Chris Hemsworth - What to Look for in a Man

Photo:  People Magazine 2014

Today: this face on magazine stands around the world.  Despite the Twitter chatter that other stars should have received the title, in my book Chris Hemsworth is the "Sexiest Man Alive."

He's even sexier in person.  I had a chance to meet Chris last Oscar season at a screening for his film, Rush, hosted by the Directors Guild.  The PR team emphatically stated Chris would not be signing autographs or taking photos.

I happened to be in one of the front rows and before his handlers could whisk him off stage, Chris was taking selfies with us and signing pictures. Thor up close - sexy? Um, speechless. 

Photo:  People Magazine 2014

Besides the fact that he's hot, Chris seems to have qualities that would make for an ideal mate.  He's married but if you're looking for more than a Tinder hook-up, here are five traits I saw in Chris that would make any guy the sexiest man alive:

1.  He's humble about his looks.  
Chris honestly didn't seem to notice or care how hot he is.  Maybe it's the scruff or the tousled hair or the not-too-shredded muscles - but he doesn't seem like one of those guys who spends half his time at the gym or in front of a mirror.  That translates into knowing you'll get his attention, whether in the bedroom or the boardroom.

2.  He's gracious.
Chris could have walked off the stage shielded by his handlers but you could tell he wanted to be gracious to the audience.  I'm sure he hates getting mobbed by fans but he seems to accept it as part of the cost of fame.  He doesn't seem to let the adoration get to his ego.  A gracious guy is one who makes others feel significant instead of insisting the spotlight always be on him.

3.  He can laugh at himself.
Chris laughed often during the Q&A and it was easy to feel happy and upbeat listening to him.  Ever been with a guy where you're always afraid you'll say the wrong thing and set him off? No one's worth that much work. A sense of humor goes a long way during stormy times.

4.  He's authentic.
Chris didn't seem to be worried about protecting an image.  He's doesn't act like Thor in real life; he has soft spots.  The guy who never appears weak? The mystery may seem alluring initially but you'll eventually find yourself pounding on the wall he's built around his heart. A truly sexy man doesn't need a false version of himself to attract others.

5.  He honors his wife and family.
Chris probably gets hit on constantly but I loved how he honored his wife even when she wasn't around. He didn't try to come across as a stud. He wasn't ashamed of the ring on his finger.  A man who honors those around him? Sexy times 100.

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No Prayer Is Ever Wasted - #bringbackourgirls

Did you know there are bottles in heaven that hold our tears?*  I imagine some are filled with the tears of families whose girls were kidnapped in Nigeria. 

Visiting Nigeria has been on my bucket list since my family traced our lineage through DNA tests.  Before news of the kidnappings broke, I'd started researching the Kanuri tribe, where our bloodline originated.  

News that the kidnappers spoke Kanuri left me feeling sick - a sense of violation that brothers I had never met had done something so twisted to sisters I had not yet known.

As journalists, we often walk a line between our acute awareness of danger and death and yet somehow feeling "shielded" in the midst of it.

Like so many others, that is my prayer for the 230 Nigerian schoolgirls who were unable to escape - that somehow they will be shielded. And return home safely.

Prayer. Such a mystery.  Why does one plea meet with near instant manifestation of an answer and another seemingly goes unanswered?  Forever. 

I've thought a lot about prayer since covering the 2010 earthquake in Haiti - so many lives lost; so few prayers met with heaven's 'yes.'  And then on a return trip, doubt was erased after an experience that could have been deadly.

Our host had taken us to the pristine coast outside of Port-au-Prince.  On the way back, our truck broke down.  A storm was heading our way.  The sun was giving off its final golden rays.

We were in trouble.  The US State Department had warned travelers not to be out after dark due to a growing number of kidnappings.

"I have to get you off the road," our host turned to me - the only woman in our caravan of a half dozen Brazilian missionaries and an American EMT.

"I could never live with myself if..." his voice trailed off. Rape. Torture. God knows what.

I tried to stay hidden in the back seat while the men worked under the hood. It was one of those nights when you can feel evil in the air - like a pressure on your chest.  Breaths come shallow.  Nerves flinch at the slightest movement.

A man approached the truck.  Picked up a large rock.  I covered my face expecting the window to shatter.

Instead, he shoved the rock under the back tire to keep the truck from rolling.  He never said a word, just kept walking...

We found out once we had cell signals that two of us had received calls from friends overseas with the same message:  I don't know why, but I'm compelled to pray for you right NOW.

We later learned that kidnappers had abducted two people near where our truck broke down...

Will prayer help bring back the Nigerian schoolgirls?  Our prayers are not always answered in ways that makes sense to us...but no prayer is ever wasted.

*Psalm 56:8

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Breaking Bad

Experts say it takes six weeks to break a habit.  I'm not battling pills or booze but I am trying to break a style picked up working the TV news crime beat. Newscasters have a distinct on-air style that's hindering me from doing more creative work - work that doesn't require covering dead bodies.

"We just need to get the newscaster out of you," TV coach Marki Costello said at our first session.  I'd called Marki after seeing her help former NFL pro Hank Baskett move from the football field to the studio.

Marki teaches the same technical skills like TelePrompter and breaking down copy that newscasters learn but in a way that fits the style of TV hosting. Hosting is a completely different beast than news; sort of like the difference between boxers and wrestlers - both compete in a ring but they need different abilities.

"Reveal something about yourself we'd never know by looking at you," Marki instructed in her Hosting Boot Camp, "to help the audience connect with you." 

Hosts share intimate secrets with their audiences; as newscasters, we're trained to hide behind the camera. Newscasters tell other people's stories, not our own.  Strip off that protective layer?  No way.  

I revealed that my military dad had me in boxing gloves before I could read. My tone conveyed my message: back off.

Next assignment was reading copy for a dating show. Marking stopped me after a few sentences demanding, "What do YOU think?"  

As news anchors, we're trained to stay out of the story; whereas hosts make money off of their opinions. 

"That petite woman who won't date tall men has no idea what she's missing!"  I blurted out. Great. Now the audience thinks I sleep with NBA players.

Then came a live co-hosting drill. In news, we face a camera - not a crowd. The live audience felt like a jury. I mumbled a few words about the topic - travel, told a story about a recent trip to a Third World country - and crept back to my seat. 

A hot guy from The Bachelorette leaned over and whispered, "Do you know you said, 'pooped in a can?'" 

Despite Marki's coaching, I felt  stuck.  Too old to change with habits too big to break. Six weeks in TV rehab?  At least there shouldn't be any dead bodies. 

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Freefalling!

say your prayers!

Every once in a while we experience that surreal moment when a dream becomes reality.  

Skydiving was one of those moments.  

I've wanted to go ever since I was a kid growing up on military bases where we'd watch the paratroopers train. 

Fast forward a few decades.  One of the deadliest natural disasters in history.  Haiti.  A team of strangers risking their lives to save others.

They're the kind of fearless souls who pull people from burning buildings. climb Mt. Everest. fight wars for our freedom. attempt feats most of us wouldn't dare.

At first I felt out of place.  They save lives; they know what to do with bloody wounds and cracked skulls.  Me?  I know what to do with a camera and a pen. 

But somehow we fit. 

And that's how skydiving came up.   We got the idea to jump as a way to raise funds for an orphanage.  Our Heights for Haiti jump fell through but two of us decided to go anyway.

Ironically, we were assigned to the same plane for our tandem jumps as a team of training soldiers.  As the plane climbed, they'd suddenly vanish out the open door, sometimes mid-sentence.  I thought my heart would fail each time. 

When my turn came, I looked into heaven and began...screaming.  "Oh!  My!  God!"  

Freefalling at 120 mph (experts say it's like floating, not a rollercoaster drop; I felt both) all I could do was pray. And scream. 

When we finally landed an eternity later (ok, about five minutes), the Skydive Arizona crew made me feel like a hero just for strapping on the harness.  

But the real heroes are the Haiti team and those who risk their lives for others - you are the courageous ones.

YouTube link of my jump! My favorite part is 2:24 when Chad jumps - and I realize I'm next. "Chaaaad! Oh my God!!" 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7XlkSz4QFJU&feature=youtu.be

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Slaying Giants

The long-awaited adventure is almost here!  Flights are booked.  Reservation is set.  Soon I'll be strapped to a stranger and hurling toward earth at 130 mph. 

The question people ask most is, "Why skydiving?"  What they mean is, "ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND?!" 

"I seem to be missing the gene that says, 'This is dangerous, don't do it,'" I recently told friends in Haiti. 

Motorcycle taxi to the market in Haiti

They were trying to talk me out of riding a motorcycle taxi to the market.  The market wasn't far but motorcylists are often killed due to the lack of traffic laws and the fact that most don't own helmets or protective gear. 

Still, I was determined to experience this common Haitian method of commute; sometimes entire families, toting babies and bags, ride one motorcycle! 

So, armed with tips from our host on how to barter for mangos and pineapples, I eagerly climbed on the bike when the driver arrived.

In Haiti, drivers use whichever side of the road is open. I held my breath as we'd swerve back into our lane seconds from a head-on collision. I feared scraping the skin off my arms as we dodged through inches-wide openings between trucks. 

I soon quit trying to ride like the fearless Haitians and clasped both arms around my driver's waist as tightly as I could.

Two hours later we arrived back home without a scratch.  Mangos never tasted sweeter.

So why skydiving?  Like the motorcycle ride, I can't explain it.  I just know it's about slaying a giant:  Fear.  Like the biblical queen Esther, it has to do with destiny.  embracing faith.  I'm tired of being beaten by giants.  

Besides, look at Esther - she took a risk and it led to a throne.

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Free Beach

The Haiti you never see. 2012

I was stunned to learn on our recent trip that most Haitians have never been to the beach.  They live in a place once called The Jewel of the Caribbean yet they've never dug their toes in the warm sand or swam in the clear blue water.

"It's too expensive," our interpreter explained.  Most beaches are private and charge $20-30 a person to enter; the average Haitian earns $2 a day.

Our Haitian friends couldn't believe it when I showed them pictures of the California beach I walk to almost every day.  

"You just go down there?" they asked, unable to fathom such adventure cost nothing. "Anytime?"

Countless hours of the last 1,825 days have been spent at the ocean - playing,  dreaming, praying.  I've just hit the five-year mark in LA.

Hollywood's definitely been an adjustment for a girl who grew up with Big 10 tailgates, church potlucks and chivalrous men.  Here, they grow up with pools and pills; celebrities are worshipped more than Christ; and men?  Well, let's just say my friends and I can often tell the non-natives by their manners. 

I've thought about moving but so far have felt compelled to stay.  Maybe it's time for a change. 

I go to the beach to think.  The ocean seems to ebb and flow with an invitation to linger.  Thankfully it's free.

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Two Years After the Earthquake - Part 3

boys at an orphanage loving the bubbles we brought. Fabio Diniz photo

This is the third story about returning to Haiti two years after covering the earthquake.  For part 2, click here.

Today we're heading to the orphanage where our relief team stayed after the earthquake.  Finding the compound is tricky because many streets don't have signs.  Two years ago we had a tap tap (truck taxi) driver to guide us but now we're on our own.

An orphanage worker had told us, "turn right at the old rundown shack with a water hole in the ground with a tire over it."  Dane thinks we missed the turn a half-mile back but I can't tell.  While the rubble and UN trucks are gone, dilapidated huts and abandoned tires litter almost every block.

We're not far off course and soon find the bright teal gates just as we remembered.  New Life Children's Home.

As the armed guard lets us in, we see the mango tree!  We'd spent hours talking, eating, praying in that spot.  The last time we were here, tents had covered the soccer field that we had turned into a base camp but now the field is lush and green.

A staff member greets us in English, "The kids will be so happy to see you." Most of the kids are in class but the toddlers are outside playing.

Kevin!  He was a starving newborn who slept holding my thumb the last time I saw him.  Now he's a healthy two-year-old with a  round belly who carries himself like a ringleader in diapers. 

Kevin and John, now thriving at two, were starving orphaned infants when we met them.

"When you were born," I demonstrate rocking an  infant in my arms, "I took care of you," I say pointing at Kevin.  He seems to think I'm calling him a baby and stomps off to get a toy truck.

Playing with the other kids, I try to coax a gaunt-looking boy to join us. Before I can stop him, he rips a piece off a plastic mat and eats it.  Still afraid of starving, I guess.


A mom waits
Staffers take the kids inside for naps. A young, White woman comes for John who had been rescued from the mountains after the quake.  "I'm his mom,"  she says in English.  She's living here waiting for the government to approve her and her husband's adoption paperwork.

As we talk, she mentions wishing they had baby pictures of John.  "Is the Internet working?"  I ask.  Nurses on our team had taken the first pictures of John two years ago.  Amazingly, I'm able to download several Facebook photos on to her laptop.

Before leaving I pray with this mom who refuses to leave her son, knowing that in Haiti it can take two years to bring a child home.

Barefoot boys
Later, our host drives us to a Haitian orphanage.  "It won't be like the American one," he warns.  We come to a small, concrete building that can only be reached by climbing a steep hill.  Instead of mango trees and a grassy field, we're met by barefoot boys playing soccer in a concrete entryway that's smaller than most American closets.

Dane Melberg photo

The kids don't wait for the pastor who runs the orphanage to introduce us, instead they grab our hands and lead us inside.  As we break out stickers and bubbles we've brought from the US, the kids erupt in joyful shrieks, giggles and laughter.

The tiniest child, Samuel, wants to chase bubbles with the other kids but he's so frail his bones might break if one of them accidentally steps on him.  I pick him up and let him help me blow bubbles.  Our host says Samuel wasn't expected to live, suffering from TB and starvation.  The three-year-old's hands seem much too big for his body; he weighs no more than an 18-month-old baby.

The kids climb on Dane like a human jungle gym as he tosses them over his head.  Samuel wants Dane to toss him in the air, too.  It's too risky, though, in case he falls.  But how can we say no to a child who just wants to play?  Dane gently lifts a beaming Samuel over his head as the other kids laugh and cheer.

It's hard to say goodbye. The pastor closes the gate and walks us down the hill to our truck.  I still have Samuel in my arms.  I want to drive away with him, just to keep feeling his heartbeat...

little Samuel leaning on my shoulder

"A child here in Haiti would probably trade whatever toy you give them for five minutes on your lap with your arms around them." ~ Patty Meyer, New Life Children's Home

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Two Years After the Earthquake - Part 2

Haiti 2012 (Sarah Batista photo)

This is the second story about returning to Haiti two years after covering the earthquake.  For part 1, click here

Stormy night

Tropical storm!  The downpour sounds like it will rip through the tile roof of our host's home.  I can't help but think about the families living in tents - just tarps  and sheets, really - that have been their homes since the earthquake.

In the two years since the disaster, the government has moved the larger tent camps to the hills outside Port-au-Prince but smaller ones remain.  Families living amid the stench of rotting garbage; women bathing in plastic tubs of dirty water; children playing in waste-contaminated mud...

I feel a twinge of guilt at our own comfort but mostly gratitude that we're in a dry place; sleeping outside would have been miserable.  The weather had been mercifully clear when our relief team camped on a soccer field after the earthquake. 

At least the storm quiets the roosters that normally crow all night.

Rebuilding
By morning the roads are passable.  We drive to a site where a pastor started an outdoor church for residents of a tent camp. Our host's organization, Brazil-based MAIS, had heard of the congregation's plight and helped buy land for a building.

At the construction site, teenage boys push wheelbarrows filled with stone; gray-haired women carry water buckets; children shovel dirt with toy pails.  The workers are mostly congregation members who volunteered to help build the church; only a few skilled laborers and an American project manager are paid.

Building a church for residents of a tent city

Learning to carry water

"Have the women show you how to carry water," the project manager tells me. I follow two women to  a cistern and ask for a bucket in English but they only speak Creole.  Empty-handed, I walk back to the site.

"Come with me," says the interpreter, Schneider. His flawless English and breezy style, iPod headphones draped around his neck, remind me of a California skateboarder.

"You use this," he rolls a dirty cloth into a tight donut.  "It keeps the bucket in place," he explains, slapping the wet rag on my head.

At the cistern, I lower the dip pail but it keeps bobbing like a sailboat so I can't fill it. Schneider shows me how to skim the pail so it tips and takes in water. He tells me to stop when the bucket is half full.  "Since this is your first time, it will be heavy and slosh," he says. 

Next time I fill the bucket to the rim. "You carry it a little way and then I'll take it," Schneider says, "You might hurt your neck."  The 40-pound load hurts but I decide to keep going. Seeing the American woman carrying a full bucket on her head, the workers break into applause.  Success!

Our interpreter Schneider shows how to carry a bucket (left).  Success! (rt)

"Here," the pastor says, handing me a Styrofoam container. "You get lunch because you carried the bucket of water."  The crew laughs as we dig into rice and beans washed down with cold Coke and 7-Up.

We spend the afternoon shoveling stone and dirt.  Despite the heat and hard work, laughter fills the air.  The men tease eachother and trade funny stories, acting them out in a mix of Creole and English.

More storms
That night another storm pounds the island.  I think about the families living in the tent camps.  I fall asleep thinking, They have a joy no storm can wash away, no disaster can shake, no man can destroy.  Maybe they are the fortunate ones.

To read part 3, click here.

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Two Years After the Earthquake - Part 1

The presidential palace remains in ruins two years later. 

I'll be posting a few stories about my return to Haiti two years after covering the earthquake. Thanks for being part of the journey.

Mountains you can't forget

I open my eyes to see haze-covered mountains as we prepare to land at Port-au-Prince airport.  Groggy from a red-eye flight, I take in the differences since the last time we flew over these mountains.

Makeshift tents blanketing the landscape. military jets clogging the runways. the huge tent hospital for the most severely-injured earthquake victims - all gone.

Even the air feels lighter as we step onto the runway. The humidity's mild, temps in the mid-80s.

We're ushered to a crammed bus with no seats or air-conditioning.  We take a short ride to the terminal where a band singing in Creole greets us so we'll drop some cash in the tip bowl. The scene feels jarringly festive compared to our arrival after the earthquake when U.S. military had taken over the airport.

A man in a red shirt approaches and  I assume he's the driver sent to find us. "You give me $40 to get through customs," he says.  Dane (a paramedic from the 2010 trip) and I are suspicious.  

Turns out François is an "attendant" seeking gullible passengers.  We tip him $5 to get our bags and go wait in the customs line. We expect agents to hassle us about medical supplies we're carrying but they let us through without questions.

Outside the terminal our real driver recognizes us from photos.  We walk several blocks and climb inside a pickup; before we'd had to cram 15-20 members of our relief team on the back of a tap-tap (truck taxi). Windows rolled down, we head to the exit.

You're not afraid?
The traffic!  I'd forgotten about the jammed and dangerous roads.  There are few stop lights, pedestrians cross the street anywhere and drivers use whichever side of the road is open, seldom signaling for turns or lane changes.

The US State Department has issued a travel warning due to recent kidnappings.  "You're not afraid?" our Haitian driver asks me in English. "Not really," I reply, "since I blend in."

People here often greet me in Creole, mistaking me for Haitian.  Dane is the one who draws attention with his white skin and nearly 6'5", 215-pound frame; he towers over the much smaller Haitians.  I smile recalling how boys had followed our relief team asking what kind of meat the American men ate to grow so big.

We drive through unpaved streets packed with cars, people and vendors selling everything from meat to mangos.  Life seems to have returned to normal.  Even the rubble has been replaced by heaps of garbage.  A half hour later, we arrive at a modern yellow house with barbed wire fencing.

our host's home in Haiti

Ruben!
Our host greets us with bear hugs and laughter.  "The Haitians say I look Muslim," jokes Ruben about the thick, black beard he's grown since we last saw him.  I met Ruben two years ago in Brazil on a trip to build a kids' camp. He lives in Haiti now and runs a Brazilian organization that's rebuilding schools and churches.

Ruben can tell we need sleep even though the mid-afternoon sun is high.  We didn't rest much on the flight since Dane had helped with a medical emergency.

Ruben leads us upstairs in the large home rented from an American missionary; the family was too afraid to live in it after the earthquake.  Ruben has given up his room for me since I'm the only female; he and five male guests will bunk in the other rooms.

The room has a shower - cold water only.  I feel slightly guilty about the indulgence; last time we didn't have running water. I let the water cool my skin before crawling on top of the sheets, drifting off to thoughts of the orphans, the mountains, the roosters that crow all night...

To read part 2 about my return to Haiti, click here.

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Home from Haiti!

 Samuel leaning on my shoulder. He was so sick from TB they thought he would die.  

We're back from Haiti!  Our time was filled with adventures - I witnessed everything from a cockfight to a circumcision! 

I fell in love more times than I can count. 

I held a dozen orphans in my arms like a mom, giggling with them as they chased bubbles and sang to us in Creole.

I fell asleep to the sound of tropical rainstorms and woke to crowing roosters (even in the middle of the night!). 

I hiked a mountain in Kafour to a place where the people embrace life despite not having running water or electricity.  

I rode a motorcycle to the market and bartered for our dinner. 

I worked alongside Haitian women who taught me how to carry a water bucket on my head the way they do.

I walked along an azure-colored ocean in a place that looked like paradise. 

I held the babies  I met who were abandoned in the earthquake but are now thriving at two-years-old. 

And I came home knowing I will return to Haiti.  Again...

I will post stories in a few days.

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Haiti!

Haitian children from our 2010 trip (Scott Mortensen photo)

"This is a moment in history in which I've been invited to play a role. How can I say no?"  I wrote those words two years ago in the face of unthinkable tragedy.  Haiti.  A massive earthquake. More than 200,000 lost lives...

I will never forget landing in Port-au-Prince.  Despite the devastation everywhere, the primitive conditions, the threat to our safety, it somehow felt like the place I belonged.

Now I am returning.

I leave in two weeks with a paramedic I met on the 2010 relief team.  We'll be working with a friend who lives in Haiti and runs an organization that's rebuilding schools and churches.

I wish I could give some profound reason for the trip; something redemptive. But honestly? Disappointment from 2010 still lingers.  Instead of seeing lives and limbs healed, we often saw far more loss than anyone could help.  Instead of seeing miracles, we saw far more sorrow than anyone can comprehend...

Instead of being disillusioned in God though, I asked our translator to teach me a Creole phrase: "Map vini an Ayiti anko." It means, "I will return to Haiti." 

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The Storyteller's Calling

I was walking along the beach when I ran into a man in an orange prison jumpsuit. I was a little afraid since the shoreline was deserted except for us and a few seagulls.

Should I keep walking? Run like mad? Call 911?

You'd think living near Hollywood I'd know by now things often aren't what they seem. Turns out the "escaped convict" was an actor waiting for a camera crew.

Watching the actor, photographer and ocean move with each other was like turning the pages of a book. Storytellers - crafting lines with images instead of words.

In my mind the beach melted away and I was back in Haiti where I'd write sitting under the mango tree. This is where I finally got it: for some of us storytelling is a calling, not merely a job.

"The times when I got to uncover someone's story," said Kezia, "when I got to ask questions and discover something I would not have known had I not hunted for it, those are the things that moved me."

Watching the story being written on the shore stirred something in me. The calling. Yes, it's still there.

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In the Recording Studio



Matthew Marsden and Garcelle Beauvais in
"Eyes to See."  Photo: Caroline Choi photo

Just finished in the recording studio for Eyes to See. The film is based on true events surrounding the work of a relief team I covered in Haiti last January after the massive earthquake. 

The film's director asked me to voice the role of a newscaster for the opening scenes. This was my first time seeing footage.  Some scenes brought tears to my eyes.

The film's stars were at the recording studio when I arrived. Matthew Marsden (Transformers, Rambo) and NYPD Blue's Garcelle Beauvais needed to re-record some lines.

Between sessions, Matthew brought up  George Clooney's work in Sudan;* I had expected light-hearted from the funny Englishman.

"How can I help standing here in a recording studio in Hollywood?" the director ended the conversation - frustrated at our own inability to help, and also wanting us to stay focused  since we were running behind schedule. 

We went back to our lines but the question nagged at me. How can we make a difference when the need is so great? Sudan. Haiti. Hollywood - even here hundreds of homeless people sleep in alleys and beg tourists for money.

"At least one hospital..." I started the script again, grateful that at least my voice might draw attention to the plight of a country in need.

*(There are safety fears with concerns that the upcoming South Sudanese cessation vote may cause civil war.)

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Breathe

Filming a scene with Garcelle Beauvais on the set of "Eyes to See"

Filming just wrapped on the movie inspired by our team's work in Haiti after the earthquake. It's often hard to walk away from a prodution because of the bonds formed with the cast and crew. 

This time was no different.

Eyes to See, starring Matthew Marsden (Rambo, Transformers), is about a cameraman forced to choose between helping people and doing his job after the earthquake. An actor asked how I felt being on set after having experienced the tragedy firsthand. "Like I can breathe again," I answered.

Actors taking a break on the LA set of "Eyes to See"

Despite working 12-hour days covered in fake blood and dirt,  shooting dozens of takes at 2 am and enduring blistering heat, my lungs filled with the air of creativity and purpose.

Few doors have opened for me to tell meaningful stories since moving to LA and just when it seems I'll have to go back to covering pimps and perverts, a project like this comes along.

Struggling to finish the film in Haiti, director Dave de Vos wondered if it was worth it. "And then I stand here where so many lives were lost," he says, "I see the spirit of the Haitian people, the smiles of the children, and the hope for the future, and I remember."

Dave is donating the film's royalties to a Haitian rebuilding nonprofit. My part is small in comparison but I'm grateful to play a role. Grateful this movie isn't about egos. Grateful to put my head up and breathe.

"I remember our call to help the least, the last and the lost; our mission to shine a light on hope. That's why we have to get it right." ~Dave de Vos

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Action!

Filming "Eyes to See" at Blue Cloud Ranchi in California

Back on set! I have a small part in the film inspired by our trip to Haiti after the earthquake. Eyes to See tells the story of the disaster's aftermath through the eyes of a news photographer. With a cast led by Matthew Marsden (Rambo, Transformers) and Garcelle Beauvais (NYPD Blue, The Jaime Foxx Show), director Dave de Vos says "it's a story of hope even amidst the tragedy."

I feel a bit emotional on set. My thoughts go back to the ruins of Port au Prince.  Even though it's been nine months, the suffering remains so great. This week a worker at the orphanage where we stayed said one of the kids may not make it through the night due to a brain infection. "Don't let them stick me with needles," little Juno told doctors, "They hurt!!!"

Fortunately it looks like surgeons will be able to save Juno's life but what about his future? No family. Sick. And yet...dare we dream for him? With him?

Yes...not because this film will make a difference in his life, but because hope refuses to stay buried in the rubble.

Nine months ago when people asked me why face the risks in Haiti, I answered, "This is a moment in history in which I've been invited to play a role. How can I say no?"  

I have the same feeling on set:  a sense of being in the right place, at the right time, with the right people - a trifecta of grace. 

Map vini an Ayiti anko. I will return to Haiti.

Sadly Juno (hugging the stuffed animal above) died a few weeks after I wrote this post.

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Haiti Film Underway!

Actor Nikki Storm prepares to film a scene in "Eyes to See" at Blue Cloud Ranchi

Filming has started on the movie inspired by our Haiti team! Eyes to See stars Matthew Marsden (Rambo and Transformers) and Garcelle Beauvais, a native Haitian known (NYPD Blue, Franklin & Bash).  The film is about a photographer forced to choose between doing his job and helping people after the earthquake.

Nine months after the disaster, orphanage workers tell us the children are coping despite immense suffering. Grief though, finds a way to assert itself. unstoppable tears. pain. anger.

Grief still feels foreign to me.  Being a reporter demands staying emotionally disconnected in order to handle the violence and death of the lens through which we see the world. 

A few years ago the news reported that a mom had thrown her three babies into the San Francisco Bay. The tide swept away the tiny bodies before anyone could save them.  Divers were searching by the Golden Gate Bridge near where I lived at the time.

I walked the Bay half-hoping to find a miracle. "God, you've made me unfit for news," I wept. Away from the crime beat, I was discovering tears I'd never shed no matter how many murders I saw.

Today I was thinking about something a friend wrote while keeping vigil at his dad's bedside. "Jesus wept," he'd written, "but not tears of despair."  

Jesus wept. The shortest verse in the Bible. 

And a thought came to me that made grief ok: sometimes tears precede miracles.

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