medal in sprinting.

“We’re a little country, but we’re good!” Celine roared. “Thank you, Lord, for this victory! Praise Jesus! We’ve got a gold medal!!”

“Congratulations, Celine,” I said as I hugged her. “It’s a good day for Jamaica.”

“Yes!” she answered. “It’s a very good day for Jamaica! Oh, I’m just so excited! Praise be!”

I finished moving the sacks into the PVI van, waved goodbye to Mrs. Hylton, and drove up the winding dirt road to the church. My workday continued, but I couldn’t get the image of Celine dancing around the home of her employer, thrilled at this victory. Later on, I found out that there had been dancing and celebrations in the streets of Kingston and Montego Bay as well. People in the States may get excited when Phelps wins his eighth gold or when the women’s beach volleyball team scores a medal, but they don’t yell their thanks to God or riot in the streets. In Jamaica, where the citizens face poverty, violence, inflation, unemployment, and boredom on a daily basis, this is a big deal, mon.

As the sprinting competitions continued, Jamaica went on to win more medals. Each time, people danced in the streets, honked their horns, draped flags over their shops and busses, banged pots and pans, and praised God. Many of these athletes emerge from shantytowns and one-room board houses—they live in the same conditions as the rest of the country. Athletes like this provide hope in the face of unbeatable odds. If a tiny island mired in poverty can beat out countries 50 times its size, does that not speaks volumes about the spirit of the people? Does it not tell us something about the atmosphere of perseverance and tenacity that is present here?

I was not able to catch the medal ceremonies; as volunteers, our schedules are unpredictable and our access to television is unreliable. However, part of me desperately yearned to see the runners bow their heads as the medals were hung around their necks. I would have loved to listen as Jamaicans sang along to the chorus of their national anthem: “Jamaica! Jamaica, land we love!”

I am not Jamaican. I am a United States citizen, and I would have celebrated had Tyson Gay won that 100 meter sprint. And yet, I rejoice that this little country—my temporary home—can enjoy a sense of national pride and achievement. The medal count currently stands at 11, and I am so happy that I was able to be present for this country’s numerous victories. Congratulations, Jamaica. Praise be.

Woof

I have a complex relationship with dogs.

If you did a double take upon reading that statement, you’re not alone. A few days ago, I boldly said that statement aloud during a car ride with my community mates. They looked at me as if I were crazy. Maybe I am.

But, I do have a very special relationship with Jamaican dogs.

I have never been a huge dog person. The PVI community was split into two camps during Pittsburgh orientation: those who wanted a dog, and those who did not. Due to concerns about fleas and worms, I was an ardent proponent of the anti-dirty-dog-in-my-home movement.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I like puppies, (who doesn’t?) and I like clean dogs that don’t jump and don’t bite. I like Dave’s dog, Hunter. I loved my cousin’s dog, Bo. I adore Nicole’s dog, Geno. But, those dogs don’t seem to exist here. Rather, there are two types of dogs in Jamaica: ferocious guard dogs and pathetic strays.

Dog etiquette in Jamaica is as followed:
Be nice to ferocious guard dogs and maybe they will leave you alone
Carry rocks or pretend to throw a rock at the strays and they will inevitably run for their lives

During my first few days here, I tended to behave in the following manner regarding the canines:
Avoid them at all costs
Scream and put my hands out in a plea for mercy (which, actually, has worked fairly well thus far)

And then I met Mamadog. There are two dogs stray dogs that hang out at Stony Hill Hotel: Pupalups and Mamadog. Pupalups is pathetic, but, for reasons beyond my understanding, is beloved by the staff at the hotel. Mamadog is also pathetic, but is despised by hotel staff. (Side note: Pupalups and Mamadog are in a relationship, one I consider to be highly unhealthy.)

Mamadog has two activities: she roams the street, hanging out with other strays and picking at garbage or she haunts our apartment, begging for food and attention while wheezing desperately. At first, I despised her filth and her fleas, but then something happened.

The wheezing got to me. “Poor Mamadog,” I started to think, “she’s sick, and no one likes her.” I splashed a bit of water from my Nalgene on the pavement one day and watched her lap it up gratefully.

The next time she wheezed, I decided that she deserved to be treated with some dignity and got one of our dishes and poured water into it, much to the chagrin of my community mates. Mamadog drank that right up, and she even smiled at me this time.

Before I knew it, I was giving her food scraps and Jamaican biscuits on the sly, although some of the staff at the hotel told me not to give food to that “mangy brown stray.” I told her to keep my actions to herself. “Mamadog,” I told her, “I don’t want us to get into trouble.” She fully understood, and behaved accordingly.

I started asking her if she had been a good girl while I was gone during the day. Who was I becoming?

It got worse—I snapped a few pictures. I was turning into one of those creepy people who send out Christmas card pictures that feature only their dogs.

Then, I told her that she was better than Pupalups and she should empower herself and realize that she doesn’t need a man to validate her existence.

See what I mean about having a complex relationship with Jamaican dogs?

Being in Jamaica has cured me of my dislike of the canine species. We people are not so far removed from dogs. Sometimes, we are the ferocious guard dogs that protect ourselves and those we love at all costs. Sometimes, though, we are the pathetic strays begging for love.

Mamadog, in her own filthy, fleabag way, reminded me that every living creature deserves love and attention, particularly if they are desperate enough to beg for it. Somewhere along the line, however, I stopped trying to have philosophical discussions on the nature of healthy romantic relationships with a dog.

But, I haven’t stopped giving Mamadog water and food behind the backs of hotel staff and spending some quality time with her each day. Mamadog isn’t a puppy, she isn’t clean, and she’s certainly no Geno, but I’ve moved past that now. She’s just another creature in this world that needs some love. I came to Jamaica to accompany the poor and to develop relationships with those in a different culture. Who is to say that one cannot do that with a dog?

So, Mamadog, this one is for you.

God is constantly showing me new things and making me think differently here. Today, I spent a considerable amount of time on the telephone with my mother. Making a call for either one of us is never easy: access codes, menus, pin numbers, and area codes need to be hurdled before the phone number itself can be dialed. My phone credit expired, and she had to call me back. Talking to her was wonderful, but I was frustrated with inefficiency, the way I have been numerous times here. I hate phone credit!!!!

But then I encountered Frank, the handyman here at the hotel. Frank has been immeasurably kind to us: he cleans dog messes off our doorway, does various repairs, sweeps the stairways, and always goes above the call of duty for us, whether it be giving us the choicest avocados or carrying my 58-pound suitcase down 50 stairs for me on his bony frame--in the pouring Jamaica rain!

Soon after I had finished my phone call, Frank pulled me aside and held out an ancient cell phone and two Digicel phone cards. (Digicel is the service provider on the island: you buy a prepaid card and enter it into your phone so that you have credit stored to make calls.) He asked me if I knew how to put credit onto a phone. I spent some time sitting with Frank, teaching him the complicated process of codes, voucher numbers, and access codes. Realizing his difficulties at understanding numbers, I made up a few fun names for the symbols and then made a color-coded chart with the phone symbols so that he would be able to check his balance in the future.

“You good, man” he said to me. He commented that I knew how to read, that I knew my numbers, that I could write and draw quickly, and that I knew how to drive. He struggled to find the words to explain his amazement, and then laughed. “You got the training when you were small, man?”

Yes, Frank. Like the rest of my American community mates, I have had a life of unbelievable privilege. I was given not only basic training in numbers and letters, but I was granted four years at one of the better colleges in the Southern New England area. Making a phone call in Jamaica is an inconvenience, not a confusing obstacle course of letters, numbers, and symbols that make no sense to me. I asked Frank how long he had had the phone:

"Six, maybe seven month."
"Seven months with a phone, Frank, and you're just putting credit on now?"
"Yeah, man."

Six or seven months with a cell phone, but with no means to make the phone call. He was profusely grateful, and kept telling me how good I was. I’m not good, Frank. I’m just the recipient of the benefits of the developed world. Frank is the good one. Frank has been a good friend and has done everything to make sure we are happy, safe, and comfortable.

I’m not sure why Frank asked me to help him today. Maybe it’s because he always sees on my morning run and we chat, maybe its because he saw me effectively making and receiving phone calls to my family today, or maybe it's just because I'm American and he figured I'd know how to do it. I was thrilled to be able to spend some time with this man. He does so much for us, and to be able to share my basic technical knowledge of cell phones is a joy. I’m not sure who he will call, but my meager few weeks here have shown me just how precious communication is.

I am grateful to have Frank as a friend. And, I am grateful to Frank for reminding me just how easy I have it next to the rest of Jamaica...and for challenging one of my concepts of reality.

That is how it is in Jamaica: small interactions rock my world and my definition of life. The triggers are not earth shattering; they are not announced with cymbals and thunderstorms. It is my evolving thought process that is earth shattering. I look forward to some more challenges to the way I view the world.

Right and Wrong?

Barbara Kingsolver, in her novel The Poisonwood Bible, stated that “everything you’re sure is right can be wrong in another place.” Conversely, I’ve discovered that some things that I’ve been sure is wrong can be perfectly right in another place; namely, Jamaica.

I arrived in this magical, mystical land of extremes on Friday, July 18th, 2008, and everything I have ever known to be right or wrong was immediately challenged.

Driving on the “right” side of the road now means that we must drive on the left. And at first, driving seemed wrong, all wrong. Drivers swerve in and out of traffi and honk when they turn corners, pass you, or say hello. But maybe they’re the ones who have got it right. They’ve got places to be, man, and the swerving isn’t a side effect of the Red Stripe at lunch; it’s to avoid the potholes that are everywhere.

After working at camp and in schools for years, I thought I had an idea of the “right” way to interact with children. But I was wrong, all wrong. In America, affection is expressed by a pat on the back. In America, it is wrong for adults to be too physically affectionate with children. Here, children want to be loved and want to love you. I have had children wrapped around my waist, attached to my leg, draped on my arms. Children cannot get close enough; they want to be on your lap, under the comforting warmth of your arm, and they want to be hugged all of the time. And isn’t that what all children want? I’m telling you, these kids have got it right.

If mass is to start at 11, that’s when it starts, right? Wrong. After attending mass at the mother parish, Immaculate Conception Church in Stony Hill, I went with two Eucharistic Ministers to the smaller church higher in the hills in a community called Mount Friendship. We arrived at 11, but the priest was not there and the church was locked. The key had to be sent for. Wrong, all wrong? No—the hour wait gave the kids a chance to climb the trees to get some Jamaican apples (which are magenta and taste like a pear), a chance for me to get a tour of the basic school from one of the churchgoers, and a chance to get to know Ms. Hilton, an 80-year-old woman of extraordinary grace and strength. And, when the service began at noon to a massive audience of 13 people, it was perfectly right. The prayer and the music were some of the loudest and most heartfelt I believe that I have ever heard.

And there are the little, personal things that have also challenged my understanding of right and wrong. Here, since our kitchen window is not glassed in but held together by iron bars, we toss our food scraps out into the bush beyond. Isn’t that wrong? No, it’s right…if we were to leave food scraps in our trash, the animals would come inside to get it. We put everything, even cereal, into the fridge. Wrong? No, right. Anything left open will immediately be devoured by tiny black ants.

The one thing I can’t reconcile is the need to douse myself in bug spray, particularly before I go to sleep. That must to be wrong…I’m just waiting for the third arm to sprout due to the substantial amounts of Deet I have ingested by this point. For that, and more reflections on life as a Passionist Volunteer in Jamaica, please stay tuned. :-)