Since that time, I wish I could tell you that things are getting better for the majority of people in Port-au-Prince, but that is not the case.  Lavarice Gaudin, our program liaison, has been in Haiti since the earthquake and tells us that signs of clearing the rubble and rebuilding are difficult to find. The National Palace is still slumped on its side, and almost all the buildings that were reduced to piles of concrete and twisted metal by the earthquake remain untouched.  Little has changed since my visit to Haiti in April (click here to see photos from this trip).

There are now more than 1,000 camps in the city, where an estimated 1.5 million displaced Haitians live without electricity, without adequate sanitation, without any reliable sources of food and water.  There is pressure to relocate the camps, since most of them are on private property.  But there is no place for the people who live in them to go.  The hurricane season has started, the rains are coming, and children and their parents and grandparents are living in the mud, under leaky tarps and tents.  Mothers delivering babies, amputees without rehab… The conditions are horrendous, as you can imagine.

It’s overwhelming.  Frustrating.  Infuriating to think that after six months, so little help has reached the people.  The programs I’m involved in support just a fraction of those in need ­– 3,000 meals each weekday are served in the Tiplas Kazo neighborhood of Port-au-Prince to children and adults.  Some walk for miles.  But this is where I focus – on the little bit we can do, not on what we can’t do.

I’ve been thinking about Fr. Gerry a lot lately.  Father Gerry and I worked together for a little over nine years.  His vision of a food program for the hungry children in his community is what inspired me to create the What If? Foundation.  Fr. Gerry was a close friend and mentor and is the most courageous person I’ve ever known.  He lived his faith every day, put “word into deed,” and taught me endless lessons in patience, compassion, love, and hope.  He died over a year ago.  Oh, how I miss him and wish he were here to help lead us through this challenging period.  I know his spirit is felt in Haiti and I feel it here too, encouraging me from the other side and helping guide the food and education programs we worked on together.  I can hear him reminding me to keep believing in the power of small steps.  “Piti piti na rive.”

When I start to wonder where God is in the midst of the earthquake aftermath, I remember a conversation Father Gerry and I had years ago in Port-au-Prince.  I was overwhelmed by the suffering I saw all around me and asked him, “How is it, Father Gerry, that Haitian people have such a deep faith in God?  When there’s so little food and few jobs and no doctors or running water, I’d think that after a while, a person might reject the idea of God, or at least a loving and just God.”  He smiled.  I could tell he liked this question.

“God is the first and the last resource here.  We feel God’s presence more and more, because there is nobody else some days who can sustain us to allow us to survive.  It’s only God sometimes… In the midst of trouble, the presence of God is felt more and more.”

The Haitians have a proverb “Bondye konn bay, men li pa konn separe.”   Translated literally it means “God gives but doesn’t share.”  I really like this proverb.  For me, it means that God has given us everything we need on this earth to thrive.  There is enough food, enough water, enough natural resources, enough of everything that’s needed for every human being to live a healthy life.  But, it’s up to us to divide it up, to share – on a micro and macro level.  This is one of our responsibilities as human beings and as a whole, we’re failing miserably.  The gap between rich and poor widens daily.  The reality in Port-au-Prince is a vivid example of this.

I believe God works through people to create social change on earth. Participation, some sort of action, is required.  But we have free will.  We can choose to reach out – or not.  To open the shade – or pull it down.  To allow love to flow – or to block it.   To wait for someone else to do something – or to jump in ourselves.  To believe what we do doesn’t matter – or to believe that it does.

I remember my high school physics teacher saying in class one day that when a fly lands on a steel beam, the beam bends.  Even something as light as a fly has an impact on the beam.

Wherever our hearts take us, wherever they cry out for a response, may we take action, participate, and allow our unique contributions to impact the beam of social change, the beam of life.

Finally, I was ready to trust that if I let go of the tight grip I had on my to-do list, all would be well.  The work I’ve poured myself into for the last ten years to help feed and educate children in Port-au-Prince, Haiti, would not suffer.  In fact, quite the opposite – I imagined that it might flourish with all the fresh air that would be let in.  What if letting go created the space for new creativity, new ideas, new ways of doing things, new people, and new possibilities that just can’t be discovered when you’re holding on so tight?  What if working less was actually going to create more?

So, on January 1^st, teetering on the edge of burn-out, I plunged into an experiment of making myself and my quest for balance more of a priority than my work.

I was off to a good start for 11 days.  I slowed down, started exercising, began a cleanse, worried less, delegated more, stopped working on the weekends and evenings, and started reading a novel.  The What If? Foundation was doing great.  It didn’t require my constant attention.  I felt lighter, happier and really on track for a transformative year.  Each day I let go a little bit more and could feel the benefits of having space in my day, deeper breaths, a quieter mind.

Then came Tuesday, January 12^th.  When my cell phone, home phone, and two business phones all rang within a few seconds of each other, I knew something was wrong.   I was stunned by the news that a catastrophic earthquake had struck Port-au-Prince.  An earthquake?  I didn’t realize Haiti had earthquakes.  I’d never considered them a possibility.  My heart sank and my hands trembled as I searched online for more information.  So many buildings down, over two hundred thousand killed.

My thoughts immediately went to the food program at the St. Clare’s rectory, located about four miles from the Port-au-Prince airport.  The cooks would’ve just finished feeding over 1,000 children.  Were they alive?  Did the kitchens and cafeteria collapse?  What about the after-school program that starts each weekday at 4:30 pm?  The small rooms on the other side of the rectory building would’ve been packed with students.  I paced my office thinking of the worst and tried to reach my friends in Port-au-Prince, but had no word… for three days.   Then on Friday, a miracle.  News came that the cooks and the children were alive and the rectory had not collapsed.  Since the earthquake, they’d been sleeping outside and had run out of food and water, but they, and most people in the neighborhood were okay.

Together with Caitlin, the Foundation’s Assistant Director, I worked day and night to coordinate our relief effort.  The phone rang constantly.  Donations poured in.  I was constantly on email.  I hardly slept.  The work of the Foundation during this time required absolute attention and devotion.  All thoughts of balance vanished.

Five days after the earthquake our first relief trucks carrying food and water arrived in the neighborhood.  Lavarice Gaudin, our program liaison, coordinated the distribution of aid to thousands of people who had up until this point, not received any help.  A few days later, our courageous Haitian partners had the food program back up and running.  Before the earthquake, it served up to 7,500 hot meals/week.  Now it was serving 15,000 meals/week.

During times like this, where does the energy come from to focus and lead?  If you had asked when I wrote the “Letting Go” article if I had the energy for a big push, I would’ve told you no.  But I discovered reserves deep within that fueled and carried me through.  Perhaps it’s love that provides this strength.  Perhaps it’s pure will, fighting for those you love.

As I write this, I’m on an airplane flying home from my first visit to Haiti since the earthquake. The enormity of the devastation in Port-au-Prince and the suffering that is so widespread is overwhelming.  1.5 million people are living outside under tents, tarps, sheets, whatever they can find.  The rainy season has started and food is scarce.  I didn’t see one bulldozer clearing rubble.  It’s hard to imagine daily life improving in the near future with so few signs of aid reaching the poor majority.   And the hurricane season is right around the corner…

But along with feelings of grief and frustration, I feel enormous relief and gratitude for what we’ve been able to accomplish in the Tiplas Kazo neighborhood with our Haitian partners.  The food program is going strong.  Over 2,000 meals are being served to children and adults every weekday.  One of the highlights of my visit was helping pass out these meals.  To place a plate of rice, beans, and vegetables into the hands of a child, to watch the relief on their face, and to know you’ve been part of the chain of love that helped make it possible – it’s a priceless feeling.

The work of the foundation has grown dramatically since the earthquake and the months ahead are full of new challenges.  I’ve been working at a sprinter’s pace and this is a marathon.  My body is sending messages that I’ve pushed its limits.  The hidden reserves I drew on are gone.  I’ve got hives.  I’m losing my voice.  I’m exhausted.  I’ve depleted myself again – and for such good reason – but I have to find a way to resume my letting go experiment.  I must find a new balance.

Sometimes I wonder if I’ve got what it takes to achieve a healthy balance.  Am I strong enough to let go and trust that taking good care of myself can be achieved at the same time as serving others?  Do I have enough faith to follow the guidance of my inner voice, which is telling me to slow down?  I really don’t think I’m a workaholic.  When it’s personal, when your heart is fully engaged, when there’s a crisis, you just do whatever you can.   But at what cost?

So I’m beginning my letting go experiment again.  I’ve decided to start it by taking the day off tomorrow.  Even though my to-do list is long, even though at the top of the list is the need to raise money to build a new kitchen because we have to move the food program to a new site, even though I have pages of notes to go through from my trip, even though….  I’m taking a break.  It can wait a day or two or three.  Separating from it will help me see more clearly what to do in the days and months ahead.

Yes, it’s time to stop and listen to my body, which is begging for rest.  It’s time to stop and listen to my soul, which is calling for introspection.  I have wonderful support in the office.  I can do this.  I can learn to love myself enough to make my needs a priority.

Thankfully, the food program building in the St. Clare’s community of Port-au-Prince did not collapse and the team of leaders I’ve been working with for ten years are all alive.  They sprung to action as soon as we were able to get the first relief trucks in from the Dominican Republic on Sunday, January 17th, and have been distributing food and water ever since to as many people as possible.  I’m so thankful for the What If? Foundation’s partnership with this extraordinary Haitian community.  Thanks to them and other miracles that have unfolded, we’ve been able to respond quickly in a direct way.

I’ve been writing almost daily blog entries on our earthquake relief efforts.  Click here to read them.

The magnitude of this tragedy is unimaginable and the road ahead will be long.  Although we’re able to provide aid to only a tiny percentage of those in need, I remind myself of my favorite Haitian saying, “Piti piti na rive,” knowing that every prayer, every gift, every act of compassion makes a difference and that together as we reach out in love, profound change is possible.

Here it is, New Year’s Eve, the end of another 365 days, and I swore that THIS year, I’d achieve more balance in my life.  This year, I’d figure out how to gracefully arrive at appointments with minutes to spare and calmness in mind and spirit.  This year, I’d break free of the magnetic pull that binds me to my desk for many more hours than is healthy for me.  This year, I’d learn to take better care of myself – start that consistent exercise program, take mini-breaks throughout the day, begin soul nurturing art projects, read fiction, slow down, breathe.

There were days and a few weeks here and there that showed signs of progress, but the truth is that when I sit down tonight with my husband and son to do our annual intention collages, mine will look about the same as it has the last ten years.  I’ll pull out my poster board, flip through my O magazines, and paste beautiful pictures of calm water, sunsets, flowers, and women with serene faces doing yoga, praying, and meditating.  I’ll stare at these scenes that reflect my longing for a deeper inner life, more time in nature, and a body well cared for, and wonder again how another year has slipped by without me figuring out how to make this part of my reality.

I’m a self-employed business woman and the volunteer director for the What If? Foundation, so I control my time.  I should be able to learn how to fill up and replenish my precious tank of energy, joy, and tranquility – daily.   But here it is, the end of another year, and my tank feels dangerously low…again.

Part of my challenge is that up until today, I’ve hung onto a belief that if I worked hard enough, efficiently enough, I’d catch up, clear my email inbox, check everything off my to-do list and THEN I’d have time for all those other wonderful things my soul has been crying out for.  But sure enough, just as one problem is solved, another one arrives.  Just as I complete a project, another one zips right in.  Just when I think I’m nearly caught up, I’m not.  And another year goes by.

In just a couple months we’ll celebrate the 10^th anniversary of the food program the What If? Foundation supports in Haiti.  As I’ve written in earlier columns, partnering with my Haitian colleagues to bring our shared vision of food and education for impoverished children into reality has been incredibly rewarding, healing, inspiring, and enriches my life beyond measure.  Over the years, the food program has grown from feeding 500 children one meal/week to feeding over 1,000 children a meal five days/week.   We provided scholarships for 200 children in September and started funding an after-school program and a community garden.  It’s very exciting and I love being challenged, engaged, and involved in work that’s making a difference.

But even though my heart is fiercely determined to make sure that the meals and school scholarships continue, I’m so tired.  I can feel and hear warning signs within my body.   I know I can’t carry this pace into 2010.  This year, I must learn how to take care of myself with as much passion and focus as I take care of the foundation.

In the past, I’ve thought that focusing on myself when there was critical work to be done in my office was selfish.  How could I turn my attention to taking a yoga class, working out at the Y, reading a book, creating a mosaic, or just doing nothing, when there was fundraising to do for the programs, thank you notes to write, new connections to be made?  If I slowed down, would everything slow down?  If I worked less, would it result in less donors, less meals, less scholarships?

Not wanting to risk the possibility, I’ve kept working more than I knew was best for me, trying in vain to balance the foundation with my part-time home-based business and then, at the end of the day, wanting to be fully present with the most cherished part of my life – my son and husband.  But too often, I come up the stairs from my office to make dinner without much energy left.  I’m spent.  I try to rally, but with a tank that’s near empty, that’s hard to do.  If only I could be more efficient…  If only I could catch up….  If only… then there will be more time for the things on my New Year’s Eve intention board.  But “if only… then” thinking is not helping me.  I can’t wait for something to change outside of me.  I’ve got to change on the inside.

A friend recently gave me some wonderful advice that I’m determined to test in the months to come.  “Do only the things that only you can do.  Everything else is someone else’s task, somebody else’s answer to prayer.”

I like this idea.  The list of things that only I can do links with what I love to do most – sharing the story of the foundation and the programs in Haiti through writing and speaking.  But what about the rest of my to-do list?   Thankfully, it’s shortened considerably over the last year because of Caitlin, the foundation’s exceptional Assistant Director.  But it still seems never-ending.  What would happen if I didn’t do it?  It feels scary to me, risky to cut back in order to make time for myself, but that’s my 2010 experiment.

Will loosening the reigns and “letting go” free up new creativity, new ways of thinking, new possibilities for how the list can be done?  Will taking an hour or two or three for myself during the day to replenish my tank lead to such a feeling of joy and energy that I do things on my list in half the time – so it all evens out?  Will creating more space in my day shift the energy in such a way that I miraculously bump into people who want to volunteer for just what I need done on the list?  Will spending more time in prayer and meditation allow my thoughts to become clearer, insights deeper, faith stronger, and message more powerful so I become a better leader for the foundation?  Is it possible that if I do less at my desk, so that I can do more within myself, it might be the best thing for the foundation?  An opportunity to let it breathe and allow new ideas, fresh perspectives, and abundant resources to flow in?

I don’t know what will happen, but I’m starting to get excited to find out.  Fears pop up regularly, telling me not to change anything.  But I’m launching this experiment anyway and will keep you posted over the months to come on how it’s going.  It can be so hard to claim what you need for yourself, but here it goes.

Stay tuned.  Happy New Year!

After several hours of preparation, the meal is scooped into bright colored bowls.  It’s delicious aroma floats through the kitchen windows and out into the yard catching the attention of hundreds of children who have gathered for what will be for most of them, their only meal of the day.  Some jump up and down, peeking through the gate for signs its time to eat.  Many others stare blankly ahead, too tired from the long walk to the rectory and the exhaustion that comes with deep hunger.   Around 2pm, hot bowls of rice, beans, vegetable stew and chicken are passed through the kitchen window and down a long chain of volunteers, eventually arriving in front of a child.  You can see the relief and gratitude in their eyes as they quickly eat the cooks’ creation and return to their homes.  This “great sharing” as its been called provides not only desperately needed food, but also “hope in the midst of troubled days.”

I have traveled to Haiti once or twice a year for the past decade to spend time in the kitchen with the cooks and with the leaders who run the food and education programs the What If? Foundation funds.  I need to be with them.  My role in our special partnership is to raise the money to fund the programs and that’s best done from my home in California, thousands of miles from Port-au-Prince.  But after a few months away from the St. Clare’s community, a part of me becomes restless.  I can feel myself losing touch and I know it’s time to go back, to sit alongside my Haitian friends, to absorb as much of their wisdom, faith, relaxed pace, courage, and love as I can.  To stand shoulder to shoulder as we pass the plates down the line.  To help stir the vegetable stew.  To be with the children.  To feel part of the great sharing.

Living my life in Berkeley, California, driving my son to school, taking a walk with my husband, having dinner, watching a favorite program on TV…  I can so easily lose touch with the reality of the daily struggle that’s taking place simultaneously in Haiti, even though my work with the What If? Foundation is directly related to it.  It doesn’t seem possible, but it is.  It feels like I live in a completely different world.  And in many ways, I do.  If too much time passes, the visceral experience of watching the children eat at the food program and the urgency of their situation starts to fade.  The outrage that boils inside me when I visit and see something that’s so fundamentally wrong – hunger in a world that has more than enough – starts to calm to a simmer.  I wish this wouldn’t happen, but it does.  That’s why it’s so important for me to spend time at the food program, to get out of my comfortable life so I remember what’s happening in Haiti, just a few hundred miles off the coast of Florida.  I need this dose of reality to refuel and sustain my focus and commitment to do what I can to help, even if the contribution I’m making is just a drop in the ocean.

It can all feel so overwhelming, the massive problems our world faces:  Hunger, war, poverty, global warming.  For most of us, our lives are so busy and full of responsibilities that it can be easy to forget that there are nearly a billion people struggling to eat every day.  I often wonder what it will take for the world to eliminate hunger and malnutrition.  The UN set Millennium Development Goals nearly ten years ago that included ending hunger by 2015.  But the steps that must be taken by governments to make this even remotely possible have not happened.  Instead, the hungry are getting hungrier.

A couple years ago, with global rice prices going through the roof, and Haiti’s rice farmers put out of business by the unethical economic “structural adjustment” requirements of international lending institutions, many Haitians had to resort to eating “dirt cookies” in order to stay alive.  Dirt cookies are clay, salt, and vegetable shortening, shaped like a cookie and baked in the sun.  A few dirt cookie articles appeared in the paper for a while, and there was a blip of response by those who were moved to help, but my friends in Haiti tell me that nothing has changed in their daily lives as a result of those articles or the UN Millennium Goals.  The line of hungry children at the St. Clare’s rectory remains long.

We are not members of the UN.  We are not presidents of our country or part of the administration.  We are not multi millionaires with global influence.  We’re regular people with access to the internet, who’ve had the opportunity to learn to read and write, and who have hearts that want to be connected and respond – otherwise we wouldn’t be on this causeyourebeautiful website.  So what do we do about the fact that women are serving dirt cookies to their children today?  What do we do about the hunger that’s right here in our hometowns?  How do we respond to things we know are wrong, whether it’s hunger or some other injustice that cries out to us?

From my experience, I have learned how important it is to listen and learn from others, to move beyond statistics and make it personal, to stand in solidarity with those who are suffering.  I have also learned the value of small steps and to trust that your contribution, no matter how tiny it may seem, matters.  I’ve learned that reaching out and helping, in whatever way you can, is part of the solution – at home, abroad, wherever you feel led.  And that as you reach out, day after day, consistently, it adds up and not only makes a difference in the lives of others, but in your own life.  Being part of a great sharing is healing to the soul.  It’s healing to the planet.  Like the cooks at St. Clare’s, with love and prayer, courage and commitment, we can all be part of bringing about desperately needed change one step at a time.

“Where is it?” I whispered, embarrassed to ask.

“Right here,” he said matter-of-factly as he stepped onto a smooth surface in the midst of piles of concrete blocks and rubble. Stretching his arms over his head, he let out one of his belly laughs and announced, “The St. Jude Chapel is finally here!” Then he spun around in a circle and beamed, “We poured the floor yesterday. It’s dry now.”

As I stood in the middle of the small floor and looked around at the empty space, women in Sunday dresses, hats, and shoes started to arrive, bringing rickety chairs from their homes a few yards away. They lined them up carefully to form pews. A young man set up a card table on the edge of the floor. Then an elderly woman carefully smoothed a pretty white tablecloth over it. Fr. Gerry put on his robe and then reverently placed his Bible and communion cup on the table. A teenager sitting on a cinderblock started beating a drum between his legs, signaling the start of the opening hymn.

…Here we were in his new open-air chapel with no pews, no windows, no doors, only a wooden cross leaning on a pile of rocks.

Excerpt from On That Day, Everybody Ate: One Woman’s Story of Hope and Possibility

I’ll never forget that afternoon in Port-au-Prince, Haiti. Just moments after the cement floor had dried, the community gathered to worship. They didn’t wait for the rest to be finished. No one knew how long it would take to get the money needed for the walls, windows, electricity, or pews. They created a sacred space with what they had. They poured the floor and began.

When I started the What If? Foundation, I didn’t know where it was headed or what I was getting into. With enthusiasm, passion, and quite a bit of naiveté, I jumped in and started, barely after the floor had dried.

It started with a whisper. A thought emerged towards the end of my first visit to Haiti. It was a muggy night and Fr. Gerard Jean-Juste (a.k.a. Fr. Gerry) was speaking to the group I was with about Haiti’s history, spirituality, and fight for democracy. Someone asked him to talk about the severity of hunger and that’s when he paused, looked into the night and said, “I have a vision for a food program for the hungry children in my community.” That’s when an idea came to me – what if I could help him make his vision a reality?

I’ve wondered why this thought didn’t float in and float right out, just like so many other thoughts I’ve had; why it didn’t go into the great idea, but not now, not me, not possible category. Instead, this innocent idea skipped my mind and settled in my heart, where it never left. Unscheduled, unscripted, unexpected – it changed my entire life.

Ideas that speak to the heart are the ones I’ve learned to pay attention to and act on. I’m not always spot on when it comes to the heart, but the best decisions I’ve ever made in my life have come when my heart speaks first, before my mind has time to catch up and talk me out of it with a long list of reasonable reasons why the idea is not quite right. Saying “yes” to the invitation to go to Haiti the first time is one of those moments. Deciding to help Fr. Gerry and his community start their food program and then creating the What If? Foundation is another.

These heart decisions have grown into my passion, my avocation, and a tremendous source of joy and fulfillment. I’m so thankful I jumped in when it all seemed so simple, before I realized how hard it was going to be, how much time it would take, how much I had to learn. If I’d been given a crystal ball and the opportunity to see years into the future – the mountaintops and valleys, the work and commitment, the joys and sorrows, the periods of challenge and grace – I think I would’ve decided that it was too much for me to handle, that I wasn’t experienced enough and that someone else should do it. Thank God I didn’t have a crystal ball because I would’ve missed out on the greatest journey of my life – out of the fear of not being good enough.

I like to imagine that God sends out an infinite supply of ideas filled with love, compassion, and peace. Ideas in all shapes and sizes for all personalities and interests that lead to opportunities for growth. But they need a human heart to take hold of them, nurture them, and bring them into form. They need us to take that first step, however small.

It took a few years for the St. Jude chapel to be built. Little by little, Fr. Gerry added walls and windows. But then there was a hurricane and a flood that nearly washed everything away. The sanctuary was buried in mud and they were back to only having a floor. They started construction again.

Over the years, political, economic, and natural hurricanes have struck Haiti, Fr. Gerry, the members of his community, and the food program. It has not been easy to keep everything going. But fueled by the strength and courage that comes when hearts are engaged, the meals have flowed through it all and continue to flow even after the death of Fr. Gerry last May.

School scholarships, a summer camp, an after school program, and most recently, a garden – all run by members of the St. Clare’s community and funded through the What If? Foundation – everything started with a vision, then an idea, then a little step. Then another step. Then another. Trusting in the power of faith, hope, and love – the language of the heart.

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!