I met Monique on the Sedli Project’s first trip to Haiti. We were in Gressier, a village near Port au Prince. Intermittent electricity, no running water, hard physical labor to simply survive. We had gathered any interested local women together to pour into them physically, emotionally and spiritually. This was a place of extreme poverty and illiteracy. It was here that the Sedli Project began. And there in the group sat Monique. Her eyes never left mine. She seemed so hungry for the truth that Jesus loves. When she smiled, wow – her entire being lit up. She was like a sponge, soaking up the good news that God never leaves, never forsakes, always is ahead of us and with us, hemming us in. What caught my eye immediately is that she was one of the few who could write. I had given out booklets, knowing most couldn’t read or write, but knowing that several of the children could, and this would be another way for God’s truths to get out there. But Monique sat there, taking in every word, jotting a note here and there. At the end of our time, we asked the women if we could wash their feet in an act of service and love, their calloused, bruised, torn feet. We wanted to physically show these women that they are treasured and loved. One by one we washed and lotioned those tired, weary feet, praying over each woman. We told them that “precious are the feet of those who share the good news.” Monique waited until the last. She sat down for me to wash her feet. The entire time she was smiling, I presumed because she was thoroughly enjoying this never-before-experienced pampering. When I finished, she excitedly sat me down, and she began to wash my feet. Suddenly the entire group of women surrounded us and joined in the service. They even fought, light-heartedly, over who would get to wash our feet. They were showing us that we’re in this together. We are all – every single one of us – equally lost, equally in need of God’s grace, equally in need of knowing we are treasured, and equally commissioned to share the news of Jesus Christ with our lost and dying world. If there had remained any barriers between us, this entire foot-washing had completely broken those barriers down. They laughed. We laughed. We sang and prayed and loved and hugged, a jumble of languages but a solidarity of joy. It was a most beautiful moment. When it was time for us to leave, there stood Monique. She lingered, the last to go. She reached out and gave me one last hug and smile. I watched her as she left for her hut. I was humbled by her outpouring of love and her true earnest joy.
The following year, we returned to Gressier. We were excited to build on the women’s faith and their knowledge of Jesus Christ. We were setting up, and I kept looking out to see more women coming in. Finally, I saw Monique, same smile, same joy, same thirst for more of Jesus. She even talked to me about what we had taught a whole year ago. It was obvious that the day had been meaningful to her. We began our day of pouring into the women with the truth of their worth in Christ. I had shared how God had intervened in my own life, and how He had changed me, replacing the weariness and chaos with simple pure peace. Monique stood up and faced her friends. She began to tell her story of how God had broken into her existence, how He had transformed her, and how He had become a reality in her life. It was a beautiful, raw moment of sharing. This time, when we finished, she grabbed the translator and came over to me. “I want you to know that next time you come, if I’m not here, it’s not because I don’t want to be here.” She waited for the translator and then continued. “ I have cancer.” Boom. I felt the wind being sucked out of my lungs. “I wanted to let you know that I probably won’t be here, and I didn’t want you to think that I just didn’t come.” Here she stood, with her bright smile, making sure I wouldn’t feel bad. She had cancer, but she was worried about me! I asked if I could pray for her, and we held hands and prayed to our Father. We stood there, my new sister and me, asking for a way, please for a way... She hugged me and kissed my cheek, and I waved good-bye. You have to understand, Haiti is not known for its medical expertise, and in this village, the chance of medical intervention was even slimmer. I’ve been to a Haitian hospital. Most times your chances are better on the outside. I watched her go, this woman who had become a sister to me. Different language, different skin color, different life. Same Father God. And I cried for Him, “Please, heal her!”
I arrived back in the US and sent out a plea for prayer partners for Monique. I sent a picture to put a face with the name with the request. And then Haiti closed. There would be no more flights in, first, due to violence, then due to COVID. I couldn’t write her. There is no mail service. I couldn’t phone her. We were cut off – except for one very important connection: our God. “God, somehow, somehow, let me get in touch with Monique. Let me tell her we are praying. Let her know she is not forgotten! Somehow make a way!”
I was back in the States. It had been a year since I had been able to be in Haiti. I hadn’t stopped praying for a way, a way to connect with Monique, and a way for her to be healed, a way to continue pouring into her life. One evening, my messenger app dinged. It was our translator, Francinni. Francinni lived in Port au Prince, but he had led a group to take some much needed supplies to surrounding villages. The group had gotten stranded due to an outbreak of violence down their route. They wouldn’t be able to make it safely home, so they had made their way to the nearest village. You probably guessed which one! Gressier… with a phone! And who had he just run into? Monique! He said she was right there with him, asking about me. I quickly wrote out a note that said in Creole “I pray for you!”, took the selfie and sent the picture. He sent back a picture of Monique, still smiling, looking strong. She had had surgery – not a great prospect in Haiti. And yet, there she stood. She said it was rough, but she had survived the surgery, and the cancer seems to be gone. I was able to share life-breathing verses with her from God’s Word. I hung up amazed, simply and speechlessly amazed.
There are moments when you get to experience God in such a personal way that you are changed. The knowledge of Him, the knowledge of an attribute becomes much more than mere knowledge. It becomes tangible and real and intimate; it provides you with his name, a name that reverberates who he is to you. That day, God showed me that situations do not intimidate Him. He showed me that what are obstacles for me are non-existent for Him. He showed me that the God of the universe cares, and moreover, he is all-powerful. He showed me that where there seems to be no way is exactly the place He shows up best. And He gave me His name, a name that now was personal and intimate. His name? Way-maker.
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