When You're Buying The Bread Alone

or: the One who can feed the multitudes

I can feel his desperation as he surveys the crowd before him. The air is heavy with it. It's midday, and the nearest store is miles away. The hopelessness sinks in deep as he looks down at his hands, seeing how little he has to offer. His voice is thin, cracking at every word, "How far will it go among so many?" He stands there. Completely broken. Completely overwhelmed. I know it because I, too, have stood there.

The crowd is dauntingly large and the afternoon sun scorches everything it lands on. The crowd is murmuring, growing restless from the exhaustion and the heat. Feet scuffle and the unrest grows as the young ones cry out and the whispers mound. They hear his voice amidst the low rumble of the crowd.  "Where will we buy the bread?" At a loss for words, the air grows silent. They look on, dumbfounded. How can it be the One who knows all and holds all is asking the question? He had all the answers until now.

Moments pass. His question hangs there, suspended in mid-air. Even if bread could be found, and enough bread at that, how could they even buy it all? "Eight months wages would not buy enough for each one to have a bite!" The direness of the situation is not lost on any one of them. There is no denying it: they are desperate. The need here is greater than any person could fill. He steps forward, outstretched hands trembling. But he gives all he has-- 5 loaves, 2 fish. And his mustard-sized seed of hope.

"How far will it go among so many???"

The question haunts me, eating me away piece by piece. I know Andrew's doubt. I can taste the despair on the back of my tongue and feel it in my very bones. In a country where the need is so great, I look at what my outstretched hands have to offer. And I want to run, abandoning hope with every step.. because how can one girl living in the small town of Limbe help the multitudes? Really? The realization is backbreaking, the sense of defeat leaving me a crumpled mess on the floor. There is so much need just within these four walls, much less the roads you walk outside of here. Anything you may do literally makes you feel as though you are emptying the ocean with an eyedropper. It's never enough.

There is one who reaffirms my every doubt, and thrives on my feelings of inadequacy and regret. He tells me over and over again what logically cannot be accomplished. He makes certain I know that what I have to offer is not as good as the next guy's, so why even bother? He reaffirms my greatest fear, saying it's all been in vain- all the spelling words and the afternoons spent doing sensory play and stopping by the nursing home; the life I left in Chicago. Paralyzed by the overwhelming situation, I fall prey to his lies more times than I'd care to admit.

Yet still, there is One who speaks, and at His voice all falls silent. It's in the silence that I remember, and only there can I hear Him, "I never asked you to buy the bread alone, love." 

Oh, how quick I am to forget. 

What I have given can never reach to the ends of the crowd; it will hardly make it past the first small handful of people. But that's when I remember: I didn't give it to the crowd. I gave it to the One who turns water into wine and fills the nets with fish until they overflow and feeds the multitudes on 5 loaves and 2 fish. With eyes fixed not on the crowd, but on my sweet, ever-loving Jesus, I've entrusted to Him all that I have to offer. And only He is the one who can make it enough.

Throughout my life, I have been blessed with the opportunity to watch Him feed the multitudes again and again. And the past few months have been no exception. I have watched the ones around me take all that they have and all that they are, and offer it to the One who provides, the One whose steadfast faithfulness remains true from generation to generation. Their trust and humility and servant-hearted attitudes are nothing less than humbling and inspiring to stand in the midst of, stirring those who witness it to a deeper level of child-like faith. 

I don't know where you're finding yourself today. Maybe you've walked faithfully for years, with your eyes gazed solely on the One who can do infinitely more than we ever dare dream of. Or perhaps.. maybe just perhaps, I'm not standing alone here tonight, surveying the multitudes and the bread loaves in my hands? There's a lot I don't know, but this I'm certain of: I've spent too much time paralyzed by the crowds. I know not what the future holds, but I know Who I want to spend it gazing at.

"How far can it go among so many?" It falls on my ears again, the very same question. Only this time, the voice is strong, bold, full of expectant hope. Because this time, his eyes are not on the crowd. This time, he gazes right into the eyes of the One who can. And he knows he stands on holy ground.

Excessively Rainy Weather
or: a most perfect afternoon

It was one of those rainy days that whispered of hot tea cups and baking cookies and all things November. So we stayed in yoga pants and footie-pajamas and had the most epic hammock chill-out. This small boy fell asleep for a good hour, and Anna had a chance to just. be. still.

The rain is pouring here in Haiti. Literally non-stop for over 24 hours. It's nuts. This morning the streets were so flooded that the 4-wheeler couldn't get out of the schoolyard (water came up to its headlights). Back home school gets canceled for snow days. Here it's excessive rainy weather. Gotta love it.

Here's to wishing I had packed rain boots!

The Grandmoun Kai
or: the coolest house in Limbe

On this compound there's a building. It's rock and cement fence slants a slow lopsided angle and many a rooster, chicken, and goat run through its gates. This once-vacant building now teems with life- the scuffling of footsteps, laughter that rings loudly, speakers that blare late in the afternoon, pots of noodles boiling. Where three heads once laid to sleep, there's now eight. Where a bench sat more empty than full, it now spills over and a second one is needed. The white painted walls and fresh countertops and stiff-sheeted beds now have scuffs and mud prints and wrinkles and bangs around every corner. These walls hold joy and struggle, sweat and tears, restless nights and incredible peace. They've welcomed those labeled unworthy, useless, outcasted. And it's become a place of incredible joy.

It's Sunday morning. The shower water runs as they pick out dresses and tie hair scarves on and there's all this Creole shouting and she pats my hand as we sit on the bed. "Aye aye aye..." In the afternoons, when the classroom is locked tight and pencils put away, I walk across the half-rocky half-muddy yard with the sun beating hot. With every footstep I chide myself for not walking this walk more often. The very first day I stood awkward, grasping for words and how to interact. Now my day is not complete without 8 "bongas" (the Ugandan fist-bump) and making fun of at least 2 grandmouns. I look for her blue checkered dress, ask where their linets are, and tap his frail shoulder then turn away teasingly. How I've come to love them...

That day -in the place where soot coats the walls black and dim light casts shadows- this home welcomes yet another. Malnourished and days away from dying, he is found and fed and loved. A week later I watch as he's wheeled (rather begrudgingly) to the lunch table. For a second, the sight sucks all the air from my lungs.

There's many a thing I don't understand about this culture -- how to balance a five-gallon bucket on your head, the way a tap-tap can hold a small army, or how to balance what seems like half a house on a bicycle. And perhaps one day I will successfully master the art of bicycle balancing, but what I will never comprehend is how a culture can so guiltlessly neglect its elderly. 

His shoulder blades pop from his thin white T-shirt. Her vacant eyes cry for her kids. His hands shake the water cup at the lunch table. Malnourished knees are bent in fetal position. This is the product of evil, nothing less. 

I speak of the things I can't wait to enjoy when my feet hit American soil- the pumpkin-soy lattes, cozy sweaters and brown boots, netflix marathons and 6-mile runs, grocery stores and crock pot dinners, unlimited texting and high-speed wifi, clean towels and my comfy bed... but the truth is, I have been absolutely ruined. How does one watch his rail-thing arms and sunken eyes march up and down the hallway with a smile a mile wide, and leave unchanged? 

I love to spin the words as the house grows still. Scribbled on well-worn journal pages is my heart finding its voice. My emotions and thoughts expressed with the tip of my favorite black pen; praying the scribbles I do share with the rest of the world are used by Him. But this.... this I cannot put to words. Only experience can share this. 

Late into the night we wrestle. I'm looking at a country that is capable of this- this starving of its elderly and abuse of its children. He came even for ones such as these. The truth of it is unfathomable. It seems almost a great injustice to love the ones who allow such cruelty to exist. As the drums and chants echo late into the night, my aching heart bleeds. Can they really not see? And here is where I find myself. Thankful that this building is, and praying it continues to be. Praying this building I've come to love so dearly changes their lives too. Praying that this building will stand as testimony of His great love to a community lost in darkness.

This is life apart from Him. Surely in this country one can taste the horrors of hell. But here in this building where their faces light up and their laughter rings loud, I know also this: here you can also taste the great joy of heaven.

Inwardly, I still struggle to wrap my mind about a lot of things. My heart is full of the brokenness- of newborn babies who die and 9-year-old's with cancer, broken family homes and children left parentless, starved elderly and beaten children. Honestly, "His ways are higher than ours" sounds a lot better etched onto thin paper than when you're staring in the face of suffering. This question has haunted me many a time throughout the years, and I've yet to hear an answer that appeases the troubled heart. Even so, I find myself in the arms of a God who won't let me go. And that. is. enough. Mainly because I know it has to be. His ways we will never fully understand. But we can know Who He is, and we can choose to let that be enough. 

Tonight eight heads burrow deep beneath pillows and freshly washed sheets, with bellies full and hearts well loved-on. And it is all because He loved enough to stir in hearts the desire for a building and the lives wiling to serve here. Their lives are being changed and seeds of hope planted. Daily I fall more in love with this mission's heart, and daily I am humbled and inspired all the more by the great faith and sacrifice my eyes have been so blessed to witness. 

And though I try, it's one of those things that aren't meant for words.

The Moments That Make Our Days

or: keeping it wordless

Cheeky monkey (or "chicken monkey" as Carl says)

Typical sight.

Cooking Saturday afternoon lunch.

Asleep and headed to town.

Riding in style (so they all rolled over and one fell off).

Post-afternoon play nap. All tuckered out.

One special boy's pajamas on another special boy.

Chilling in the boot and cruising through town. Because we can.

Our class.

Abel, showing off our word wall.

17-27-9

Ricardo explaining the green-yellow-red stoplight.

Typical pre-school morning sight.

Grandmouns.

Maria and Prevelia, braiding hair.

After school spelling words.

My favorite spot.

38 Things You Don't Fully Understand Until You've Been to Haiti
otherwise known as: the things Anna misses about America

- that fluffy, cotton-y, fresh-towel scent.
- the convenience of a local grocery store.
- 'oh crap i forgot to pack..' boxes from home that hold things like tank-tops and chapstick and dark chocolate covered acai berries.
- when power outages are an uncommon thing.
- the sacred dance of sorrow and joy.
- when a rat is no longer simply a boy's fun childhood pet.
- your treasure lies in hearts and lives and stories and moments.
- clean feet.
- iced lattes to-go.
- what it is to be without the high-speed connection of a fast-paced world. disconnect yourself.
- your dad's hugs at the end of a really long day.
- the excitement of water balloons. embrace the insanity. and run around the compound 1/2 a dozen times while you're at it.
- his hands on your face. fearfully and wonderfully made.
- your morning adventures consisting of rat-chasing from beneath the t.v. to the kitchen to the boy's bedroom.
- those hammock chill-out's that keep you sane.
- a task being completed without 1/2 a dozen interruptions and complications.
- watching him brought from soot-coated walls to white, clean sheets. hope.
- amazon-primed chocolate. and spelling books. in that order.
- computer problems equal ants emerging from your keyboard.
- "The people walking in darkness have seen a great light…"
- Creole does in fact jumble in your dreams.
- there's immense joy in something as simple as a kitty pool.
- their love. forever grateful.
- he will reach and grab for a toy. and oh, your heart will soar.
- how you can almost lose your faith in a third world country if you're not careful.
- multiply anything you do by five. at least. oh? you need to buy bread? Better plan to bring enough children to fill a seven passenger van for that.
- his giggles.
- morning pencil sharpening that lasts 30 minutes. the struggle is real.
- the irony in having papers and binders and no hole-puncher.
- Grace is free. but it is not cheap.
- ibuprofen and 12 hours of sleep can work small wonders, people.
- his rail-thin arms and gaunt eyes and how this place breathes of hope.
- late night sister chatting.
- staring in the face of suffering, how do you love a country like this?
- your phone holds an on-going 'things to bring back' list. feeling kind of screwed.
- it's ok to stay behind a closed door on some days. vital even.
- Come Lord Jesus.
- at the end of a day where kids don't listen and two hundred things go wrong and you just miss them.. a cockroach can crawl across the table in front of you and that is the. breaking. point.
- despite it all, a peace will encompass your every day and every moment. because deep down you know it: He has set your time and your place, and it is beautiful.

Meet Michael
otherwise entitled: the other half of my heart

Two steps forward, one step back. Working with a child with special needs, this has become the mantra we march to on most of our days. Every day this small boys steals more and more of my heart. I've become quite attached, it would seem. He's my smile in the morning before school, and one of my last cuddles before leaving the compound at 5:30 in the evenings. 

More often than not, he can be found chilling in his pac 'n' play-- entertaining himself by looking in his little crib mirror, gazing at the flickering light and spinning ceiling fan, or stripping himself stark naked. haha. His favorite food is spaghetti, the little picky eater. And heaven forbid you try to feed him blueberry flaxseed oatmeal (talk about one of the most distraught, upset looks). He loves Sleeping At Last's song "Saturn" and has yet to fall in love with the complicated melodies of Thomas Newman's pieces. Often his hands flick beneath his chin, as though contemplating deep, deep thoughts. He loves to stare at lightbulbs and the sunshine that filters through the mango trees in the backyard. He'll spin and scooch himself off his colorful foam mats until his feet rest upon the smooth, cool cement floor. Right beneath his ears (near the crook of his neck) you'll find a never-fail tickle spot. There's a 50-50 shot at peek-a-boo making him giggle, or entirely overwhelming him. Humming his little melodies and sounds back to him will make him keep up the charade for a few minutes. And he has the best laugh. 

For the first three weeks, I banged a toy rattle on the ground. Desperate to get his attention, I tried just about everything I knew while we sat on the multicolored mats for an hour. I spent late night hours google-searchig and highlighting books, searching for answers. I longed to see that somewhere in those oft vacant-looking eyes there was still a small boy who could be reached, who could interaction and connection and engage. And I cried. Because three weeks in and there was absolutely nothing to show for all our efforts. And yet, no sooner had the tears blurred my vision when he grasped for the toy, threw it over his head, and roared with laughter. Over and over again, we played this game. He spun and patted and found his toy, a mess of giggles all the while. Such utter bliss. 

Most days, I still feel like I'm grasping at straws to help him connect and engage this beautiful world around him. What he does one day, he won't show any interest in the next. Few things are consistent-- other than his spaghetti breakfasts, overalls being the one thing he can't wriggle out of, and the way I love him so. 

Until you know them, it's easy to look upon the special needs child with a sense of pity. We tend to fail to see the potential because sometimes what one can't do overshadows what wonderful things they are capable of doing. The joy is infinite, and the milestones all that sweeter. We celebrate the small victories... the way he pats my face and pulls for my arms, and how he is finding his voice in that he cries if you try to sit down and hold him at the same time, how his legs fully extend and relax, his scooting off the mats and finding his toy bag, that small bit of weight he'll bear on his half-bent legs. When I see his face, I do not see a child with a disability, labeled by the world as 'different'. The cultures that label such dears ones as 'invaluable' miss. so. much. What he can't do, the ways in which he isn't 'normal' so-to-speak, I hardly even recognize. Because to me he is simply Mikey. I have seen who he is as a person-- fearfully and wonderfully made in the hands of his loving Creator who makes all things good and perfect and beautiful. 

Special needs has become a huge part of my heart as the years go on. Two years ago I boarded a plane absolutely terrified.. because special needs?? I wasn't experienced or qualified for that. Little did I know, oh-so little did I know the joy those 6 months would hold. And somewhere along the way, I've become the girl that now prays to see him stand. I whisper it in his ears and pray it as I still his shaking legs with joint compressions... I believe these legs will one day stand. Call it foolish, overzealous, vain. Certainly I have had moments where I feel so naive. But I believe he is fearfully and wonderfully made, I believe in that little heart there's great strength and sheer determination, and I believe in a God who does the seemingly impossible. 

Until then, we grasp for toys and track water cups. We lay face-to-face on the dirty foam mats and revel in the joy of the ordinary. I roll the ball and he shows no interest and that's okay. Watching his personality emerge during those afternoon balcony chill-out's has been a most precious treasure. Because in the end it's not about toys grasped or things accomplished. It's believing in being fearfully and wonderfully made, finding the beloved, and reveling in Him calling us so.

School Days and Continuing On

otherwise entitled: I now want a cat

5 weeks in, 6 to go.  The fact is a little hard to wrap my mind around.  Being out of the States for over a month now, I’ve entirely forgotten what clean feels like, my definition of good night’s sleep is probably incredibly distorted, and real meat leaves my stomach feeling a bit queasy and unsettled. The weeks have their up’s and down’s. The same days that hold the most infinite joy can transform into the most testing and trying of days; such is life here, or anywhere else on this crazy earth. 

We are trying new things in school this week— separating the class into spelling groups, adding in reading comprehension stories, working through math and doing science questions on protein foods and vitamins. I think deep down (way deep down) the kids like it. At least, that’s why I tell myself as they whine and complain throughout the morning. haha. Denial. Works wonders.

I’ve got one little guy in particular I seem to be at a loss with lately. He’s an artist at heart, a dreamer. One of those kind who were born to compose incredible creations and spin masterpieces. I love him dearly. And perhaps that’s why I feel so tattered. We’ve had a rough two weeks— everything from him egging the other kids on to him refusing to participate in class, then having 5 million questions later on. I stayed up late last night, mulling over things and mostly just praying for this little guy. Our day today was great. Not that greatness is defined by whether a day is frustrating or how well kids listen or how much work we get done. But he wasn’t nagging and irritating someone every 5 minutes, and he actually finished all his papers first. And that felt pretty great for the both of us :) 

The artist in me can identify with so many aspects of his mind… when you’re lost in your latest project, you cannot simply pull yourself from the world of creativity at the snap of a finger, nor do you want to. And the homeschooler in me aches for him… so many years I’ve seen the ‘classroom’ tailored for just one, how do you lump all these strengths and weaknesses together? These complex personalities? The likes and dislikes? The dreams and talents? Couple that with limited resources, an inadequate amount of sleep, and ½ a dozen children who want to be involved in anything and everything you’re doing.

So often I feel like I fail them. If I could just fashion the classroom for each one individually, if only there were enough hours to teach them all one-on-one, if only I could access to this book or that website or different technology… but I can’t. And playing the game of “what if” will run you ragged as the circles beneath your eyes grow. There are some nights it’s more haunting than others.

The time feels stretched thin and ever-fleeting. The flip of the calendar, the way my jeans fit a bit looser, the dwindling supply of tea (well, let’s get real, that’s still overloaded) all remind me the days are passing quickly by. Soon November will come. And while there are days that doesn’t seem close enough, tonite I’m feeling a bit nostalgic. Silently panicked, begging for the clock to slow its ticking just a smidge.

But that’s the funny thing about time… the more you grasp for, the faster it evades you.

Nikki and Jason came back to us today. It’s the first time I’ve been here without them around, and it’s been a bit odd to not see their faces walking about the compound. The ladies are quite excited to have them back. Yesterday when I told Prevelia (in my very best Creole which is a far cry from semi-decent) that they were coming, the look on her face was absolutely priceless. Everything feels settled and normal once more. I'm happy, all my people finally in their special places and spots once more.

There are baby kittens down the road I walk past on an almost-daily basis to adventure out to purchase bread, or run to the market, or accompany children to ‘go buy’.  Never have I ever felt the urge so greatly to bring home a little bundle of a fur ball and name it something ridiculous. I almost considered buying a house in Haiti just to have someplace to house the little bundle of cuteness. Maybe next time ;) The kids I was with laughed at me, telling me of this poor creature’s fate. I’ll leave you to figure that one out on your own (spoiler: dinner plates are involved).

All in all, we are continuing on in the days here. I’m watching geckos roam the ceiling, feeling  the mosquitos suck the blood from my ankles, and waiting for the ibuprofen to kick in.  Through broken headphones,  Sara Groves’s “Great Is Thy Faithfulness” plays through one ear, while in the other, the voodoo drums beat in the distance. 

The Sunday routine now consists of me feeding this little cheeky monkey oatmeal. This past week we tried blueberry flaxseed, which didn't go over so well. Maple-cinnamon seems to be the favorite for this picky eater. He's surprisingly clean in this photo, all things considered. Usually a ridiculous amount of oatmeal is spilled all over his clothes as well as mine, and all over his face and plastered to my chest. Every day he makes me laugh. 

the start of the school year 

otherwise titled: why i've become a coffee drinker

School started a week ago- the days a blur of chalk dust and photocopies and disorganization. 4 months ago, I walked into that tiny square of a classroom and hugged their little faces goodbye. And now we are here, a full week into a new school year. The days hold the typical frustrations and joys one might imagine for a classroom of 8 in a country such as Haiti. We chase the dogs from the classroom, sweep out rat poop and dead cockroaches, and hang a blue tarp to block the hot Haitian sun from melting us completely. And all before 9 am. There are some moments where the absurdity of this life really hits me. But it's never long before the beauty of it does too. 

(doesn't everybody do this before school?)

Exciting things that have happened, let's see. Well, the kids got their uniforms. Ricardo and Judenal walked home to Bonnie and Ray's place after school one day (still wearing their green shirts and navy blue dress pants) and had all of Limbe asking where they went to school. haha. Poor Jenni who's 4 years old and the the size of a 2-year-old is swimming in her size 8 jumper until a replacement size comes in the mail. Sweet thing. Ray and Mark (to make a long story short: Mark's a guy who came to drill wells for 3 weeks and has instead had to learn hard lessons about patience and grace and God's timing, the poor fella) poured concrete and did other construction-y things my nerdy mind doesn't comprehend. Basically they are one huge step forward to finishing Ray and Bonnie's house down at the orphanage (it's been in process for 9 months now). I skipped church to bake peanut butter chocolate cups and lesson plan. And took a walk up a hill to see a gorgeous view of Limbe I'd never seen before.

Yesterday -one full week into school- left me feeling like a wrung out wash cloth, hung and left to dry. The days are always insane, frustrating, and hysterical all rolled into one mess of beautiful crazy. I guess you just have those days where everything becomes a bit too much, and that would describe my Monday. I introduced the concept of creative writing prompts, which resulted in an hour and a half of confusion and spelling out simple words and explaining why "I like a ball because I love it." is not exactly the result of effort and hard work. I love these kids and I love this life, hear me well. But sitting in a room where half of the kids refused to be a part of class, three whined at every worksheet and one wouldn't even look at me, doubt and defeat swooped in swiftly for the kill. Monday afternoon found me eating nutella (straight from the container, mind you) for lunch, recalling the life I left behind in Chicago, unable to think any thought other than: I gave that up for this? Why?

While there is a fine line between an emotionless "oh suck it up" mentality in which one entirely disregards their feelings, and throwing yourself a full blown pity party, a month in and two dozen meals of rice later, I think my heart needed to grieve that loss a little bit. And wide-eyed late into the night, my sister messaged me. Name 5 happy things from today. 

The sound of fresh mangos thumping to the ground. Quiet nights and Thomas Newman instrumentals. Rudlen's smile and Maxson's laugh. Iced coffee. Smiling faces and snazzy new uniforms. 

(my class of cheeky monkeys)

Some days you have to dig your fingernails deep, but the beauty is always there. 

I've started this project of writing a post-it for each kid after class, with an encouraging note. What started as a way to encourage and acknowledge them and the things they did and accomplished in the day has also become a way for me to keep perspective, practicing the finding of something happy in each day. Because I can teach English and stress over vowel sounds and lesson plan for 10 weeks, and entirely miss the point. In that classroom where kids climb over the walls and the tin roof cooks beneath the sun and it takes 20 tries to get that gosh-darn lock open, little lives are taking shape. Greater lessons than times tables and science chapters are being taught. Diligence, teamwork, self-confidence, perseverance, and respect are being learned right alongside "2x2" and "what foods contain proteins?" It's just so much easier to see it while writing behind a computer screen, rather than living in the moment.

I'm spending the afternoons doing one-on-one work with the kids, keeping a schedule of who gets to read and do flashcards on what day. So far the kids really seem to enjoy it, and it's also helpful for me to know where they're at. And to get some one-on-one time and connect with the little cheeky monkeys. Slowly a schedule is taking shape, it's just taking some time. The kids really have made some incredible progress over the summer, and it will be exciting to watch them continue in that.

I'm finding myself with yet another sleepless night here in Haiti, the rain a steady pour outside and the curtains fluttering, spreading coolness to a usually warm house. Lightning streaks the sky, thunder rumbles low, and the rain comes to wash the day away. The power flickered out long ago, the ticking clock causing my laptop battery to be drained next-to-nothing. Three boys sleep soundly in the other room, the air heavy with their breathing and this God-grace that sustains us one day at a time. 

I cleaned out the kitchen upstairs this afternoon, and thought I'd share the photograph of the cuddly little friend I found hiding behind the refrigerator. I'd also like it to be know that upon discovering him, I didn't even scream. Oh the things you'll find when you clean. 

Because He Says So
 otherwise entitled: Anna stayed awake too late

The night has been long and for all of their efforts, they have nothing to show. The docks are beginning to fill with life once again as the pale gray sky turns shades of pink and orange. There's this slapping of the tide and the rustling of the nets as they are dragged ashore and washed clean. A steady, slow rhythm of cawing birds and life arising from the dead of the night beats in the air. The people murmur as His footsteps come to pass, the air filling with a sense of awe and curiosity. The whole countryside has heard of him, of his teachings and his stories and his healings. They whisper amongst themselves, "It is he." The word spreads like wildfire. "It is this Jesus."  

Slowly the crowd grows as the people begin to follow Him to the water's edge. He climbs aboard a boat, causing Simon to look on in disbelief as this Rabbi sits and begins to teach. Simon rows away from the shore, his arms aching with the toils of the night. They are forgotten at a moments notice, with Jesus spinning stories and words and lessons. His arms wave wildly and his voice rises and falls with emotion as he speaks. Simon sits, mesmerized. With his wisdom he opens the eyes of the crowd and brings the Scripture to life before them. Who is this Jesus?

As he finishes, Jesus turns to Simon. "Put out into the deep. Let down the nets for a catch." 

The dull ache in his shoulders remind him of the night he has had. He stands, knees crackling beneath the weight of him. The boat rocks, unsteady in the water as he sighs deep, "Master, we've worked all night and haven't caught anything…" he pauses, looking to his men, the lines of fatigue etched into their faces and written across their slumped shoulders. He looks at his hands, calloused from years of net cleaning and rope pulling and working the docks. He looks heavily into the eyes of the One who has asked, finishing his sentence, "but because you say so, I will let down the nets."

Because You say so.. oh, how many times I have failed to let this be enough. 

The nets grow heavy with the bounty of fish. The men's weary grunts turn to shouts of ecstasy, the deck an array of excitement and madness. Anxiously they wave on another boat, sharing the catch. The boats fill to the brim, barely reaching the shoreline without sinking with the weight of their haul. One moment they are wearied and tired fisherman, and the next they rejoice in experiencing the catch of a lifetime. 

Among them there is one. It is Simon, who falls to his knees before the feet of Jesus. Simon, who let down his nets after a long night. Simon, who knew enough of Who Jesus was that "because You say so" was enough. Simon, who should be reveling in the best catch a fisherman not even dare to dream of. And we find him here, at the feet of Jesus. 

What a beautiful image. 

To experience the highest point in your life and to fall at the feet of Jesus. He has grasped that which is significant in the moment, that which truly matters. 

What went through his mind as he began the long row out to the deep? I often wonder. Did he think himself a fool? Did his arms buckle beneath the heavy nets cast overboard once again? I imagine the rush of emotions and questions that swept over him… the exhaustion, the curiosity, the stupidity, the fear. And part of me likes to believe there was a flicker of hope in Simon's heart that, though he try, he could not fully extinguish. 

Time in Haiti has taught me many things and led me to ask many a question late into the night. But perhaps the most pressing lately has been this whispering question deep within: where do you plant your hope? Here it is far too great a temptation to look at your surroundings, to base things off realism when you consider what can be accomplished. To do so is a dangerous infringement on your hope and your faith. Because here, the rules of logic and sense do not apply. Catch yourself quickly, or you'll find you've lost your focus entirely.

The truth of the matter is this, and only this: because He says so. For the past week there have been early mornings at the breakfast table with conversations and the clattering of plates and the steaming of coffee as the sink fills with bubbles and we live this crazy thing called life. Their voices rumble as the children shriek and their words penetrate. Over and over again I have been blessed to hear the hearts of those God has placed here. And over and over again it fills me with a sense of such joy. Their words give me much to ponder well into the evening, and their faith is one that inspires. Because they have lived in the midst of because You said so, each one in their own way with their own stories to tell. One can't help but become fascinated. 

This upcoming week we will start school, the days becoming a routine of books and papers and bathroom breaks and chalk dust. And I pray, that we'd learn more than just multiplication tables and sentence structures. Tonite a small boy sleeps soundly in a pac 'n' play. Even so my heart can't help but wonder how many more are out there? A language barrier vast and wide separates me from their world and the things i long to ask them, the stories my ears itch to hear. I know the odds and I've heard the statistics. I know realistically I am one small girl in a very large world, and these things unvoiced I'm so afraid to dream are downright foolish. But like Simon, I will choose "because You said so". And the nets may fill with fish and the nets may not. Ultimately that doesn't matter much.  What matters is this long row out to the deep, this bending of the knee and of the will. 

Stake your tent and your hope in this land, in this place of "because You say so". For surely, He does not disappoint.