Servant, sike.

It's wheelchair washing day. This is of course, unbeknownst to me. (Language barrier). I wake up at a leisurely 8:30 am. Brush my teeth, recompose my Title 42 style mop of hair, and am thrilled to find the electricity roaring. This can only mean one thing. Coffee. Made in a coffee pot. For the first time since TUESDAY. You can probably see where this one is going. By Friday morning at 8:42 a.m., I'm already proud of myself. Proud that I survived a week without coffee, (3 days), and proud that coffee from the coffee maker is a pronounced luxury. Proud...

But we'll come back to that.

Fridays around here are a kicked-back, low key day for the kids and caretakers. Typically speaking, there's a drum circle-dance party- sing along at 9, followed by a prayer service, followed by watching some Disney movie (yes, English!) on a projector, and ending in free time. Maybe we play soccer, maybe we watch soccer, maybe the kids find quiet places to sit in the sunshine.

My kind of day, people. I usually drink my coffee and lounge against a wall. Laughing with the teachers at the dance moves and sipping coffee. Joining in the prayers in English, and listening for new creole words to add to my battalion. Then I throw a few things in a bag and trek down to the bus station, down the mountain, and to St. Joseph's for the weekend. It's a relaxing day, excluding the mountain voyage, (see previous blog explanations).

Today, however, was wheelchair washing day. I made my coffee, glad to be alive, and sauntered over to the other building to greet the kids and wait for the activities to start. Mayhem. Teachers were streaming in every which way. Children were being hoisted from their chairs and placed in their beds, and a pronounced line of wheelchairs was processing down the stairs, out the doors, and into the driveway.

'What is going on' I thought.

' sa k ap fe' I said, roughly translated,

'What is going to do?!'

I don't need this, I thought to myself. And it was true. I, much like the children who live here- I needed the consistency and routine. I needed things to be like they had been last friday, and the Friday before that, and the Friday before that. I needed to understand.

Not to say that I'm a creature of habit- but I have found in myself- when my boundaries are pushed. When my comfort zone's threshold is exceeded- when I don't understand- routine. 'Normalcy.' This is what holds me together. I can rise to the occasion, I can get with the program, but the program cannot waiver.

John Baptiste, (really that's his name), turns expectantly to me. He wipes his forehead on the back of his sleeve and hoists another wheelchair onto the ramp.

'We wash. You are helping us?'

'Yes, of course.'

And there it was. For the second time that day.

Pride.

Proud of myself for volunteering. Proud to lend a hand. Proud to put in my day's hard work. To be a part of the team. To do what needed to be done.

Buckets filled with water, scrub brushes handed out, rags and tooth brushes, bleach and soap. And as I doused my first wheelchair with water mixed with soap and Clorox, I thought, ' I want these children to have clean chairs.' I thought, ' this is disgusting.' I thought, 'I don't want to be doing this.'

But all the other teachers were. Why wouldn't I? And so I did. The water and suds hit the chairs. Three strokes of the brush, brown water splashing and spraying all over the place. I rolled up my sleeves, both literally and metaphorically speaking, and committed myself.

And in the same breathe, I thought, 'I am proud that I'm doing this.'

'I'm a servant.'

I think we can all agree, that thinking one is a servant whilst being a servant, quite possibly negates said servanthood.

They talk about this stuff in the bible right? Of course. John 13. Right after Jesus gets on his knees to wash the feet of the disciples, he stands up, proclaiming, ' You guys should seriously consider spa treatments, and Holy **** I am awesome. You're welcome!'

Right.

Shoes off, and one mental apology for such short-sided thoughts, I got back to work. Having had a fever for 2 days, and mindful that I'm teaching English for 8 hours on Saturday, I did not want to push myself, but I did not want to quit.

These children deserve clean chairs. And we are the ones who have to clean them. And then my mother's words rang out in my head...

'Elizabeth who do you think is going to wash your dishes if you don't...Do you think you just set them in the sink and they magically disappear... Sometimes...

Look at me now, momma!

And on to the next chair. Again- a foul and withering excuse for a vehicle of transport, again an internal struggle against pride.

Winning the battle against myself, humming the Haitian national anthem, and wiping sweat off my forehead, I tackled the project whole heartedly. Face inches from the wheel and back of the chair, I scrubbed with fervor. I would clean this chair.

Then came the bugs. Flying earwigs from hell came streaming and soaring out of holes in the back of the chair- inches from my face and unsuspecting hands that had been scrubbing said seat only seconds before. I suppose that when I poured the bucket of soapy water on the chair, I must have submerged their motherland, rendering it uninhabitable, and out they came.

Shrieking and backstepping into one of the other teachers. I could not control the auditory shudders and convulsions of my system. Several teachers came to my rescue, lambasting the chair with some pesticide spray or other, they went to war.

Dousing the chair again with more water, the onslaught continued. Three thoughts.

This is fritz's chair.

This is a nightmare.

I am a servant.

And in the midst of the terror and repulse, I found myself asking God. Why?

Already parentless and wheelchair bound, already living within a certain realm of chaos and filth, why must a legion of disgusting creatures live in his chair.

So unfair.

And then another thought.

' I don't want to be doing this.'

But what was the alternative? To not clean the chair? To not attempt to evacuate the squatters?

My stomach rolled, my face felt hot. Kicking the chair upside down, pouring bucket after bucket of water onto it. Spraying it with murderous chemicals.

All the while fighting back vomit. And tears. And pride.

Which brings me to my final question of this round.

Why am I of the mindset that helping others, no matter how disgusting, no matter how difficult, how extreme...

Why is this pride worthy?

And if it is not- how can I seek to be a servant because I am one- and not because I'm proud and conscientious of being one.

Jesus died on the cross to forgive us, the entire world, of our sins.

In this season of Advent, impatiently waiting the arrival of our Lord. In this season of holiday. Of prayer and thanksgiving. Of celebration and expectancy. Of joy.

Imagine if Jesus was holding this sacrifice over our heads.

If he was rubbing our noses in it.

If he was proud. If he was an Indian giver.

If he washed an infested wheel chair, and thought, 'look at me.'