The scene is simple: I arrive at the Montreal airport at 4:30 am; my flight is at 6:30. I have a lot—and I mean a lot—of luggage. I have just spent a week in Quebec preparing for an exhibition of photographs I will be showing in Port-au-Prince. Oh, yes! I also have a box full of stuff for Marie-Pier, who works at L’Arche Carrefour. She is currently developing an art workshop for the day program. Here’s the short version: I’ve had too little sleep, not enough to eat, and I am extremely stressed at the thought of all of this stuff heading off, without me, into the secret corridors of the airport.

A few minutes later, I land in front of Maria, who works for the very prestigious airline, AA. Ready to present her with my ticket, my passport, my smile, my ton of extra baggage – and, frankly, anything else she might want. I am always in a conciliatory mood when I have too much. A professional woman, formidable, her voice stern, she greets me without a smile, then smiles without greeting me. “The boxes can’t go; they are prohibited,” she tells me flatly, her tone impersonal and somewhat cold. “What do you mean?” I ask, quite naively. She heads over to the next counter, coming back with an official AA flyer, which she proceeds to read to me, taking care to underline, with her index finger, the French text printed there.

EMBARGO: Everything in me is screaming, but only inside my head; I’m afraid of customs officers. EMBARGO: There it is, in black-and-white, with little touches of blue­—“From November 21 to January 10, no boxes will be accepted on flights to the Caribbean.” So, I play the game: “You know, ma’am, Haiti – it’s a bit of a world unto itself; I’m not even sure it’s in the Caribbean!” She confirms it for me: “Haiti is in the Caribbean – so, no boxes. “But ....” No. “Maybe ....” No.

Then she leaves without another word; I’m a little ticked off; and I see her talking to a man. Greying, with a very calm demeanour, he listens to her without looking at her. He’s busy, that’s clear. I wait without really expecting anything, the hamsters in my brain running at 100 miles an hour. What am I going to do? I came to Quebec to get the 34 photographs that will be presented next week in Port-au-Prince: I can’t leave without them! The woman comes back; still as formidable, still as professional.

“Monsieur Boulet-Groulx, you could always take out what’s in the boxes and distribute the contents among your other suitcases.”

“The problem, ma’am, is that it will be difficult to fold wooden frames in four – especially without destroying the photos inside them.”

“I understand, Monsieur.”

She understands. She understands! So, she’s going to tell me about the trick of sleight-of-hand she’ll play, before my very eyes, to send my boxes to another world and to arrange for them to arrive safely at their destination? No. She understands French; I think that’s what she wants to say. So she understands, but doesn’t really understand, and she tells me that there’s nothing she can do. I believe her. She isn’t being mean, this woman, Maria, just professional, that’s all. Then she leaves again, heading back to the man, without saying a word to me. I’m about to swear. They come back together. The same stern approach, sober, professional. I find them beautiful all of a sudden, standing there in their AA vests. They exude a certain charisma of confidence, like professionals, like dentists.

The man introduces himself: Peter. And it’s just as Simone Weil has so profoundly written: I stand in front of this human being, looking for his humanity, waiting silently for him to do the right thing.

“Were you aware of the embargo, Monsieur Boulet-Groulx?”

“No.”

“Did you have these boxes with you when you came from Haiti?”

“No.”

He is calm, his concern genuine. I have confidence immediately. Not in my chances, but in him, in this man who stands before me and wants to help me. He takes his time, outlining the risks involved in allowing me to leave with the boxes: There’s a serious risk that they will be taken off the plane in Miami, my transfer point; after that, they will be, for all intents and purposes, irretrievable. He tells me that last year the EMBARGO only started in December. He suggests gently, with a confident and steady voice, that they change my reservation—at no extra charge to me— to a flight on another day, so that I can find a solution. He is busy and yet is present enough to me to help me find a way to get this exhibit to its destination.

Without knowing it, he has helped me, L’Arche, and the cause. He could have been distant and remained aloof to my problem, but he chose instead to create a connection, with my boxes and with me. Some will say that this is to be expected; I would say that it is human. He dealt with me and then left me in Maria’s care once more. She did everything necessary to accommodate me and explained the restrictions to me in detail. She even calls me later that day to reassure me: I will be able to bring three suitcases, and the AA counter staff will be alerted before my flight the next day.

This story—which I am writing while sitting comfortably in a leather seat waiting for my flight to Port-au-Prince, is a roundabout way of talking to you about people who gravitate around L’Arche without necessarily being an integral part of the organization. What a detour to take to talk to you about a marvellous encounter I had the opportunity to live last week ...

You see, my dear friend, Jean-Louis, thought it would be a good idea to take me on a little trip to southern Quebec, where they make fabulous ice cream, to meet the genius behind this blog and behind the coming L’Arche Haiti website—and behind a whole lot of other things! (Clearly, Bernard, the webmaster, will have a chance to erase all my praise before he posts this blog; no matter, I still want to thank him here. Bernard, thanks.)

But wait—the story is far from over! On this lovely mid-November day, cool and sunny, I am driven along back roads, across mountains and valleys, through lovely countryside, green and majestic, directly to the house of Jacques and Hélène. The first one to welcome us is Balzac, an enormous dog with long, white hair. His name should tell you a bit about the gathering I am about to describe.

Of all the food that exists, there is none so sweet or essential as the food of the spirit.

Hélène Laberge, with a pure and simple smile, invites us into the house. As soon as I enter, I find exactly the kind of décor I had imagined of an intellectual couple. There are books everywhere, and to accompany my steps and my curious eyes, there is the sweet smell of home-cooking. The ambiance is firmly in place; my heart is warmed. Then we head into the kitchen, the best place to feed our appetites – those of our stomachs and our grey matter!

Quietly, as if we have already met, I shake hands with Jacques Dufresne. As I encounter this man who is so passionate about the truth, the first thing I see are his blue eyes. Over the next several hours, we have a marvellous intergenerational discussion ranging across the widest variety of subjects—with Jacques and Hélène feeding especially our discussion of history and philosophy. Jacques is the more talkative, while Hélène is more reserved, without however ever being left out. Suddenly, she rests her hand on her husband’s leg. He is her life’s companion, and I see in that act, in their glances, all the love and all the respect that these two young people give each other. They are also blessed with a memory that, yes, seems to me genetically altered. How can I hold on to all they shared with us? Every pore in my body is open and receptive. I would never have believed it possible to participate in such a discussion and to feel at ease, even if Socrates and Ivan Illich are not my cup of tea (Thoreau and Maman Dion [singer Celine Dion’s mother, a popular TV host and foundation patron in Quebec] are more my style). It’s great; it’s refreshing; it’s magic to discover people so coherent, so lucid. It might seem banal to talk about coherence, but I’m certain they will be pleased with the compliment.

These people—Peter, Maria, Jacques, and Hélène—are among those who, without being directly involved in L’Arche, are drawn to us, and help, in their own ways, to spread and help thrive that which we live every day. They represent the good that we expect from the Other at every turn.

I encourage you (I’m trying not to say “I insist”) to follow the link on the right side of this blog. It will take you to the Encyclopédie de L’Agora, created by Jacques Dufresne.

To close today’s long blog, I would like to return to these words of Simone Weil:

At the bottom of the heart of every human being, from earliest infancy until the tomb, there is something that goes on indomitably expecting, in the teeth of all experience of crimes committed, suffered, and witnessed, that good and not evil will be done to him. It is this above all that is sacred in every human being.

And to add this ...

Of these tranquil days, there are things we wish would last forever—magic moments we know have ended and yet will remain with us forever.

First impression ... at the beginning of the exhibition Mwen pa vle rete nan fè nwa anko! December 10th - Parc de la Canne à sucre Port-au-Prince, Haïti

From the other side of the street, the strains of a merengue reach my ears; my toes start to wriggle with pleasure. On this side, the dance music is displaced by Unlivia’s high-pitched voice—just a decibel too loud—and my heart wriggles in response to it. On one side of the street as on the other, life demands that we pay attention to it. These signs of life that ask for nothing, in fact, except to exist.

A fine rain is falling, a gentle rain we would say at home and here in the house of the Friends of Jesus (the name of the house is Jesus amigos), life goes on as usual. Unilvia laughs too loud, lovely in her clumsiness; Jésus looks for someone to comfort him; Heriberto takes a taxi driver’s business card out of his pocket and then puts it back. Life goes on as usual, and it makes me happy.

Have I told you about Luisito, who dances alone?

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Jesus, L'Arche Santo Domingo

 Have you accepted Jesus in your life?

I know; the answer to that question is not simple. In fact, not only is it not simple, the question itself has become taboo in our society – it’s as if faith should only be discussed in the abstract, philosophically ...

I have discovered Jesus here; he is the charming young man whose photograph you no doubt admired above. A being clothed completely in feelings; his eyes are like pearls; that rare kind which pierces souls and leaves us feeling more at peace with life. Jesus needs a lot of attention, more than one prayer a day if you want my opinion. And, for him, words are not necessary, since everything happens at the level of the heart, the vital organ from which comes generosity, love, forgiveness. He falls asleep every night smiling like a child, and he returns to us each morning, completely resurrected from his dreams. This is a Jesus who knows the rejection of his peers, who looks someone straight in the eye and says: “I love you, and I forgive you for what you do, to me and to others like me.”

Might it be taboo to speak of Jesus in this way. ? His own world is composed of the touch of others, of love, and of the generosity of his friends. I heard an old neighbour standing in the street yesterday afternoon, telling the story of Jesus and the taxi driver. This is how Fran, an English assistant newly arrived in the community, translated the story to me. 

It happened one morning in January, on one of those cold mornings when taxi drivers are nervous at the wheel and honk their horns for the simple pleasure of warming up their fingers. The streets in this neighbourhood are narrow; everyone knows that. But the taxi driver wasn’t from the area and was apparently unaware of this fact. In addition, when his car was blocked by a dead end created by two badly parked cars, he wasn’t warming up his fingers for pleasure. It was still early in the day, and a neighbour of L’Arche, Juan Pedro, who has a very Latin temperament, wasn’t at all pleased about having been awakened by a taxi driver with freezing fingers. He came out, barely dressed, to chew out the guilty party – the one making all the noise. Their argument, not always very orthodox, went on for more than 10 minutes, without either man apparently managing to say his piece. And voila! The whole neighbourhood was out in the street, watching them yelling at each other.

Then the miracle happened– and those without faith should read no further! Jesus, this young 16-year-old man who cannot speak, came out of the house; the assistants weren’t aware he had gone out. He avoided the neighbours in the street and placed himself in front of the two men. A silence, like that of the dead, fell on the group outside, even though all the radios in the neighbourhood continued to spit the notes of a merengue out of every house. Jésus, without a word spoken, opened his arms to embrace, first of all, the neighbour, Juan Pedro. Still no sound. Everyone waited to see how Juan Pedro would respond, so they could respond in turn. Juan Pedro didn’t respond. Then Jésus, never discouraged by people’s interior silence, let go of his neighbour and put his arms around the taxi driver. Silence still. Jésus smiled, then stood back. At that moment, the miracle happened. A laugh, coming from deep in the heart of Paradise, burst from everyone’s lips. A natural laugh, a happy laugh, a real laugh …  

………………………………….

Sandra dances with Jesus to the strains of imaginary music, and in the grace of their movements, the rhythm of the music takes shape. Can you see them the way I see them? The great Jacques Brel * would be proud; it’s a waltz in three-quarter time, a waltz that only speeds up in the smiles of these people who walk a tightrope of joy.

Sandra is responsible for this house which shelters the snores of a man who is just a little tired – Dios con nosotros (God with us). A young woman of 38, who has lived in L’Arche for more than 20 years, Sandra is, to me, the perfect model of an assistant who might be able, all by herself, to carry the community on her shoulders so that it might move further. Her eyes reflect an intelligence of the heart and of striking humanity ...

……………………………….

I’ll close today by mentioning the names of the marvellous folks who make L’Arche Santo Domingo a welcoming family to an adopted Haitian like me. Thanks to you all.

Audry, Luis Rafael, Rossina, Emmanuel, Maria Elena, Sandra, Christian, Rafaela, Isabel, Dolly, Noellia, Fran, Anny, Luisito, Heriberto, Unilvia, Jocelyne, Jesus, Jiovanny, Lisa, Flor Maria, Yajaïra… and those whose names I have forgotten because, unfortunately, I have never been very good with names! 
 

* Allusion to Jacques Brel and his song Une valse à trois temps