Day 9 – St. James (Montego Bay & Home)
This was supposed to be just a get-out-of-town day, but it turned into more than that. Of course, we couldn’t resist one last plunge into the ocean from the cliffs of our hotel. We begged some oatmeal from the restaurant, which hadn’t really opened yet, and hit the road.
The night before, we had dropped off some supplies with Chandan’s dad and arranged to meet with him in the morning. Johnson had gotten to know the Hi Lo staff and uncovered some needs for their extended families, so we stopped by there and gave them the last of the supplies we had brought, and bought some Lasco and bun & cheese to take home.
Standing outside the Hi Lo, this man came up to me, reached out his hand, and asked for the oatmeal I was about to eat. I had just taken my first bite, and it was so good and warm and filling. I looked on this man who truly looked hungry and gave him my nearly untouched oatmeal. I joked as we walked away that that was the greatest sacrifice I had made to this point (only I wasn’t totally joking because I really wanted that oatmeal).
While we waited for Chandan, we walked to the other side of the roundabout to the Tastee Patties. It didn’t open until later, but Johnson waited for the guy through the window and asked if he could help us out with some patties, cocoa bread, and box drinks. He joined a long line of people so accommodating to us and supportive of our service.
Chandan arrived, and we bought a few souvenirs for the family, and he gave us some tokens of his appreciation for our service, and we began our journey to Montego Bay.
The roads were in great shape for the most part, and we made great time and only had a couple of close calls that we all giggled through. Okay, mostly Anderson and I giggled through them, but Johnson enjoyed them too.
I dropped Anderson and Johnson off for their flight, and we embraced, and I wished them luck. As I pulled away, I felt a loneliness that sank deep into my heart. The incredible strength I had derived from these good men and carried and sustained me in a way I had not fully appreciated until they were gone.
With a few hours to kill, I had the thought to go to the craft market. I dismissed that because I did not want to be a tourist. I was there to help, I was there to provide relief and comfort, not to join with the throngs of “visitors”; this was home. Driving a little further up the road, I could not shake the impression, so I turned toward the craft market. What I discovered was that God had another lesson to teach me.
The Montego Bay craft market, to my memory, was a beehive of activity and commerce. What I found was less than a dozen vendors sitting quietly among two hundred closed shops. I was the only one there. In talking with the vendors, I learned that I was the first customer all week and that many of the vendors didn’t even bother to come down anymore. The ripple effects of Hurricane Melissa extend far beyond the damage to infrastructure and loss of life. The economic impacts are still being felt, even from a great distance from the devastating destruction. I only had a hundred or so dollars, but tried to buy from as many of the vendors as I could. While walking around the vacant market, a woman called out to me and said she remembered me and asked if I remembered her. I did not believe that she actually remembered me until she said, “You’re the white man who speaks patois and lived up in Albion.” I couldn’t believe it. She shared with me that her home had been damaged, and she spent most nights sleeping in her shop. I gave her what Jamaican money I had left on me and held her while she wept. It was not the experience I thought I would have at the craft market.
Leaving the craft marketing, I drove up to that house in Albion where we lived so many years ago, and I drove to the area where Christensen and I had worked together every day. I marveled that we rode those steep, windy hills on our bikes and that we were struck by a car on the narrow roads.
Returning to the airport and dropping off the rental, I had to explain to the worker what I had been doing and where I had been, and once again was grateful this van was fully insured because it was in rough shape.
Sitting at the gate and reflecting on our experience, I could not help but cry. So many feelings swirled through my head and my heart. Above the grief and the guilt, and greater than the sadness and even the joy, one feeling rose above them all. Gratitude. Gratitude for the loving men and women I served with, gratitude that the Lord trusted me with this mission, gratitude for the guidance and protection we traveled with, gratitude for my wife and children, for whose support I could not have done this without, and gratitude for a long-ago call to serve and assignment to labor in Jamaica, Land We Love.