My new theory of whining

I'm a whiner. I didn't know I was until I came to Haiti. I am ashamed that I have ever complained that I'm hot as I switch on my air conditioner, that I'm “starving” as I pull over to Jamba Juice and buy a $5 smoothie, that there's too much traffic as I listen to music in my comfortable Toyota, or that “it hurts” as I pop an Advil or rush to the nearest emergency room. But not so ashamed that when I get home, I won't just start complaining about all those same things again.

My new theory of whining is that we humans complain when we don't get what we have come to expect or feel entitled to get quickly and just the way I want it. I expect to have my every physical need met every day, to rarely suffer, to have plenty of love and friends and laughter and pleasure. I expect the lights to go on with a flip of the switch, the mail to arrive on time, the doctor to cure me, and stores to be open and well-stocked. I would be insensed if the city water made me sick, jails were co-ed, and maternity care was non-existent.

I used to think that only rich or undisciplined children were whiners, or wealthy narcissistic women on their way to the spa, the psychologist, and the plastic surgeon. But I'm guilty, too. I whine constantly. I whine in Haiti because I'm hot and sweaty and thirsty and have no internet access whenever I want it. I am shocked that I whine here, while I'm surrounded by homeless people with amputated limbs, little food, filthy water, and no psychologists to listen to their broken, grieving hearts. Break my heart, Lord, with the things that break Your heart.

I can learn from the hardy, hopeful Haitians. They come to the medical clinic and sit in the stifling heat, patiently waiting for hours. Little children sit quietly at their sides. There is no expectation. No whining. If they can't be seen today, they'll come again the next day. When they are seen, they are sent on their way with some medication to ease their symptoms. There are no lab tests or x-rays or MRI's to confirm a diagnosis. They smile and thank us in Creole. Oh, how I want to be able to do more!

Haitians have so little expectation from life. Or maybe I should say that they expect just about everything I abhor: pain, hunger, filth, illness, poverty, and bare survival. A simple healthy meal brings great joy. Finding a job---for a fraction of the American minimum wage---is a dream come true. Getting an education is only for the rich (a tiny percentage of Haitians) or the Haitian child fortunate enough to be sponsored by a kind American.

Everywhere I look I see Haitians who are going on. They know the government will not help them get back on their feet. Yesterday I met an old man who was cheerfully boxing up our groceries, and I found out he lost all seven of his children in the quake. I can't begin to understand the depth of his grieving and he doesn't even try to burden me with it. Yes, it's true that they are looking to our ministry, the American government, other NGO's, anyone who can lend a hand. I can't blame them.

Yesterday I walked through the tent city just a few houses away from where I sleep and eat---in luxury compared to them, in unpleasant conditions compared to home. They smile, say “bonjou”, greet me with hugs. If I were in their shoes, I'd be whining. Loudly.