An end-of-year ode to the inspiring staff who press forward

Dec 31, 2025 | Life at the Orphanage

PORT-AU-PRINCE — On this last day of the year, I’d like to pose a question: 

What do you endure to get to work each day?

Some of you, I imagine, do your jobs from home, so it’s fairly easy. Start a pot of coffee, log into your computer. Others may commute, and perhaps some of those commutes are annoying. An hour in traffic. Waiting for a train. Fighting for parking. Showing your badge to security.

What do you endure? I ask the question because I’m here at the Have Faith Haiti school and orphanage, watching our incredible staff of teachers, nannies, doctors, nurses, social workers, grounds crew and maintenance staff arrive to do their jobs. And I realize each and every one of them took at least a small risk to their life just to be here.

Every day, the streets in Port-au-Prince smolder with trouble. At any given time, shots can ring out and you can be caught in the crossfire. It might be police against gangs. It might be gangs against gangs. It might be a kid who got ahold of a gun and is shooting bullets for fun, never understanding that a bullet shot into the air has to come down somewhere.

It might be robbers on motorcycles who jump off and demand your phone or your purse. It might be cars that streak in from two directions and wedge your vehicle so you can’t escape. Then gunmen jump out and point rifles at your window, and next thing you know, you’re being kidnapped as they’re going through your contacts, calling them at random and demanding money.

Hazard in the streets

If this sounds exaggerated, I promise you it is not. It is the reason so many people no longer work in Haiti, or have lost the rare jobs they once had. It’s the reason shops have closed and factories have moved and even streetside stands have had to fold up.

Yet somehow, our staff at Have Faith Haiti endures. Many of them get up before dawn, and ride the back of motorcycles or cram into tap-tap cabs to reach a designated collection point for our van, which then navigates the dangerous streets to get them to the orphanage on time.

Others try to find rides themselves or with others. Or walk a different route each day, so that gang members don’t observe them and target them for a kidnapping.

“To get here every day is a challenge,” admits Peterson Pierre, a 25 year-old teacher who stays with his mother during the week to have closer proximity to the orphanage. He must take at least two tap-taps from her apartment to reach our facility, jamming onto benches with more than a dozen other passengers in the morning heat. “It’s kind of far and expensive to do this every day. And it’s dangerous for sure.”

Another of our teachers, Blanc Wilner, has been working with teens for years in the poorest neighborhoods in Port-au-Prince, even teaching in prison programs. He too endures a dangerous commute to get to work each day. 

“Sometimes, it feels like the country is going backwards instead of forwards,” he says. “It impacts not just me; it impacts all of Haiti. Like, the gang issue, where we now have a group of gang members on every street corner. We used to have schools everywhere. Now more and more kids end up in gangs, because there is no school.”

Remarkable endurance

Imagine taking a chance with your life — not to make a fortune, or to win a lottery, but simply to get to work each morning at an orphanage where the pay is modest. What type of person does that?

The types who make up our staff. 

Some, like Miss Chantal, have been with us for decades, and helped guide the transition to our new home. Others are newer members who find Have Faith Haiti to be a place of inspiration, a place that makes enduring danger a worthwhile risk.

“The fact that the students here are learning, and then graduating, and then going to college and then coming back to help, that gives us hope,” says Pierre Gregory St Joe, another of our fine teachers. “Hope is so important. So is giving our children a chance. It is why I do this job.“

Today is the last day of the year. A good day to take stock. So many of you have been so kind to support our children, it feels almost uncomfortable to ask you to help again. 

But just as, once the holiday stretch is over, you will resume your routine, so it is for our staff — for the cooks and the nannies and the guys who cut the bamboo trees down and the security guards who stand with helmets on in the hot sun, protecting our precious children.

Their routine never stops. Neither does the risk, the daily danger, the darting eyes checking to make sure the corner is safe, or the tap-tap spot is secure, or there are no reports of crossfire on the route to work.

It takes a lot to endure that. It takes a lot to run a place that makes it worthwhile. If before the year ends, it makes sense to make a contribution, we welcome that. If you have already contributed, we thank you. And if you are unable to help at this moment, we still thank you for listening, and understanding how here in Haiti, even the simplest thing, like getting to work, can be an act of courage.

Smiles and growth in a summer of transition

Jul 18, 2025 | Life at the Orphanage

Summer at the orphanage is usually a time of rest, of slow mornings and playful afternoons. But this year, for 18 of our kids, it’s a whirlwind of activity. Some are prepping for college. Some are working. Some are volunteering. Some are receiving medical treatment.

And all 18 of them, for the moment, are here in America.

So we thought we’d share some of what summer looks like for these infants, pre-teens, teens and young men and women, because the help you are providing does more than just feed, clothe and educate our precious children struggling in Haiti. It opens the path for dream fulfillment — at least for the moment — right here in the U.S.

Let’s begin with our youngest. Little Nadie, now 3, continues to thrive after her long bout with malnutrition. Doctors are amazed at how she has developed, after weighing just seven pounds at six months of age. She’s on to letters and sight words now, and can sing the entire soundtrack to “The Sound of Music.”

Likewise, young Bradley, now a rambunctious five-year-old, has astonished all of us with his dogged improvement. Although he weighed just 10 pounds at three years of age, he has blossomed from a child who could not stand up to a running boy whom we have nicknamed “Bam-Bam,” because, like the cartoon character, there is nothing he won’t dive into and nothing that doesn’t bring a smile. 

Bradley is working all summer with therapists to try and develop speech. Although some wondered if he would ever communicate, Bradley clearly tells us when he’s hungry, when he’s tried, and, constantly, when he’s happy. God has rarely created a child who smiles or laughs more than this one. He waves hi and bye. He signals when he wants more food. He hugs and cuddles and experiences boundless joy. He needs many more years of attention, but there is a positive life awaiting him. This summer is helping steer him there.

Fediana (a.k.a. “Ziggy”) has, at 8 years of age, taken a quantum leap in maturity and health. Burdened with cerebral palsy, she has gone from a scared and tentative child who suffered multiple seizures a day to an expressive, confident and much healthier girl, who loves to dance and communicates terrifically in English. She receives regular therapy and medical attention. And she smiles all the time now. That’s what summer is about for kids, isn’t it?

On to the middles

Next comes Gaelson and Knox, 13 and 14, who I group together because, well, they are always together. They hang out, chit-chat, play, share a bedroom. Both receive therapy for neurological and respiratory issues, and Gaelson endures spinal challenges due the absence of one lung. 

But this summer, in between their medical visits, they more than fill the hours. Knox is exploding with sports and study. And Gaelson is some kind of engineering savant. He can put together a complex Lego kit in an hour, can fix lights, strollers or small appliances moments after looking at them. He has also become a whiz in the kitchen, making chicken wings, rice, beans and sauce for our nightly dinners. 

From a little boy who once weighed nine pounds after being abandoned at a medical clinic, he is simply a miracle.

Jumping up to our college-aged kids, I want to specifically mention J.U., Louvennson, and Bianka. All three were admitted with full scholarships to U.S. universities last year. But, as is our policy at the Have Faith Haiti orphanage, they had to first put in a year of public service in Haiti, as a way of giving back before they took.

So the three of them worked at the Haitian Health Foundation in Jérémie, which serves nearly a quarter of a million Haitians in 100 rural villages. Living away from the orphanage for the first time, in a town many hours from Port-au-Prince, our kids helped bring medical care to remote communities where seeing a doctor is otherwise unheard of. 

They did this for nearly a year, with no pay, working often six days a week. Through this experience, they came to understand the plight of their countrymen and arrived here in the U.S. ready to begin college with a deeper maturity and direction.

Currently, Louvennson and J.U. work weekdays volunteering at a youth and recreation center in Detroit, and work weekends volunteering at the Detroit Water Ice Factory, which sells frozen desserts to raise money for charity, And they gain no weight! It drives us adults nuts!

Bianka and Edney are working at Wildwood Ranch, a summer camp that provides the camp experience for inner city kids. Their co-workers marvel at their natural ability to guide children. But we know they have been trained for this their whole lives at the orphanage, where our older kids have always watched over the younger ones.

And to the oldest

And then there’s the rest of our college kids. Junie-Anna, Djouna and Esterline are working for the summer at Hope College, where they are upperclassmen. Chivensky, entering his senior year, does as well, serving as a Resident Advisor.

J.J., who just completed a semester abroad in France, is doing an internship with Emagine Theaters in suburban Detroit, honing skills for his business degree. Nahoum is teaching children art. And Widley, a junior at Hillsdale College, is in Wisconsin, on a summer camp/study program, as he prepares for his upcoming semester in Washington, D.C.

Oh yes. And Jhonas, the commerncment speaker at his Madonna University graduation, is applying to medical school. And Manno just passed his medical boards and begins his rotations now as a third-year medical student.

Now if all this seems like a mountain of activity, it is. And when you consider that the typical child or teenager in Haiti passes the summer in stifling heat, often with no activities, no learning, and no access to medical care, well, the contrast is stunning.

Yet the best part of this whirlwind summer is when we all get together for dinner. We have to add chairs and extensions to the tables, but we manage to stuff everyone around. And we pray together, as we do for every meal at the orphanage in Haiti. And the kids talk, squeal, laugh, tease, shriek and enjoy each other in a joyous cacophony, proof that family comes in all forms, in all nations, and in all seasons.

It’s summer, and despite all the violence and poverty challenges in Haiti, our kids find a way to thrive, to laugh, to turn their faces to the sun and smile. To grow. Thank you for enabling them to do so.  

Don’t forget the many who cross the border for all the right reasons

May 21, 2025 | Life at the Orphanage

This is an immigrant story. It is not about a threat. It is not about an illegal crossing or an arrest. It’s about hope. Most immigrant stories are. 

Jhonas Nelus was born in Haiti 23 years ago. When he was 9, a massive earthquake hit his country and left his family homeless. Like tens of thousands in the capital city of Port-au-Prince, his relatives sought refuge in a filthy, overcrowded, tent city.  

That was where I met him. 

Jhonas’ sisters were in an orphanage I operate in Haiti. I had come to the tent city to meet the rest of their family, all of whom were squeezed inside four pieces of tin, with a blue tarp tied over top. Their floor was dirt. There was no sink. No running water. One mattress for everyone. When it rained, they slept atop old wooden chairs, so they wouldn’t be lying in mud.  

The toilets were several hundred yards away, holes in the ground surrounded by a small mountain of plastic bags. When I asked what the bags were for, I was told, “Toilet paper.” 

Over 2,000 people shared this camp. 

Jhonas, at the time, was a thin, angular boy with piercing eyes and a huge smile. He was drawing when I met him. A cartoon. It was excellent. He also spoke fairly good English, which was remarkable given his young age. 

“Where did you learn to speak so well?” I asked him. 

“In school,” he said. 

“You like school?” 

“Yes. I love school.” 

Promise brings hope 

This is an education story. The next month, when I came down to Haiti, I visited Jhonas’ family again. This time, I brought a few comic books. To say Jhonas liked them would be like saying teenage girls like Taylor Swift. Every subsequent visit, I brought him more. I noticed his artwork improving. He also wrote me a thank-you note. 

In my heart, I wanted to take Jhonas into our orphanage, but he was already older than the age we accept most children, and since we already had his siblings, it went against our policy. But I realized he would soon be of the age when Haiti’s oppressive poverty and general desperation might tempt him to quit school in search of quick opportunity, money or gangs. 

So I made him a promise. 

“Jhonas, if you stay in school, get good grades, and don’t get in any trouble, I will make sure you get to college.”  

“College?” 

“Yes.” 

“In America?” 

“Yes. In America.” 

His eyes bulged. Never mind that his “home” had no electrical power, no lights, no fans, and the idea of him even doing homework seemed far-fetched. 

The promise inspired him. It gave him hope.  

And hope is the most powerful weapon of all. 

Hope brings perseverance 

This is a graduation story. Jhonas took me up on my offer, and year after year, gave me his report card from his Haitian school. His English became impeccable. His voice changed. His body sprouted from a kid I used to pat on the head to a teenager who towered over me. 

But his love of learning never wavered. Still forced to live in those tents, he studied by candlelight, and when his mother didn’t have the pennies to buy candles, he left the encampment to find a streetlight to sit under, where he could read and do his assignments.  

Can you imagine, in the crushing heat and humidity of Haiti, being in the street at night, with nothing more than a pencil, a piece of paper, and your lap as your desk? And our kids complain about homework? 

Jhonas completed his schooling with excellent grades. By that time, I had established connections with several colleges in Michigan, encouraging them to give our orphanage kids a shot.  

One of them was Madonna University. They read Jhonas’ application. In it, he spoke about wanting to study medicine, because when he was younger, his little brother, Jameson, was taken to the hospital because of an ugly skin issue. No one took care of him. They wanted money first. When the family had none, they were sent away. 

Months later, Jameson died in the same tent where the whole family slept. Jhonas came in from playing soccer and saw his younger brother gone. He decided, he says, to become a doctor that day. 

Madonna wisely accepted him. He was granted a U.S. student visa and arrived here in the summer of 2021. On the way to our home from the airport, we stopped at Buffalo Wild Wings. When Jhonas saw how much food they brought to the table, he nearly wept. 

Perseverance brings gratitude 

This is a surprise story. Two weeks ago, Jhonas was set to graduate with his bachelor’s degree. We always make a big deal over our kids graduating, so all of his orphanage brothers and sisters who are also here studying, and many of the people he has impressed or touched, wanted to be there as well. This meant quite a caravan of people. 

We did our best, but as folks who tend to be late for most things, we arrived after the ceremony began. I wasn’t worried. I had been to college graduations before. I knew there was a good deal of pomp and circumstance, and they called out every name for a diploma. Since Jhonas’ last name began with “N” we had plenty of time. 

We arrived, sliding into our seats just in time to hear one of the administrators say the student commencement speaker this year had been specially chosen for his accomplishments, his willingness to help others, and his sterling academic record, including a 3.94 GPA as a chemistry major. 

His name, she said, “is Jhonas Nelus.” 

And sitting in that crowd, my wife and I stared in disbelief as this beaming, confident, young man — who never told us about this honor because he wanted it to be a surprise — walked to the microphone and delivered a pitch-perfect commencement address, beginning with, “When I first came to Madonna University, I was filled with excitement, curiosity, and, if I’m being honest, a little bit of fear. …” 

He congratulated his fellow students. He spoke about the future. He mentioned the challenge of leadership and his desire to go to medical school, to one day make life better for children in his home country. 

He never mentioned his own story, or all the horrors he’d overcome with his tireless hope. He never congratulated himself. 

So, I’m doing it here. 

This is a story about dreams, belief and opportunity. In other words, an immigrant story. And one worth remembering, in light of the others we’re hearing so loudly these days.

When whirling blades are your only option: A heroic effort in Haiti

Apr 9, 2025 | Life at the Orphanage

Dear friends,

This column was originally published in the Detroit Free Press, and I wanted to be sure you heard about the vital work HERO Client Rescue is doing. They have made it possible for us to get our most critically ill children out of the dangers of Port-au-Prince — the first step in an arduous journey to the U.S. for necessary medical care. It has happened many times. For the safety of our children and staff, we don’t tell you when it happens, but it does. And it will continue to. HERO needs help for their work to continue, as will we in the oncoming months as Haiti’s situation remains dire.

I hope to share important news with you soon. In the meantime, I hope that you will take some time to learn more about these HEROes in the Haitian sky.

Your friend, with gratitude as always,

Mitch

This is a story about saving lives, six seats at a time. That’s the passenger capacity of each Bell 407 helicopter that an organization called HERO Client Rescue flies nearly every day from the terrorized city of Port-au-Prince, Haiti, to distant hospitals and safer villages.

Week after week, month after month, these helicopters — three of them — are now the only way small numbers of people, many serious medical cases, are able to evacuate the capital city, which is overrun by gang violence. In Port-au-Prince, murders, fires, kidnappings — even being hit by stray bullets — are part of everyday life.

“Outside people don’t realize how serious the situation is,” says Stacy Librandi, 44, who created HERO 11 years ago as a ground ambulance and emergency flight company, but has seen it morph into something even more critical. “The city is a war zone. And innocent people living in Haiti, just trying to survive, are left to defend themselves in a country where mostly it’s only the bad guys that have firearms.”

More than 700,000 Haitians have now been displaced by the endless gang violence, as of last October. That’s 700,000 homeless people searching for places to live. Commercial airlines have stopped flying into Port-au-Prince, after gangs shot at airplanes. The roads out of the city are controlled by those gangs as well, as are the ports, so there is no driving or sailing away.

Right now, the only safe movement is via helicopter, and pretty much the only helicopters operating are the ones that HERO bravely puts into the sky up to four times a day. They land on soccer fields, hillsides, hospital lawns. They sell seats to those who can afford them to help pay for passengers who cannot — particularly those in need of medical care. Many of the hospitals in Port-au-Prince are either shuttered, destroyed, or unable to fully operate because doctors and nurses can’t get there.

“The Haitian people are in an utter state of survival,” says Clay Lang, one of HERO’s helicopter pilots.  “And it’s hour-to-hour survival.”

Moving experience

I just returned from another trip to Haiti. I have written about the orphanage I operate there in Port-au-Prince, and the now 70-plus amazing children who have thrived under its care.

A number of those kids require serious medical attention for issues such as cerebral palsy, seizures, malnutrition and brain damage. We used to fly them on commercial airlines out of Port-au-Prince. Now we must use helicopters for a journey to the northern city of Cap-Haïtien, site of the country’s only functioning international airport.

Our children have been strapped into HERO’s seats. So have many others. A 2-year-old baby who needed immediate open-heart surgery. A teenager with head trauma from a motorcycle crash. Cancer patients. Newborns. Adoptees.

“I remember landing in a soccer field and a group of kids approached,” Lang recalls. “One older boy said, ‘Why are you here?’ I told him there was a child with a broken neck we were supposed to transport. He said ‘Oh, yes, I’ll get him.’ The whole village came back carrying the kid. It was so moving.”

Lang is a good example of the kind of people who do HERO’s work. Trained to fly in the Navy, he has a full-time job fighting fires in the western U.S. with a company called Sky Dance helicopters. But his boss, Jason Legge, “gave me paid time off to come to Haiti.” He flew for one excellent service, Haiti Air Ambulance, but when they were forced to pause operations, he shifted over to HERO.

Librandi says there are about 70 employees like Lang working with HERO, many of them medical people. But with the current chaos, it is often not enough.

“In recent months, there have been days where I take hundreds of calls, from 6 a.m. until after midnight,” says Hunter Picken, a HERO executive who has been with the company since 2017. “When I started, I was using my personal cellphone. It didn’t stop.

“People would hear gunshots in their neighborhood and call me late at night saying, ‘I need to get out tomorrow morning.’”

Because of the enormous expense of flying and maintaining helicopters (not to mention getting insurance) HERO has to make tough decisions about who can fly when, and at what price, and how they can fund the countless charitable cases they operate for free when lives or health are at stake.

Picken, 31, even recalls organizing numerous flights on Christmas Day, including an 87-year-old woman who could not walk, and several Haitian kids who were being adopted, but whose adoptive parents could not get to them.

“We often end up picking up children at orphanages, transporting them somewhere, arranging places for them to stay, getting them doctors,” he says. “It’s become much more than just flights.”

More than helicopter rescues

Librandi, who oversees this whole operation, splits her time between Haiti and Traverse City, where she lives with her husband, Aaron Dankers, 49, a retired law enforcement officer and now HERO’s head of security. Like many who embrace Haiti’s children (myself included) Librandi got involved after the tragic 2010 earthquake. She went there ostensibly as a photographer, but spent time working alongside the American military and learning the ropes of disaster relief. She and a few friends eventually rented a truck and began distributing food and water that wasn’t getting to the people.

“I discovered that when you are willing to try different approaches to things, you can be very effective in helping people. That was super interesting to me.”

She found her calling.

In little over a decade, HERO has grown to include trauma centers, ambulances, armored car operations, and even plans to bring and operate a CT machine into a country that desperately needs one. 

But currently, the helicopter rescue is dominant, because demand is so great.

“The thing is, we operate out of Pétionville (a section of Port-au-Prince),” Picken explains. “It’s one of the last safe areas. But the gangs are closing in on so many neighborhoods, that we’re left with a very small circle of safety. Some of staff who live outside that circle can’t get to us sometimes because of the gangs in their streets.”

Librandi agrees. If Pétionville should fall, there will be no place for the helicopters to operate. And likely no safe way in and out of a metropolitan area that holds 3 million people.

‘A privilege to fly them’

While HERO is run as a company, it also has a 501(c)(3) charitable foundation (that can be accessed at www.heroclientrescue.com). Donations would help them provide more rescue flights, but they are so busy dealing with the current crisis, Picken says, they don’t have much time to devote to fundraising.

Even so, they deserve support. Without their daily flights, there is next to no movement in or out of Port-au-Prince for old people in distress or children with medical emergencies.

“I remember flying three handicapped children once,” Lang, the pilot, recalls, “and they needed special chairs just to support themselves. And in order to get them to the helicopter, the people in their area created, like, a makeshift wheelbarrow. They cared so much about these children. It’s a privilege to fly them.”

It is a privilege — to be able to help, to be able to make a difference. Can you imagine living in a city where the planes, cars and boats were all locked in by violent gangs, with no way to escape but cramming into a helicopter?

This is everyday life for people in Haiti. HERO tries to give them a lift, literally and figuratively. And as someone who once needed to be airlifted out of Haiti in a chopper, I can attest, when you have no other option, you look at those whirling blades as more than just aviation. You see them as salvation.

And salvation should not be denied to anyone, even if it’s only six seats at a time.

“I Do!”: On the year we hosted a wedding

Dec 30, 2024 | Life at the Orphanage

And now, if you please, a smile. 

As the year draws to an end, it may seem hard to find many happy moments in Haiti. We’ve detailed in recent dispatches the horrors of gang violence, the apathy of a corrupt government, and the enormous challenges we face every day just trying to feed, clothe and keep healthy our precious children in a city where over 700,000 people have already been forced out of their homes.

But from the moment I arrived in Haiti in the choking aftermath of the 2010 earthquake, what struck me most about the people here is their resiliency. Their boundless belief in the next day. There were smiles and happy memories even amidst the rubble of that tragedy nearly 15 years ago.

And we had a wonderful moment even amidst the chaos of 2024.

We had a wedding.

That’s right. Our beloved Haitian director, Yonel Ismael, who grew up at this very orphanage, announced in late spring that he and his steady Haitian girlfriend, Sabrina, had decided to tie the knot. Yonel was turning 40, and those of us who love him knew how long he had dreamed of a good marriage and eventually a family. So we were happy with the news.

And then, when we asked, “Where do you think you’ll have the ceremony?’ he scrunched his face as if it were obvious.

“Here,” he said. “Of course.”

And we were even happier.

Dearly beloved gathered

So it was, friends, that the social event of the year — at least on our calendar — was scheduled for mid-September on the green artificial grass of what we call Chika Park, smack dab in the center of Have Faith Haiti’s grounds, just in front of the dormitory and the laundry lines. 

What could be more elegant? 

We pulled out all the stops. A giant tent. Days of cooking. Donated dresses and sports coats for the kids. And a ceremony that included roles for our children, the youngest and the oldest, from dancing and playing music to throwing flower petals from tiny baskets.

Of course, in Haiti, mid-September might as well be mid-August, and mid-August might as well be a blast furnace. So when my white tuxedo arrived — Yonel had kindly asked me to be his best man — and I felt the thick, synthetic fabric, I knew it wouldn’t just be the groom who‘d be sweating it out.

And I was right. Things rarely start on time in Haiti, and Yonel’s wedding was, shall we say, very Haitian. Forty minutes after the scheduled start, we were all still baking in the hot sun, fanning ourselves and waiting for the bride.

But it didn’t dampen the enthusiasm. Most of our kids had never been to a wedding, and none had ever hosted one. They were so charged up, and so charmingly sophisticated in their little bow ties and chiffon skirts, that no delay could bring them down.

And when Sabrina finally arrived, she was as beautiful as a bride could be. Her extended family and friends attended. So did Yonel’s. So did our entire staff, and their families, and of course our 60-plus kids. So all told, we had over 200 people at this little wedding, spilling out of the white tent or cramming beneath the giant decorative balls that hung from its ceiling supports. A red carpet led the way for Sabrina to meet her future husband and join hands, after which several pastors spoke. 

Now a lot of what they said was in Creole, but at one point, just as with American weddings, the lead pastor announced, “If there is anyone here who does not want this marriage to go forward, please speak up.”

Silence. That was good. Yonel looked relieved.

“Again, if there is anyone who has an objection, now is the time” the pastor said.

Yonel shot him a glance. Then he looked at me. I shrugged.

“Once more, if anyone does not want this marriage to go forward, we will give you a last chance,” the pastor offered.

Yonel’s eyes bugged wide. “Come onnn,” he murmured beneath his breath. I’m not sure if the pastor was joking, or if he had a side bet, or if this was some Haitian custom I never heard of. I do know it was the longest thirty seconds of Yonel’s year.

Finally, things proceeded, and Yonel and Sabrina exchanged vows. And then, when it came time for the groom to kiss the bride, Yonel, ever the mindful director, turned to the audience and yelled, “Kids, close your eyes!”

And then the happy couple smooched. A good long one. Worthy of a wedding held against the most unlikely of backdrops.

It was lovely.

Where peace held up

And afterwards, the party truly got started. What a reception! We used the patio of our main house, and the dining room, and the rooms off the dining room, and the upstairs rooms, and the walkway outside the upstairs rooms, and pretty much every other square inch that was available. And music played. And food was devoured. And a cake was cut. And there was dancing — so much dancing — especially when our kids heard a song they recognized. I had no idea that pretty much every one of our children from age four up knew how to do the “Cha Cha Slide.” 

But they do.

And they did.

It was loud. It was joyous. There was laughter and back slapping and picture taking and so much eating and drinking. But, of course, it wouldn’t be Haiti if there wasn’t a sobering moment. Around 8:45 p.m., someone took the microphone and announced that for safety’s sake, given the gangs outside and the police and the curfews, everybody who needed to get home should leave now. And quickly, the affair shriveled, like air let out of a balloon, as people hurried to the gates.

But if the night ended abruptly, the memories did not. Yonel and Sabrina were able to get away for a couple days of a honeymoon, and they currently enjoy their marital bliss in the same small apartment that Yonel has been living in for years, on the middle floor of the kids’ dormitory, with a few dozen boys on the floor below and a few dozen girls on the floor above.

And as I look through the photos, I am reminded of how adaptable and irrepressible our children are, our staff is, Yonel and Sabrina are, and the people of Haiti are. And how those qualities should be celebrated, even as we holler for international help. 

And so, if you please, a smile to end this year. It may have been our most challenging yet, and the clouds on the horizon aren’t getting any lighter. But we don’t give up. We remain grateful – to God, and to you all. And we search every day for happiness, family and blessings. And we keep finding them. Even when the other side gets three chances to object!