when you don't feel ready

A new year dawns like the morning sun over a field, blanketed in freshly fallen snow. It's like the crisp, blank pages of an unused journal-- still smelling of paper and leather and newness, holding a world of potential hopes and dreams. Resolutions will be set by all the people and come January those goals will be set in full force… more exercising, more prayer times, more cleaning, more Bible-reading, less television, less drinking, less junk food, no more partying, no more swearing. The list of all the ways we try to prepare ourselves for the new year is endless. Bruised and broken from walking the roads of last year, we are ready to shed our skin, to start a new year with peeled backed layers and start over fresh.

This upcoming new year's pages have no spills or stains or messy parts yet. It's an unwritten book, full of possibility. And in my foolish, desperate state I hope that somehow with enough work and sweat and preparing, I can rid myself of last year's mess and ready myself for a new year. But this new start is settling upon us quickly, a mere few days away. And I'm in a panic, desperately clawing for more time because I am not ready yet.

In the Gospel of Luke is the story of Zacchaeus. With all the Sunday school stories and songs written about the "wee little man", you are more than likely quite familiar with his story. But bear with me here as I walk the pages of Luke 19 again. We find Jesus in these verses, passing through Jericho. The throngs of people surround Him and crowd about, desperate for a touch or a glimpse. He walks along the roadside with the people, and here is where we meet Zacchaeus.  Zacchaeus- the wealthy tax collector who ripped his own people off. Zaccheaus- despised by his community. Zacchaeus- the crook and the thief. Zacchaeus- whose life is in shambles. Zacchaeus- who wants to see who Jesus is. When we first meet the little man, he appears to be in a bit of a sorry state… jumping up above the heads of all the taller-than-him people (I'd assume that would be just about everyone in the crowd), running up ahead, climbing trees, hiding beneath their branches. The picture painted for us is a humorously sad one. 

I found it funny that the Bible specifically states that Zacchaeus climbed up a sycamore tree. I mean, why mention such a detail? So I looked up this sycamore tree, attempting to learn a bit more about it and what made it so special. With much thanks to google-searches and wikipedia, I learned enough about the tree to write a 5-page paper. However I discovered one thing about the sycamore tree that made me pause. One of the sycamore's most distinctive features is its density and the covering it provides for those standing beneath it. Its warped, twisty branches make the perfect hiding place for critters. And also for small, messy people-- like Zaccheaus. So now we see a man with a messy life climbing not into just any old tree… but into this sycamore tree, known for its dense, messy leaves and branches. This sycamore tree that he thinks will hide his mess and his shame, but still give him a glimpse when Jesus passes by.

And what does Jesus do? He sees past the mess. My sweet, ever-loving Jesus sees this man in his mess and calls to him, "Hurry! Come down immediately." Jesus is not deterred by the mess of the situation nor does He command Zaccheaus to clean up his sorry state. Instead He goes on to say, "Today I must stay your house." Jesus doesn't just call Zaccheaus down. Jesus wants to dwell with him. 

This little tax collector and messy-hearted sinner, what does he do? He receives Him gladly. He didn't cower behind the mess of the sycamore leaves and branches like he could've done. He didn't first attempt to clean up his heart and his life. He didn't say wait one more minute. He hurried down and received Him gladly. Yes we do see this man's heart and life changed in later verses, and what an awesome thing that is. But I love how first he hurries down and first he receives Him and first Jesus wants to dwell with him. 

And I especially love the way Jesus meets him in the mess. 

Much like the upcoming new year, Jesus stands before me. With hands outstretched, He speaks of hope and promise and fresh pages and grace. And in the distance, I stand under the shade of a sycamore tree-- wanting to see who He is, but staying far enough away to hide the mess of myself. Looking at the state of my ugliness, I tremble. I need more time to prepare. I'm not ready to walk those pages of hope and love and grace. And so I look at Him and I cower behind the thick leaves of the sycamore.

No, I am not ready for a new year. Jesus is calling and my messy heart wants to say, "Wait! Please! I can fix this first!" But really, I can't. Because I will never be 'ready enough' for anything He calls me to. I remember when my feet were not ready to leave American soil for the first time. I remember when my heart was not ready to say goodbye for 6 months and leave behind the only life I knew. I remember when I wasn't ready for special-needs and therapy and wheel chairs and feeding tubes. I remember when I wasn't ready to love a strange and unfamiliar country. I remember when I wasn't ready to be a school teacher to a classroom of 7 wild and crazy children. But I remember that He was. He has always been ready. He doesn't call us to fix the messy. He doesn't ask us to achieve a certain level of qualifications and prepared-ness. He calls out to us, asking only to be invited into the messy.

There are things, many things, about this new year that I don't feel ready for. And while I can't wait to share some of those things with you, I'm terrified to come down from the dense shadows of the sycamore tree. I'm scared to let Him into the mess of my flesh and my heart and my sin and my inadequacies. But still, He beckons, "Let Me into your mess. Let Me dwell with you…" 

Can you hear Him, calling? 

on being home

Outside my window is white snow covering the bare trees and car tops and sidewalks, illuminated by the orange glow of the street lights. Trees are decorated, gifts are wrapped, and I almost can't wrap my mind around the fact- two months has gone by, and I'm back once again. One of the oft-asked questions people are curious to know about is this "So which country do you like more, Haiti or Uganda?" It’s a question I’m finding much more difficult to answer than I anticipated. In the past 2 years, I’ve called many a place home, in love with each village or town or city for various reasons. To compare them or try to pick a favorite is like trying to compare and contrast your favorite movies or pick a favorite season; it’s nearly impossible.

I think of my love for Uganda—a passionate, fiery love that came like a flood, sweeping over me and drowning me in it. It is a head-over-heels love. From the moment I stepped off the plane, everything about the country turned me into a giggly, gooey-eyed teenager on her first date. Because I close my eyes and I can see the fog over a country of red-dirt, as the plane landed at 7 in the morning. I can smell the air and feel the warmth that sticks to my hair, see the smiling people and the laughing children and the scrap metal houses. I remember waking up my first morning in Bugiri, I can still hear the hustle and bustle of Jinja traffic up and down Main Street, I recall the crowded streets of downtown Kampala. I can hear the way the unfamiliar language sounds like music to my ears and soul, breathe the open spaces and miles of cornfields. The soles of my shoes are still coated with that red dirt, my feet and heart forever stained. Smiling, I still remember the way it feels to be in that place, everything about it beckoning me, calling out home.

When I stepped off the plane in Haiti, it wasn’t romantic the way the warm air stuck to my hair and the sun beat my shoulders. It was hot, unbearably so. I smelled the air and, yes Uganda smells like sewage and burning trash and poverty too, but this was a smell I couldn’t handle. Riding through the crowded streets days later, it felt suffocating to be in a place so squished. With small roads and so many vehicles and crazy mottos and trash littered everywhere. The language overwhelmed my ears, my head a spinning knot, trying to un-jumble all of this French and Spanish and Creole. The voodoo drums and the confusion and the darkness and the disorder of this country was hard to handle. This place, this place did not scream home. Looking back, I have to laugh at some of the first thoughts I think upon landing in Haiti on that hot Tuesday morning, “I’m so glad God is not calling me here longer than these two months.” Because this place did not have me lost in a rushing flood. This place was hard, and unfamiliar. It made me feel oh-so very out of place.

But then the weeks went by… the clouds cast shadows over the mountains, and I was left breathless. Voices sang from the church building next door, and my heart was lost in worship with these people though I knew not their language. The cement buildings still crumbled next to each other but I saw the children between them and in them, and their smiles melted my heart just a bit more. The corruption and the voodoo was dauntingly great, but the light and truth and love of my Jesus proved greater still. Sunday lunches were shared and laughter spilled from the table and strangers became dear friends. Late into the night dreams started and hopes happened and the future whispered. Kids learned my name and I learned their personalities and spelling words happened and games of basketball on the court in the afternoons and teaching phonics on the chalkboard. Slowly, slowly, -as the time passed- I found myself a little bit more and a little bit more in love with this place, seeing it in an entirely new light. And I found myself losing my heart a little bit and a little bit more until it started to whisper, “Home.” A whisper that started softly, and grew louder and louder as each day passed by.

Now a plane lands in Chicago, passing by tall city buildings and a beautiful lakefront on its way in. The air clouds at my breath, it’s unbearably chilly here, frozen solid. The train tracks click and the pre-recorded voice announces each upcoming stop as the skyline draws closer. Anxious, I know they are there, those people that I love more than anything else in this world, with arms outstretched, waiting. And I know I fit there, perfectly so. My heart flutters at the cars and the city traffic and the houses decorated with Christmas lights. I know this route home like I know the back of my hand, turning down streets that have been familiar to me all my life. And the car pulls up and suitcases are brought upstairs and I stand there, taking it all in. On the porch steps I see sticky summer days and melting popsicles, at the table I see the meals we shared and the jokes made and the birthday candles blown out. Walking up the staircase, I remember sliding down these steps on plastic snow saucers with my sisters, and I remember waiting here the many Christmas mornings where we impatiently waited for everyone to way up. In this bedroom where I now sit are the many different colors the walls have been and ways the furniture has been rearranged and dreams dreamt and tears shed and hopes whispered. I walk through this house with my footsteps sounding like the pitter-patter of a child’s feet… assuring me that, once again, I am home.

on the past two months and memories

I've been awake and wide-eyed early on this last morning I have here in Haiti. Reflecting on the past 2 months, these are some of the memories that come to mind, like snapshots taken with a camera. Not looking forward to this goodbye, but so looking forward to the sweet hello's. God has done so much in the past 2 months, and I cannot wait to come home and share the stories with you. I'm also pretty excited for a hot shower, just sayin'. 

Thank you so much for all your prayers over the past 2 months! See you tomorrow, Chicago.

A plane lands on a sticky, hot runway strip. New faces, handshakes, a ride through town. What am I doing here?

Rice fields and mountains, sunshine and wind in the pack of the pick-up with some of the dearest girls.

"Spell me! Spell me!" 

Michael cuddles.

Competitive games of Trouble with Carl. "No mercy! I gonna champion." 

Cooking in a 100-degree kitchen, laughing over the soap suds in the sink, strangers becoming dear friends.

Hope and expectation, nothing is as you imagine. Trust in One who knew the story all along. Watching it unfold in the most beautiful, incredible way.

43 bug bites. Hello, Benadryl. 

School days and spelling words and phonics. Chaotic classroom days, unmotivated students.

Bello sounding out words in class.

Receiving packages. Pieces of home.

Clear blue water and sandy beaches, a view that takes my breath away. Our God is an awesome God.

Late nights, wide-eyed with possibility and dreams and hope and the future. Hearing God whisper. 

Sunday lunches, strangers becoming sweet friends, laughter around the table.

Abel's protectiveness when walking to market. "Hannah, watch out. There's a motto coming."

Daily morning fights for the big mug.

Voodoo drums and gunshots and crazy drivers. And God's protective hand over it all.

Homesick, tired, burnt out.

Rats in the stove and on the kitchen counter. Geckos on the walls. Late night games with the flashlight.

Boiled water in the big, red tub. Bucket showers with hot water.

Not enough pasta, not enough sauce. 4 loaves and 2 fish. Thankful.

Attempted lesson planning and insecurities and doubts. His grace is sufficient. 

Christmas dinner- hot dogs and macaroni. Hershey's chocolates. Chocolate cupcakes. Presents and new clothes and toys. A lit Christmas tree. Crazy, happy, sugar-high children.

Bread and peanut butter. 

"Duck Dynasty" movie nights with Jason, Nikki, and Amy.

Spelling words… practice, practice, practice. 

Carl, my champion speller.

Hard stories, God's healing.

Hanging laundry on the line, Mayline's sweet heart coming to help me.

Sweet letters from home. Encouraging words. So blessed.

"Pre ye, pre ye…" 4 o'clock singing time.

Maxson's laughter.

Packed bags, awake into the night. Ready for family and hot showers. Not ready to say goodbye.

One last game of Trouble on the orphanage floor in the dark night.

"Domi bien, Mayline. Sleep well."

Abel's sweet letter. 

"I will not pee in the shower." 50 lines. 10-year-old boys at their finest.

Pillowcase dresses, early morning sunshine, bare feet on the court. Watching from the window.

Roosters clucking at 2 a.m, mosquitos buzzing, dogs howling. Sleep eluded. 

An early morning and the pitter patter of feet. One last mug of tea made. One last morning on the balcony. 

The promise of tomorrow, with a future entrusted into the hands that hold all things together.