Brush with Haiti by Kathleen A. Tobin Read Free Book Online

orphanages frankly yanked at and twisted my gut. The only experience I had that came close was in junior high. One holiday season my Girl Scout troop visited the nearby Carmelite Home for Boys where we played games and made bell-shaped ornaments out of paper cups, pipe cleaners, glitter, and pictures cut from old Christmas cards. Such experiences can bring joy, I suppose, but this one brought me nothing but sadness. It shined a very bright light on how sheltered I had been, which perhaps was the intention of our troop leader. I did not understand how a day of game-playing and craft-making was of any help to the boys. After that I never looked at my own parents, or my situation as a loved and cared for daughter, the same as before.
    Now that I was a parent myself, a visit to an orphanage seemed more heart-wrenching than I could imagine. My mothering instincts had kicked in, and at the same time I could not judge anyone who might have to turn over their children to someone else. Whatever the situation was, it could only be somehow attached to pain. I prayed the orphanage visits would take up only a small portion or our trip, and I kept my eyes on the soil project, the planet, and the potential for economic growth.
    In retrospect my aversion for anything emotional was probably due to the fact that my own heart was so vulnerable at the time. In the two years since I first heard of the Haiti project, I spent much time ruminating about my failed marriage, yearned desperately to recreate a sense of security for my children, and had fallen in love with a man who moved across the country. The liaison was brief, confusing, and lacked any sense of closure. We had met as he was considering jobs far from Chicago, and I did not yet trust my judgment about men. It did not make sense to me that I felt such a deep connection with someone I barely knew, and I cared so much about him that I let him go without telling him how I felt. Neither the pain nor wonder went away. I just kept busy with other things.

8
Faith Remembered
    Once I realized the Haiti trip was affiliated with the diocesan mission of peace and social justice, my fading connection with Catholicism seemed to strengthen. My relationship with the Church had been complicated. Many academics are detached from religion, but I never really was. Not totally. And any disconnection that did exist began long before.
    During my teen years I had dreaded getting up early on Sunday to attend Mass with my family. I was the oldest of five; the youngest was my baby sister eleven years behind me. Mass-going was a ritual for my parents and they never missed. So we never missed. There was nothing in the teachings of the Church that I had any particular problems with at that time. In fact, much of it was meaningful to me. But I thought that some of the priests were out of touch, or just plain boring. There was some pretty good stuff in the Bible, even if I did not take it literally. But having a priest synthesize, analyze, and sermonize it for me seemed unnecessary when I wanted to think for myself. It was rare that they could provide any additional insight, at least for my teen mind.
    One serious problem I had with going to Mass at that age stemmed from my expanding capacity for detecting hypocrisy. Coming of age in a Catholic setting was great for honing my "right-from-wrong" detectors. So when I saw people at weekly Mass who I had deemed as unscrupulous, I questioned why I should have to go. Looking back, I don't even remember who it was that I thought had done something unchurchly, or what gave me the idea I had anything to say about it.
    "I don't know why I should have to go to Mass every Sunday," I told my mother. "There are hypocrites there."
    "That's no excuse," my mother replied. "It doesn't matter what other people do with their lives. Anyway, that is not for you to decide. Just go to church." My mother was the least judgmental person I had ever known. And she was unwavering about Mass