Jamaica Mission Trip, May 2017
Before the Trip First and foremost, I am a Christian. The Catholic faith has always been central in my life, and as such every decision I made is considered through the lens of faith. And that was no different in January, 2017. It was a weekday, nothing particularly special was going on. I had meandered into the Ministry Office at Benedictine College, where I had just begin my last semester of college. I worked for the Ministry department, creating programs and events that brought the student body together in a positive environment. But today, I was there simply to spend time with my friends. I was standing in the far corner of the room, making small talk, when Greg Limeux walked in. Greg is a friend of mine, who works for a missionary organization called FOCUS (The Fellowship Of Catholic University Students). FOCUS missionaries have often invited me to go to conferences, retreats and other types of faith encounter events. As a rule, I meet these invitations with some degree of irritation. Those sorts of things are for students very undeveloped in their faith, who may not have even encountered Christ in a meaningful way yet. They aren’t for me. But Greg is different. Unlike the other missionaries, he has really taken the time to develop a relationship with me. We hang out, we talk, we help each other out with little projects. So when Greg says something to me, he has built up enough of a relationship with me that I am assured to take it seriously. “Hey Nick,” Greg says. “How would you like to go on a mission trip to Jamaica in May?” I believe in being honest with people, but also in allowing them the opportunity to state their case. So I responded: “I wouldn’t. Tell me more.” Ultimately, Greg convinced me to submit the application. The way I figured it: I was saying yes to God by moving forward with each subsequent step. But all the while, I was hoping that something would get in my way, and I wouldn’t be able to go. I had said ‘yes’ to God, but held out hope that He would still say ‘no’ to the trip. Needless to say, God did not say ‘no,’ and on Friday, May 14 2017, just 24 hours after graduating from college, I found myself flying from school, to Miami Florida, where a group of young men who I did not know waited for me. We barely had time to get acquainted when we boarded our plane to Kingston Jamaica Monday morning. Jamaica When we landed in Jamaica, we went through customs, and walked outside to wait for our ride. We were staying with the Missionaries of the Poor, a religious community dedicated to serving people who would otherwise be neglected and unloved. After what seemed like an hour of waiting outside in the Caribbean sun for someone who I didn’t know to take me to some place I had never been, our driver arrived, and we took off towards what would become our home for the next week. As we drew closer to our destination, the reason we were there became shockingly apparent. Swiftly, the city went from being populous, developed and slightly confusing (like every city), to being a disheveled, treacherous wasteland. Dogs with mange roamed the streets. The buildings looked like explosions had destroyed them, and their inhabitants had used the broken pieces to hodge-podge together some sort of shelter. The people on the streets looked solitary and abandoned; completely without any capability or hope of escaping their unfortunate circumstances. The house we were staying at, where the Brother of the Missionaries of the Poor lived, was at ground zero, right in the middle of the mess. Unsurprisingly, there were walls on all four sides, and we had to be let in through a large, steel gate. We didn’t see much of the Brothers that afternoon, and the rest of the day passed without further event. Day 1 The next day, we began to work. The Missionaries took me, and another young man named Chris, to one of their locations where they took care of mentally handicapped women. They called it “Jacob’s Well,” because it is the place where the Samaritan woman met Jesus. My first experience there was overwhelming. The women were so excited to see new faces, and greeted Chris and me with countless hugs. They loved our hair. One of the women continually pulled on Chris’s for several minutes. They smelled bad. They didn’t speak clearly. They weren’t dressed well, they were very dirty and most of them had strange mannerisms. I was altogether overwhelmed. Chris and I spent the day washing their faces, feeding them, cleaning up after them, and simply spending time with them. It gave them visible joy to have us there with them. One of the woman there was named Martha. Martha was not tall, and likely had more fingers than teeth. But she had enough love to reach even the most distant of hearts. “You’re my best friend,” she told me repeatedly. “And I’m going to pray for you. You’re my best friend, Nick. I. Love. You.” Twice, Martha kissed me on the cheek. Both times gesturing for me to return the favor. With this small act, Martha blessed me with her tremendous love, and allowed me to offer my imperfect love in return. Day 2 The next day, I went with Luis, who became my closest companion on the trip, to The Lord’s Place. This was another home for women: sick, elderly or simply abandoned by their friends and families. Many had mental or physical disorders, though some were merely worn out by the passage of time. One woman there was called “Smiley.” Smiley’s teeth had all rotted down to her gums, and she could not (or simply did not) speak. But she had a constant smile on her face. She loved company, and at one point she held my hand tight for nearly half an hour while I met the other woman at Lord’s Place. At one point, Luis and I played music for the residents. It gave them astounding joy and excitement. Most of them knew the songs and kept the beat. The worst part of the day was the woman in a wheel chair with a deformed body. Throughout the course of the morning and into the afternoon, she incessantly ground her teeth. I could hear it from across the garden area. She only stopped grinding her teeth when she slept. There was another woman there who wasted away hours writhing on the ground. And there was a woman whose wheel chair was tied to a post so she wouldn’t move. Added to these graphic sights was a consistent odor. We didn’t have to look to see the disparity there, we could smell it. These people were not just homeless, they were helpless. Day 3 This was the most touching day of the trip. The day began like all the others. We woke up at 5:00, went to Morning Prayer, Mass and worship. We ate breakfast, then were given our assignments for the day. I was sent with our group leader, Herman and another guy to Bethlehem, the center for children. It was heartbreaking to see how disfigured some of the kids’ bodies were. Even still, so many of them still lived with an unending abundance of simple joy. There was Ashani; whose head was larger than a full grown man’s, yet his body seemed badly malnourished, with no muscle to pad his bones. Ashani was probably seven or eight years old. Nonetheless, he laughed, talked, asked questions and loved being carried outside. He told me repeatedly that I was his best friend. I tried to teach him to say “dandy” whenever someone asked him, “how are you?” There was the little girl I carried for a half an hour and laughed with incomparable bliss whenever we walked through the clothes drying on a line outside. There were the two little boys who repeated me whenever I shouted “Ay-Oh!” And there was Bob. Bob was probably five years old. His body had normal proportions, but one arm only went past his elbow, he only had on foot, seemingly connected by no leg. His on hand had a normal pinky and ring finger, but the other fingers were all attached in a sort of thumb structure. Bob lived in the sort of condition where people might ask whether life is even worth living. But it took only 5 minutes with Bob to see that all life is worth living. Simply a look into his eyes told you about the vitality he possessed. Bob loved life. Day 4 Luis and I were sent together again. We went to The Good Shepherd; a center for men, most of whom had mental disorders, and some physical disorders. This was the most challenging day for me. When we arrived, I spent the first 10 minutes of my day with a very large man. He kept grocery bag packed with chunks of bread in his shirt under his armpit. The man repeatedly took the bag out and showed it to me. He would mumble something every time, but I never understood what he said. There was another fellow there named Donovan, who told me he ran the place. Donovan has very short arms, and to even shorter legs. He went around in a wheel chair, coherent to the point of telling the other residents what the needed to do and informing the brothers if anything was wrong. Donovan was a good listener, and an even better talker. Donovan enjoyed telling us visitors that he is “the king of Jamaica, the king of dominos, the king of women.” We had Mass there, and during every song, there was a 40 or 50 year-old man who would dance around the room, moving his hips and clapping, whenever we sang. In the afternoon, Luis and I spend nearly two hours shaving men’s faces. They were so patient with us. Day 5 This was our off day. We got to sleep in until 6:30. After our normal routine of Mass, morning prayer and adoration, we got to spend a day at the beach. When we got there, I was amazed to see all the debris that continually washed up on shore. We had to rake away all the drift wood and trash on a section of the shore in order to enjoy the ocean itself. It frustrated me so much to see locals come there and appear completely oblivious to the reality that surrounded them. Their beautiful country was in shambles, but they didn’t care. They had their own wealth, their own comfort, and didn’t give thought to anything else. Day 6 This was our last full day in Jamaica. It was a Sunday, and we had to make sure all the residents could go to Church. So at 8:45 we drove to the centers to make sure that everyone was ready. I went to Bethlehem again. Mass was celebrated on the second story of the center. I will never forget the experience of Mass that day. All the songs were from a music book called “Caribbean Worship,” and the congregation clapped, danced and sang loudly throughout the entirety of the service. People were joyful and excited to be there. I sat next to Luis, who held Bob. Bob didn’t just sing, he practically shouted the prayers and songs. It certainly was not the most reverent service I had ever been to, but by far the most passionate and engaging. At the end of it all, I was left with one of the most transformative experiences of my entire life. In Jamaica I was exposed to greater suffering than I had ever imagined. I was exposed to true hunger, true pain and true poverty. In the U.S., we think of poverty in terms of an economic class. In Jamaica, poverty was having no food to eat, no clothes to wear, no place to sleep, no friends to take care of you. In Jamaica, poverty was tangible. Jamaica was a wake-up call. It’s so easy to take things for granted, and become self-centered in college or at home. My problems today consist of getting project at work done on time. My worries are weather my cell phone will have enough battery to last me through the Major League Baseball game I go to on a weeknight. I am blessed with all the material goods I could ever need. The people in Jamaica are not. And yet, they are still joyful. I learned many things in Jamaica. But certainly the clearest message would be the exuberant witness from the people there who reminded me that all life is a blessing, and that it is worth living.
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Nick MartinMy name is Nick Martin. I write sometimes. These are my thoughts. Archives
July 2021
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