Grief

My friend, Haitian brother, and co-worker Kiki died 12 days ago.  Since then, I've watched men and women grieve in ways new to me.  After learning of his death, each woman at the orphanage would walk up to me, put her head on my shoulder and her arm around my back, and say, "Miss Angie, Kiki is dead."  She would shake her head, waiting for my response.  I didn't know what to say, other than, "Yes, yes, I know." 
Shock and sadness permeated every step that everyone took.  The children knew something was wrong.  They heard the nannies weeping and wailing.  They began to ask me if Papi Kiki was dead.  I told them that yes, he was.  They asked if I was sad or if I was going to cry.  I told them maybe later.  I felt so completely out of my element, and didn't know how to emotionally care for the children and the nannies who were literally falling apart around me.  One of the cooks brought around Haitian grief medicine.  I think it was salt and oil.  To keep you from dehydrating from crying.  And then special salty tea.  All to combat grief and being astonished and shocked.  I drank them both, and watched those around me be so overcome that they would fall onto the ground, weeping.  I didn't even feel like crying, until my dear friend Marie France (sister-in-law of Kiki) if he was really dead.  She told me she could not believe it, she didn't understand why, and she asked me to tell her the truth.  Tears filled my eyes because I knew my words would stab her heart.  "Yes, Kiki is dead.  I don't know why, I don't understand."  And we wept together.
Life at the orphanage has continued, because with 85 children, that must happen.  But the nannies are sad.  The cooks are sad.  There is a heaviness that wasn't here before.  That Papi Kiki is with Jesus is to be celebrated.  But to not see him sitting on the front porch, long after he's told me he's leaving, holding a little one on his lap, talking and laughing as they grabbed his nose, is almost more than I can bear.  To know that someone who advocated for children, and worked tirelessly on their behalf, is no longer here sharing that burden, breaks my heart into a million pieces.  To realize that someone can simply just not wake up one morning freaks me out.  I know we aren't made to live forever.  I know that when I die I go to be with Jesus.  I know these things.
Now we are here trying to move on and move forward, and pick up the work Kiki started and continued.  When I have prayer strength, I will continue to plead with God to go with us and to walk with us, two steps ahead, for us to follow His leading.