Poverty isn’t always ugly. But it is always real. I recently visited the small village of Beru in the southwest corner of Haiti. For this slightly out-of-shape professor, it’s a hard day-and-a-half hike into the mountains northwest of Les Anglais. I went up there seeking to learn more about the satellite churches that had been planted by our sister church in Les Anglais. In 20 years of sponsoring our sister church in Les Anglais, no one from our congregation had ever gone up there. I am told that I’m the third “blanc” ever to visit.

Beru perches on the ridge of a mountain peak. Its nearly 2,000 inhabitants live in a few dozen roughly 200 square foot thatched-roof or tin-roof huts that neatly line the one red clay path that is the only “road” in and out of the village. Homes here are a kind of wattle (woven wood) and daub made by combining cow dung and mud that is painted white. Some of the homes have designs drawn on the walls. All of them have little white rock borders filled with gravel around the outside. Most have some kind of flowering plants to decorate the outside. The floors are packed earth, neatly swept. As many as ten people occupy each home. No electricity. No plumbing. The nearest running water is a polluted spring that's a two hour’s walk down the mountain. Food is cooked in a community kitchen, a thatched hut with a charcoal fire constantly tended by two women.

My guide for the trip was Etienne Francois, a young Haitian man that our church had funded over a decade ago to attend school to learn agronomy and veterinarian science. Beru is part of the district that Etienne serves. As we approach the village, it is clear that Etienne is well known and well liked. By the time we enter Beru proper, Etienne is holding half a dozen softball-sized avocados — gifts from those too poor to offer anything else.

Etienne shows me the town’s two churches. The Catholic Church is an open pavilion with one crumbling wall. The rusted tin roof is held up by wooden poles. Part of the roof has collapsed. The church also serves as a community center. Kids and adults have a running game of dominoes going all day. In the evening it hosts our meeting with the town’s elders and farmer’s group. The Christian church, a satellite church planted by our sister church, is in relatively better shape. Its concrete block walls and rusted roof are intact. Inside, it is furnished with a couple of wooden benches and a rough wooden lectern that serves as a pulpit. We’re told that the preacher lives back in Les Anglais and walks ten hours every Sunday to preach a service.

Camera in hand, I was wandering around the village of Beru when I heard singing coming from around the corner. When I poked my camera around the corner of a house, the children spotted me and came running to put on an impromptu show. As the children sang, I wondered how many of them would be here on my next visit; how many would die from typhoid or dysentery caused by polluted water; how many would die of starvation; how many would be drawn to Port au Prince or Cap Hatien looking for work only to end up victims of the sex trafficking trade or lured into drug-related gang activity.

A little further down the road is the government-built school. I’m aghast at what is not there. It’s a scene right out of Greg Mortensen’s book, Three Cups of Tea. The tin roof pavilion is supported by concrete pillars and a partial wall. The floor is dirt. When I ask, I’m told that there are no materials, no books and no teachers for first through sixth graders. They simply sit by grade and talk to one another. The older children look after the younger.

That night I’m offered the master bedroom in the village leader’s house as my own. It’s roughly 12 feet square and Etienne tells me that it would be rude to refuse the honor. I feel guilty knowing that the rest of the family is doubled up somewhere else in town. A tarantula the size of my hand watches over me from a corner. I make sure that my mosquito netting is tucked in tight.

In the morning the village leader’s wife gives us a “walking farewell.” She walks us to the edge of the village, chattering all the way, giving Etienne messages to pass on to other people. Just before she turns back, she hands Etienne another of the huge avocados as a going-away gift. She takes my hand in the almost intimate way that Haitians do when friends chat, kisses me on the cheek European style — another Haitian custom — and through Etienne tells me, “we live in abject poverty. We know that. But when you have no choice, then you must choose to be happy.” As we head back down the mountain, I feel like I’ve just been blessed.