This was the Facebook post on November 16, 2010 that stopped me in my tracks. I had been reading and watching the news about the Haiti earthquake and its aftermath since Jan 12. My immediate response at that time was to go and help out in whatever way I could. However, due to obstacles regarding work, child care, and finances, it was not a feasible option at that time. The biggest obstacle by far, however, was my husband. The coverage on the news was extensive…and graphic. I pled a small, weak case for going, so it wasn’t that hard for him to completely dismiss the trip…or even the idea of talking about the trip for that matter. He didn’t want me anywhere near that place; that was clear. So I didn’t go, and I didn’t talk about it anymore. But I kept watching and wondering and quickly – guiltily – passing over the pleas that my friend Angela would post on Facebook on behalf of International Ministries and their need for doctors and nurses, as if those pleas weren’t even there. Every time the call came out and I turned away, it felt like I was turning away from individuals who were personally asking for my help. I felt as though I was being held back from something I was meant to do, and I felt it to the core.

It was an idyllic nine months after the earthquake on my end. As the winter faded and Bobby finished up his basketball season, spring broke and Rachel started her horse riding lessons. I had switched from part-time to per diem at work which cleared my schedule tremendously. The kids and I spent some time in KY with my family during spring break and immediately after school ended for the summer vacation. We enjoyed the company of relatives and old friends, saw some sights, and ate amazing food. There was a family reunion of sorts in TN in August with 16 of us staying in one luxurious cabin for a few days and cruising around Gatlinburg together. The fall semester started and the kids went back to school as did I for a perioperative nursing course I had been dreaming about for quite a while. I glided through these months with very little stress or discontent. I had somehow managed to put the pieces of my life’s puzzle into the precise places they needed to be for me to be happy. Because I could schedule my shifts at the hospital when and how I wanted, I enjoyed my work much more. I wasn’t making as much money, but the benefits of fewer stressful hours far outweighed a bigger check. My class was going well, the kids were doing great, and Mark had also moved up in seniority at US Airways and could pretty much pick his schedule as well. It was a perfect paradigm compared to the troubled times of some others we knew.

But then October came and with it cholera in Haiti. It seemed to start out as a localized problem, but then reports started coming in that it was quickly taking on epidemic status. I began to get updates by email from International Ministries about the work being done by our missionaries down there and how strapped they were for manpower and resources. But I knew the timing was no better than it had been before because of my class and child care and I knew Mark would probably still be opposed to me going, especially with the rioting surrounding the upcoming elections, so I dismissed the emails and the posts - again.

As my class drew to a close, an opportunity came up at my hospital for a full-time OR position. I applied immediately and was told that, if I were chosen, the job would start at the end of January, 2011. While we made plans for the children’s birthdays and Christmas, which all fell close together, Mark’s parents announced they would be coming up to our area for Christmas. I was still only working 1-2 days a week and I was actually relaxed enough to be completely in the Christmas spirit even before Thanksgiving.  But then that one post came:

This time I didn’t pass over it. I stared at it for a few minutes and asked myself “Is he?” Of course I knew the answer. I’d known the answer since the earthquake hit ten months before. The trouble lay in making everyone else believe that he was calling me. Well, not “everyone” really, just one in particular…my husband. I started to resign myself to the fact that I may never get to go to Haiti if he had anything to do with it. What I don’t think I had made clear to him before, though, was how disillusioned I had become with my nursing career. I was feeling like a pillow-fluffer, a waitress, and a paper-pusher at the hospital. I wanted to feel like a nurse again.

I have always understood that the life of a floor nurse is mostly drudgery. It’s showing up day after day, night after night, to an establishment that will most certainly underappreciate your work and pay you in direct proportion to their level of appreciation. You will spend your days helping people that will only associate your name and face to one of the worst times in their lives. You give them their medications, bath them, feed them, chart their progress and anything else that, in your judgment, might come back to haunt you or the hospital in a lawsuit in years to come. There’s no glamour at all and for the most part, very little gratitude either. But nurses don’t nurse because of the money or the gratitude or the need to be in the spotlight. If they are, they shouldn’t be. And if they are, they will be disappointed very quickly. You do it to help those who are at their most vulnerable, those who need something, those who are stuck in a situation that they can’t remove themselves from. You do it to make a difference. Who but those in a disaster setting fits that bill more? When every resource they have is gone, they are left with you and whatever you bring with you. When every connection they have to hope is gone, you bring your words and your touch and a smile. When everyone else passes over them as if they weren’t there, you see them and tend to them. I always figured that when and if the time came, I would like to go that extra mile and be there in a tough situation. I’m not sure what my gifts are exactly, but I always thought I could use what few gifts I had in a chaotic, overwhelming, hopeless situation and make it a little better for someone…anyone. If only I could make Mark see that.

There was an obvious window of opportunity opening up soon. My class would be over by mid-December. My new full-time job wouldn’t start until the end of Jan. After the holiday visit to my family in KY, there were no obligations on my plate for a solid three weeks. And that’s when I remembered a story told by my former pastor, Martin Massaglia, had told years before. He told of a father and daughter who were caught on the streets during a bombing raid in the UK during WWII. I can't remember the specifics but I think they needed to take cover but there was no safe place around. Eventually the father found a deep pit made by one of the bombs and shimmied down into it. Because it was night, the daughter lost sight of him. The girl was left at the rim of the hole alone. Then she heard her father call out “Jump and I’ll catch you.” The girl was petrified at the thought of jumping into a seemingly bottomless pit and refused, saying “I can’t see you!” The father replied “But I  can see you! Jump!”

As I put my hands to the keyboard, I wondered if I should talk to Mark first. But this time I knew I would put up a better offense and he would have no choice but to give in. I would find the right words, the right arguments, and pray for God to clear the path. I was ready to jump.

So as I sat staring at the question that seemed to loom over the entire computer screen, I carefully keyed in what may have been the most understated, innocuous response I could have given in this situation…

“Sooo…you guys still need some help down there in Haiti or what?”