It was the start of the last day. We always offer the children the plan of Salvation on that final part of our journey. On this particular visit we culminated by asking any children who wanted to accept Jesus as their personal Lord and Savior to come and kneel with me. I whispered to the missionary standing beside me to count the number of children coming. He began to count, then stopped.

“It's about 50.”

“Count to see how many.”

He began to count them again. “It's about 55 or 60.”

“Count them,” I hissed.

“Just say there are 70 of them.” The other missionary huffed.

I got up off of my knees, got in his face. “I said count them! Fifty, fifty-five, sixty, seventy, those are man's numbers. Don't round off these children.” I raised my voice, “Count them!!! I want God's count!!!”
The missionary turned, American style, and walked away from me. So I counted God's children for myself. God's number was 89. Not 50, 55 or 60 or 70...but eighty nine. What's the big deal? Even if I just say there are around 70 children, what if you or I were part of the 19 not counted. Those 19 matter to God, so those 19 matter to me. Not 50, not 55, not 60, not 70...but 89.

God's Children
Many of the children were walking 12 miles to see the missionary
The odd Black woman from America.
Everywhere I went the second year
I drew a crowd and the children yelled for me
From across the fields
Shouting who-hooooooooo
I echoed back who-hoooooooooo
Mix Youlanda, do you remember me? How about me? You remember me?
Mix youlaaaaaaaanda
You are welcome
Left over from last year
Jumping out suddenly in front of me
The deep earth toned body sings
With a huge Cheshire cat smile and a thick Creole accent
“Yes Geezuz luhs me”


How Do You Know That?
I was sitting with the rest of the missionaries when I noticed the Haitian pastor of the Ebenezer Baptist church standing in the doorway beaconing toward me trying to get my attention. The whole church was watching. He was waving his hand toward me as if to say come here. I almost did the thing I forever fuss at my students in America for. I caught myself wanting to look behind me as if the person talking to me is perhaps talking to the person behind me. For fear of appearing disrespectful or looking stupid I pointed to myself.

“Who me?”

“Yes.” Nodded the Pastor. I walked across the front of the church with everyone watching me.

What in the world could the pastor want that he would come out of the pulpit and whisk me away from the safety net of the other missionaries. I began to sweat big time. I didn't even have a translator. I followed the Pastor into a room and was overwhelmed by a room overflowing with children overlapping each others laps, and standing sideways in order for everyone to fit. Children were 3 and 4 deep all the way around the room. The Pastor smiled real big and left.

“Oh my God.”

I almost hyperventilated. I didn't (and I'm ashamed to say still do not) speak a word of Creole. An adult female voice spoke with excitement and animation.

“Let me tell you my favorite story in the Old Testament. It's the story of Miriam. Now can anyone tell me who Miriam was?”

I breathed a huge sigh of relief. I had some help. This woman spoke perfect English. Then I realized that the excited and animated voice was mine. (aaaahhh fiddlesticks, what am I thinking? How do I get out of this pickle?)

“I will translate for you!” Out of the clear blue sky a teenager that I didn't recognize began boldly imitating me and translating what I had said to the children in Creole. He imitated me perfectly just like Francois, my seasoned translator and friend. One hand shot up in the air, waving back and forth furiously.

“Yes?” I said, looking at the excited child, “Tell us. Who is Miriam?”

I figured the young boy was gonna say something off topic, because even in America the majority of the children have no clue who Miriam was.

“Miriam is Moses sistah” the young boy proudly exploded.

Surprised, I grinned and clapped, “Who hooooo, very, very good.”
“Who-whoooooo” imitated all of the children.
“How do you know that? How do you know who Miriam is?”
“Ah, Miss Yolantha,” he cooed in perfect Creole English, “You taught me dat last year. When you taught us dat God can use even me. Dat's how I now dat!!!”

I was silent for a moment, then began with gusto to tell the story of Moses, Miriam's brother.

Yup, I humbly thought, God can use even me…a 55 something, Kentuckian by way of Indiana, Pennsylvania, Missouri and Texas, spouse abuse survivor, unemployed, single parenting mother of 2.


Der Druck dieses Buches wurde vom Autor nicht gestattet.
Setzen Sie sich bitte mit dem Autor Yolantha Harrison-Pace in Verbindung, um das Buch zu erwerben.

It is not allowed to print this book.
Please contact the author Yolantha Harrison-Pace to buy the book.


yolanthapace@gmail.com