Leaving St Croix

After 4 weeks on the island, last Friday my wife and I bid a bittersweet farwell to our brothers and sisters at Muckle Memorial Baptist Church, and--after a weekend in San Juan, Puerto Rico--arrived back in Chicago on Monday evening. Hard as it may be to comprehend, our "second honeymoon" was actually rather difficult. My wife suffered on and off from an unexplained illness that sapped her energy, and was never able to start her job with the local Department of Human Services due to government red tape. (After 4 weeks, they still hadn't completed the necessary background checks). I was bored at work and felt myself sinking into the same malaise that seems to characterize many of the island's residents.

Nevertheless, we enjoyed ourselves immensely and were sad to leave a month earlier than we expected. We ran on the beach, swam in the ocean, visited the easternmost point of the United States (Point Udall), hiked miles to pristine secluded beaches that were inaccessible by car, watched the sun set over the Caribbean while drinking a concoction aptly named "The Painkiller," sailed to Buck Island, snorkeled, and rode a jet ski near the Christiansted harbor. But what we will miss most is not the 80-degree weather, the ubiquitous palm trees and free-range chickens, or the ocean views from our condo.

Across the road from the Colony Cove condominiums, a few miles west of Christiansted in a mostly lower-income neighborhood, sits Muckle Memorial Baptist Church. The building could hold at least 200, but these days 30 makes for a big Sunday. The Rev. Elvin and Caroline Bloice moved from St. Kitts to helm a thriving church with the promise of full financial support, but after the former pastor was caught in scandal many members left (some out of disgust, some out of loyalty) and Rev. Bloice now pays the bills by working as a prison guard. St. Croix was first evangelized by the Moravians, while many slaves were exposed to the gospel through the Lutheran church during years as a Danish colony. Today, the island is littered with Protestant and independent churches, but most are small and struggling. Many children grow up without fathers, and most of the families (in whatever form) near Muckle would rather go to the beach on Sunday than go to church. Crime drove away tourists for a decade and economic opportunities are limited outside of the refinery, but a general apathy towards all things spiritual persists.

Yet in the midst of this non-responsive environment, a few brave saints soldier on. On any Wednesday night, a small group of women (and the occasional man) can be heard crying out to God from the floor of Muckle's sanctuary for their wayward sons and daughters, their community, and even their husbands. Their Afro-Caribbean voices evince a joy that would suggest that slavery had ended yesterday instead of in 1848. For a few weeks, my wife and I joined our voices to theirs, and she found an instant friend and prayer partner in Sister Caroline. Upon hearing of our unexpectedly early departure, the disappointment in those voices was evident.

Our last night on St Croix, my wife and I co-led the youth group. I spoke on the subject of finding one's identity--a topic of perennial relevance for anyone in adolescence--as an adopted child of God, through faith in Jesus Christ. The kids listened intently and then bombarded me with questions. Sarah said a difficult goobye to Sister Caroline; difficult, because we honestly could not tell her when or if we would return. We were grateful to be a brief part of their fellowship. The Bloices have tilled that rocky soil for 13 years, and will continue long after we are gone. Slaves? Perhaps, in a sense, but not to a plantation owner, not without dignity, and certainly not without an eternal reward.