Written by Megan Boatwright
My brother and I had just arrived home from the YMCA that afternoon. When we walked through the door I saw Dad already had the T.V. on. Right before Katie Couric’s face appeared on the screen I said, “Dad there was an earthquake in Haiti, a big one”. He turned to me, anxiety written all over his face. “I know it,” he said. Just then the broadcast began and we got quiet. Most news organizations were forced to run the story with nothing more than a map of Port-Au-Prince that night. It would be hours before the now infamous images began pouring in, but as we listened to the U.S. Ambassador for Haiti explain what was happening to an already impoverished county I watched the weight of it all settle on my father’s shoulders. Words like, “Oh Lord, no” kept coming from his side of living room as his anxiety quickly turned to sadness. Even though details that first night were few we all knew the devastation caused by the quake itself would eventually pale in comparison with what was still to come. Once the headline was done and reports turned to Obama and health care we switched off the screen. “Gosh,” Dad said. “It’s about the worst possible thing that could have happened in the worst possible place.” I’d hear my father make that statement many more times that week, and since he was speaking from firsthand experience I knew it was true. I also had a sense that it wouldn’t be long before Dad was down there again, and turns out I wasn’t the only one. “Ten different people ask me why I wasn’t in Haiti yet at church today,” Dad said after arriving home the following Sunday afternoon. Since 2002 my father had been to Haiti and back eight times on mission trips. Three of those were with Sarasota Baptist Church where my father serves as Associate Pastor for Missions. “I already e-mailed the Reserve Medical Corp of Sarasota County that I’m willing to go and let them know that I speak French,” Mom said from in front of her computer screen. In many ways it felt almost wrong, even to me, that my parents weren’t down there yet. 
Since we first embarked for France when I was 6 years old, words like missions and missionary not only defined my parents, but our entire family. After a decade of service with the International Mission Board as career missionaries the Lord finally brought our family back to States then eventually Florida, and a wonderful church family at Sarasota Baptist. In the 9 years since we left the mission field my mother put herself through school and now works as a full time critical care nurse. Even though she hadn’t made it to Haiti yet on one of Dad’s many trips, I knew, she was itching to go just as badly as Dad was this time. But as with all things in life Mom and Dad also know how important it is to wait on the Lord, which is what they did until the call came Tuesday afternoon.
The day the earthquake happened I knew it would be neat to watch God pave the way for my father to go to Haiti. It’s been even more exciting to see Him open a door for my mother to use her new found skills and passion for nursing.
As a journalist writing and blogging is something that comes easily to me, but I’m not going to Haiti, my parents are. So now that I’ve introduced you to Rod and Donna Boatwright I’ll shut up, and let them tell you about their experience in their Words from Haiti.
