The Missionaries Who Say Shut Up

In the States...I ran.

I won't call myself a runner because I think a  runner and someone who runs are two totally different people.  To call myself a runner would probably be blasphemous.

Runners have a deep down desire to run.  It's in them.  No matter what. They run.

Someone who runs, on the other hand, can take it or leave it and runs for various reasons...mine being, I have a cancer phobia, and I'd like to stay in my jeans.

I started running years ago during our adoption process.  God taught me to wait while teaching me to run.  Learning to wait and learning to run were equally frustrating and painful to me.  When I started running I could only run about one minute.  After a minute I wanted to die.  That's also, coincidentally, about how long I could wait for something without wanting to die as well.  Both running and waiting made me insane. I had little endurance for either, and yet in the process of growing my lungs, God grew my faith.

After Hudson came home I kept on running.  Homeschooling three kids with a baby in the house left me needing to find an efficient way to exercise.  Gone were the days when I could spend an hour at the gym (not including the drive time).

I also literally felt like running away from home some days, so running became a new, natural thing. Don't judge me.  I have four boys.  The littlest of which is the brown version of Dash.  Running was therapeutic.  I also had to be in shape in order to keep up with my youngest child who never stops moving.  Never. As Hudson sprints all over the house, ducks, dives, pivots and flies around I think to myself, "I am raising a bouncy ball."

I ran consistently, but I never ran long distances.  I loved that I could run right out my front door, return in 30-40 minutes and be completely soaked in sweat.

I judge my workouts by how red my face turns.  If it's mildly red...it was an okay run.  If my face is so red that it scares small children, that's what I call a good workout.

I was not a running rock star, but like I said...I was consistent, and I grew to love running.  My body craved it.  Before I started running I thought people were on dope when they said junk like that.

Before we moved to Haiti I had heard that Beth and Tara run in Port-au-Prince.  I never thought much about it.  When Aaron and I came to Haiti in May to see where he'd be working, I'm almost ashamed to say this, but one of the very first thoughts that went through my mind as we left the airport and got our first dose of
Haiti was this one...

"How thuh *bleep* do Beth and Tara run here?"

We passed tent cities, saw severe, severe poverty for the first time, and yet where my brain crumbled was when it tried to imagine two white ladies running long distances in the middle of such chaos, filth, and madness.  With my nose smashed up against the car window, I tried to imagine it...but I couldn't.

Now I live here, and I run here, and it's just as weird and insane as I thought it would be.

Running in my neighborhood back home in the States was semi-relaxing.  As relaxing as running can be as I tried not to throw up a lung or poo my pants.

It was a time to be alone...to think...some times to pray...to run out my meanness and bad attitude.

There were days when I'd crawl back in the house, and I knew my family was thankful that I had chased away all my stress and taken my frustrations out on the pavement.  I'd go out mean. Come back nice.

Running in Haiti is never relaxing.  I feel like it's one, long, hot video game where we run on broken sidewalks, dodge holes, crazy cars, people, trash, more people,  and all sorts of liquid.  If liquid ever splashes on me while I'm running it will be hard not to stop and immediately set my legs on fire.

Liquid always = nasty in Haiti.

Running down the road all my senses are on fire.  Awake.  Lit up.  Even my sense of shopping is on high alert.  "We just passed a lady selling a blender."  I think to myself...I might come back and buy that.  How far could I run holding the extra weight of a blender?"

My friend Heidi runs with me.  We keep mace in our hands.

Right as we start our run I find myself praying, "Help me to use this mace when I need to, and not when I don't."  Before moving to Haiti I never talked to God about mace.  Not once.

Usually the language barrier makes me insane, but Heidi and I admit that there are times when the language barrier works in our favor.  The streets of PAP are really loud.  To talk to each other we practically have to scream.  Yelling, "This sports bra is crap" on a crowded street in America would not work.  Here we can yell things like, "Don't breathe.  It smells like pee up here." or "My butt is about to fall off" and thankfully no one around us knows what we're saying.

As I inhale thick, black exhaust fumes that spray in my face, I find myself thinking how ironic it is that I'm probably getting lung cancer while I'm trying to stay healthy.  If I get cancer from running, please tell Alanis Moressette that what happened to me was way worse than rain on your wedding day.

People stare at us while we're running.  A red face in the US is weird.  In Haiti...my red face is a show stopper and a sidewalk clearer.

Men make crude remarks and noises.

Sometimes we get sick of that.  We have good days and bad days.  I have days when I run and love this country...hurt and pray for Haiti.  I also have days when I run and realize how frustrated I am.  Everything I see annoys me.  Weird, right?

If you read this blog because you think I'm perfect, I've made it my goal in life to dispel the myth that "missionaries" belong in their own holy category.  If you came here looking for that girl, you have landed in the wrong place.  I'm a regular person who finds myself wanting to give hooting men the finger, no matter what country I'm in.

There are days when we get sick of the man noises.  Some times I'm just not in the mood for it.  The women in Haiti are easy to love.  They have won my heart.  They are precious, strong, and funny.  They sit on the side of the road, some of them with their children and work all day...selling their mangoes, avocados, diapers, tomato paste, and maxi pads.  They sit with their girlfriends and their sisters. They work.  They argue. Dramatically.  They laugh.  Loudly.

When we run past the women they say funny things to us.  They laugh.  They clap.  They hold up their arms and cheer.  They lovingly say we're crazy.

"Do they know running is good for your health?" Heidi yells at me during a run.  "Or do they seriously just think we're nuts?"

The other day we had had it with the derogatory comments and the kissy noises from the men we were passing.  Heidi is young and beautiful.  For those reasons she's the worst person to run with in Haiti.

Heidi said, "How do you say shut up in Creole?"

I thought for a second...trying to search my brain while panting.  Not easy.

"I don't know.  When Haitians say shut up, I think the literal translation is shut your teeth."

I thought some more.

"I don't know how to say 'shut your teeth.'  I only know how to say 'brush your teeth.'"

Then I heard Heidi laughing behind me.

She says, "That's even better.  When they say something rude, let's yell out, 'brush your teeth'"

It was perfect.

Crude noise or comment...

The crazy, running white girls respond with a cocky...

"Bwose dan!"

Come to find out, Haitians think that kind of stuff is funny.

Good thing, or we might of had to use the mace and run home faster than either of us felt like running.






Last year Tara posted a video she filmed while running in Haiti.  She and Beth were training for a marathon.  For about 100 reasons these ladies inspire me.  Enjoy.