Sometimes a new path begins with a sudden, devastating ending.

On a warm September evening, just minutes after my husband, Rich, and I pledged that we would slow down and make more time for each other, he died. He had a severe asthma attack — the first one in our 11-year marriage. As we raced to the hospital, I followed the 911 operator’s instructions and pulled over to wait for an ambulance. I begged Rich to hang on, to keep breathing. But on the corner of Bluebird and Sandpiper Rd. in Cottage Grove, Wisconsin, before the paramedics arrived, he was gone. Our son, Luke, had just turned five. I was 34.

I never imagined this would happen to me. It wasn’t even a fear. It wasn’t anywhere on my radar screen. We had so many plans. He was so healthy. We had just bought a house. We were trying to have another baby. Our home-based business had so much potential. I had our lives all mapped out, being such a planner, and in an instant, the future I’d envisioned was gone.

In the long, numbing days and months that followed, I searched for answers, trying to understand “why”, to find meaning that could help me through the grief. The faith that had guided and nurtured me every Sunday as a child in the front left pew of the church where my father was the minister, suddenly wasn’t full enough to hold the pain in my heart. So I searched and dug and prayed for help, for strength, for clarity, for guidance, for something to pull me through. My son gave me a reason to get out of bed in the morning, but I sincerely questioned whether I’d ever live fully and find joy again.

I remember a night six months later curled up on the living room floor with only the energy to press play and repeat on my favorite CD of Russian monks chanting. The room was dark, except for a candle. In my imagination, I pretended I wasn’t alone. Rich was holding me. God was holding me. They told me it was going to be okay and not to worry, my heart would heal and the future was beautiful. As I cried and rocked in the fetal position, not believing them, I felt a part of me rise up and speak. I heard myself whisper to God that I was ready to move forward, that everything I thought I’d be doing in the future left when Rich died so I had no plans. I was available — open to whatever… I surrendered that night, in a way I never had before. I said I’d move, change careers, learn new things, go with Luke wherever I was led.

I waited for a response. I looked for signs as I drove Luke to kindergarten. I prayed for vivid dreams. I listened in the silence when I took breaks from working on my business. I followed butterflies, read spiritual books, wrote in journals, took long walks. Every day, I watched for something different, something unusual, something that might be the answer to my prayer.

About a year later, still muddling through my days, I bumped into the singer/songwriter Bryan Sirchio on a retreat. Seeing him reminded me of a song he’d sung years before about Haiti. The lyrics described a visitor from the United States in a restaurant in Haiti waiting for his meal. Just as the waiter brought him an overflowing plate of delicious food, hungry children peaked through the window and stared at his plate, their noses pressed against the glass. The waiter leaned over the table and pulled down the window shade so the visitor wouldn’t be disturbed by their haunting, hungry eyes. “Enjoy your meal,” he said as he walked away.

This song, tucked away in my heart for years, awakened as soon as I saw Bryan. I asked if he still sang it and whether he ever visited Haiti. He said yes and casually invited me to go with him on the next trip he was leading. I’d have the opportunity to learn about Haiti and volunteer at a hospice and orphanage. He said it would be a powerful experience. “Their lives will transform you, Margaret.”

Oh, how I wanted transformation. I said “yes” instantly, before I had time to think of all the reasons why it might not be a good idea. Where was Haiti exactly anyway, was it safe to visit, who would take care of Luke, could I afford to leave my business, did I have the energy? But my heart responded so quickly, so enthusiastically, so confidently, that I trusted it. And, because Bryan’s invitation was so “out of the blue,” I thought that maybe it was the sign I’d been waiting for.

Nine months later, I left Luke with my mother and father, packed my bags, and flew to Port-au-Prince, Haiti’s capital, for what I thought would be a one-time visit. On the plane, I opened my first book about Haiti’s history and the unjust economic, political, and historical reasons why it is the most materially poor country in the Western Hemisphere. I was stunned and scared by what I read in Paul Farmer’s book, The Uses of Haiti, and started to worry about whether an American would be welcomed and safe in a country that had been so hurt by U.S. foreign policy over two centuries. But the plane was landing and there was no turning back. “Their lives are going to transform you,” I kept reminding myself as I stepped out into what felt like an entirely different world.

Bryan was right. My heart broke open with what I experienced in those two weeks. I never could have prepared for the poverty I saw, the faith, hope, and love found in the people I met, and the inner struggle that erupted within me as I wrestled with my own comparative privilege (I still do, and probably always will, wrestle with this) and how to respond. The shade was pulled up and I was face to face with the children on the other side of the window. I couldn’t pull it back down. One night, in a whirlwind of overwhelming emotions, I met a Haitian priest, Fr. Gerard Jean-Juste, who shared a vision he had for a food program for the hungry children in his community. Something inside me lit up when he shared his longing to feed them and I wondered if there was any way I could help make his vision a reality. I lived so far away, didn’t speak French or Creole, didn’t have a lot of money or a clue what I could do from my home, but I felt a stirring, a curiosity, a calling to be open and believe in possibilities. What if this was the answer to my prayer?

That first trip to Haiti was just the beginning of my journey to heal my heart, deepen my faith, and find my life’s passion after Rich’s death. Now, I look forward to sharing with you what I’ve learned along the way as I stepped into the unknown to do something far beyond what I thought I could do: create a partnership with a Haitian community so that hungry children could be fed and educated. I’ll share my fears, joys and struggles as the founder and Executive Director of the What If? Foundation, which is devoted to providing hope and opportunity to impoverished children in Haiti and currently funds over 7,000 meals each week and 200 school scholarships.

And I’ll pass on the wisdom I’ve learned from this experience and my Haitian friends, about the daunting challenge of sustaining hope, courage, faith, energy, and vision in the midst of overwhelming obstacles.

My favorite Creole saying is “Piti piti na rive.” It means “little by little we will arrive.” I have this phrase written on my computer monitor so that I am reminded daily of the value of taking small steps towards change (both internally and externally) and how as we each do what is possible for us, we can achieve what may seem impossible. There is tremendous power that can come from the smallest step, if only we’ll take it.

I hope you’ll join me in the journey!