Molliere is the name of the driver who took me to the Port au Prince airport in Haiti last week. He wore a perpetual grin–brilliant white against his chocolate skin–and sang hymns or told stories for the entire two-hour bumpy, chaotic, so-hot-my-legs-were-sticking-to-the-seat journey.
My favorite story he told was the one about his father giving his heart to Jesus when he was 100 years old. I was so excited about someone falling into the arms of God that late in life that I began to pepper Molliere with questions about the details. That’s when I found out his dad was a voodoo priest. For more than seventy years he practiced black magic and animal sacrifices. He put curses on people and vehemently denied the authority of the one true God.