Bare Feet & Unseen Stories

We walked the thirty minutes to Karenage with a stack of permission forms in our hands, excited to invite forty nine-year-olds from the little fishing village to spend a week with us at summer camp.

Our plan was simple. We’d hand each parent an invitation, explain that we’d walk the children to the mission each morning and back home every afternoon, answer a few questions, and then make the thirty-minute walk back ourselves.

We never made it that far.

Before we could even place the invitation in their hands, many of the mothers were already handing it back.

Then, almost in unison, they looked down.

Another mother quietly nodded.
“Pa mwen an pa kapab non.” (Mine can’t either.)

Within minutes it became clear that we weren’t measuring the road the same way.

In sandals whose straps had already been tied back together more than once. In little feet strong enough to carry water, chase goats, and run barefoot through the village, but not another hour across rocky roads beneath the Haitian sun.

When we planted our campus in Mole St. Nicolas sixteen years ago, we made a commitment that ministry would never become about simply handing things out. If we wanted to leave something lasting behind, we had to be intentional about where the praise went. We’d much rather hear “Mèsi, Jezi.” than “Mèsi, Jody.”

So when those mothers pointed to their children’s feet, I knew they weren’t asking us to buy shoes.

So we changed our plans.

Every morning that week, our truck rolled into Karenage. Some children climbed aboard in worn-out flip-flops. Some climbed aboard barefoot.

At the time, I didn’t realize their feet were telling only a small part of their story.

After forty-six years in Haiti, very little surprises me anymore. I’ve watched mothers quietly skip meals so their children could eat. I’ve watched them divide a single plate of food, knowing there wasn’t enough for everyone, and make the impossible decision of which child would eat today and which child would simply have to wait until tomorrow.

I’ve watched in disbelief as families stretched nothing into one more meal… then somehow one more after that.

I’ve watched parents carry burdens that most of us will never have to imagine. The kind of desperation that rewrites the way you think, the choices you’re willing to make, and the future you’re willing to risk just to survive today.

You stop asking, “What’s the right decision?” and start asking, “How do I get through today?”

How do I find enough food? How do I find clean water? How do I keep the children I already have alive? Those questions don’t leave much room for next month.

I’ve watched too many mothers trying to survive one day at a time. Imagine looking at your hungry children and realizing the only thing left to trade is yourself. Some women live with that reality. In that moment, the children crying from hunger in front of them are all they can see.

But tomorrow arrives anyway.

And somehow, with one more little hand reaching for hers, she gets up the next morning and asks herself the very same question.

By the second day, the children had settled in. The nervousness had faded. They were laughing, memorizing cheers, splashing in the pool, and becoming wonderfully competitive over their cup routines.

After breakfast, forty little ones gathered together on the floor for what looked more like a family conversation than a lesson. Before we started talking about personal boundaries or learning when to say “No,”  – we wanted to begin somewhere much simpler.

Not because we were trying to define it for them, but because we first needed to understand how they defined it.

Who makes you feel safe?
Who comforts you when you’re scared?
Who takes care of you when you’re sick?
Who do you run to when something hurts?

At the time, I thought we were simply identifying each child’s safe circle before moving into the harder conversations about personal safety. We weren’t looking for the right answers.

The answers came easily.

“My mom.”
“My granny.”
“My aunt.”
“My older sister.”

It felt like a simple conversation. Until Pierre asked one more question.

The room became strangely quiet.

Not awkward. Not emotional. Just…quiet.

The children looked at one another. Some shrugged. A few stared at the floor. Others answered as matter-of-factly as if we had asked what they ate for breakfast.

“I don’t have one.”
“I’ve never met him.”
“I don’t know where he is.”

As the answers continued, Pierre and I slowly looked at each other.

I’ve cared for thousands of Haitian children. I know that fathers are often absent. Many children are raised by grandparents, aunts, older siblings, neighbors, and family friends.

But somehow, I had never paused long enough to truly grasp what was right in front of me.

These weren’t children waiting for Dad to come home from work. They weren’t counting down the days until his next visit. They weren’t grieving a father they had lost.

For most of them, there simply wasn’t a father to remember. Their dads had quietly disappeared after the first chapter of their story.

I’ve spent years counseling children whose families have been reshaped by poverty, disease, natural disasters, and loss. While a father may be absent, there is often still a grandfather, an uncle, an older brother, or another man who quietly steps in. Children still grow up with some picture of what fatherhood looks like.

Karenage was different.

The only child in our group who knew his father saw him just twice a year. The other thirty-nine children weren’t just growing up without their own dads.

Without seeing one come home after work.
Without watching one comfort a frightened child.
Without hearing one say, “I’m proud of you.”
Without seeing one wrap his arms around his family and pray.

The realization changed everything. Because suddenly, this wasn’t just a conversation about personal safety.

We quietly changed the direction of our entire week after meeting with the kids those first few days.

We had spent months preparing lessons on personal safety. We talked about our private areas, trusted adults, secrets, boundaries, and what to do if someone made them feel uncomfortable.

But sitting in that room, surrounded by children trying to define what family even meant, I realized something we hadn’t planned for.

Teaching a child to yell “No!” is important.

Teaching them to run.
To tell a trusted adult.
To understand safe touches and unsafe touches.
Those things matter.

But all week long I found myself asking a different question.

Because children who know they are loved…
Children who know they belong…
Children who know their lives matter…
They fight differently for themselves than children who have never heard those words before.

We still taught every lesson we came to teach.

But by the end of the week, we realized those lessons were only part of what these children needed.

So our women gathered the girls around kitchen tables. They cooked together, laughed together, answered questions, and shared stories. Momma Gigi and Nurse Sermilia quietly reminded each girl that her value could never be measured by the circumstances she was born into.

Meanwhile, Pierre, Nene, and Kendy spent time with the boys making charcoal, working in the gardens, and simply talking. The conversations wandered from farming to growing up, from work to future families, and from everyday life to questions many of them had never had the opportunity to ask another man.

Some of the most important lessons that week never came from a workbook.

By the time the truck pulled away on Friday afternoon, we realized our responsibility hadn’t ended.

In many ways…

The reality that an entire village is growing up without healthy examples of fatherhood didn’t pass quickly through our minds. It settled into our hearts.

As a staff, we began asking different questions.

How do we walk to Karenage more often?

How do we invite boys to spend an afternoon with godly men?

How do we create opportunities for girls to keep learning from women who genuinely love them?

Because one week of camp doesn’t change the next generation.

If we want to interrupt the cycle, we have to begin with this generation. These boys need godly men who will simply show up. These girls need women who remind them they are deeply loved, immeasurably valuable, and worthy of respect.

Would you pray with us?

Pray that God opens doors into Karenage that only He can open. Pray that He gives our staff opportunities to build relationships that continue long after camp is over. Pray that these children don’t simply hear what healthy families look like, but that they experience them firsthand.

Here’s a quick look at our first week of camp in Karenage. As you look through the photos, we’d love for you to pray for these children and for the many others in the surrounding communities we’re beginning to reach. Thank you for praying that God would continue opening doors for relationships that last far beyond one week of camp. And stay tuned… I can’t wait to share the stories from the two weeks that followed. God is doing something special here in the Mole.

The truck has stopped rolling into Karenage each morning. Our prayers haven’t.

 

Camp lasted one week. The story God is writing in Karenage is only beginning.