when in haiti

This post has been in the making since November, although mostly finished off at about 5 am this morning. So keep in mind it's written by an over-tired, homesick, slightly crazed, heavy-hearted, I've-been-in-Haiti-for-a-month-now girl.

You know you're in Haiti when…

- 5 hours of sleep is deemed a good night's rest.

- your hair falls out by the handfuls, and you're pretty certain you'll be bald before you reach 30.

- months feel like days but weeks feel like months. you're living in a time warp. 

- rain beats the tin roof, steadfast and hard.

- the sight of two blancs and a caramel-colored 3 year-old driving away on the four wheeler never ceases to bring a smile to your face.

- you know Who your hope rests in.

- He is enough. always. and you're re-learning that daily.

- you can't recall what clean feels like at this point.
- an eno hammock is now considered a necessity in order to function in life.

- when the power comes on 20 minutes early you're as giddy as a 7-year-old on Christmas morning.

- chickens chill in the rafters of your classroom. no big deal.

- you're in a constant state of desperation for His grace, because this place is more intense than one can handle alone.

- dark chocolate covered almonds with turbinado sugar and sea salt. do I really need to say more?

- you've spent 3 weeks explaining the concept of telling time. but they are starting to get it!

- you name the rat that's living in your bathroom (who's been particularly quiet lately).

- you remember how sin-filled and broken and lost this world truly is. Come Lord Jesus. 

- you don't know how you'd survive without the ones who wash your clothes and share movie nights with you and live this crazy thing called life. you are infinitely blessed by them daily.

- you tell kids things like, "We don't pee in the shower," and "Stop it! You'll break his face." 

- you're homesick. and there's not enough chocolate in the world to fix how much you miss the ones you left back in Chicago.

- wait… potatoes aren't supposed to be the size of ping-pong balls?

- you've laughed louder and cried harder than in a long time.

- you're constantly used as a human jungle gym. and you've got the bruises and sore-spots to prove it.

- there's a battle for souls that is real and intense. and your most desperate prayer is to never lose sight of that.

- emails from home are the best.

- you now have every little reader book you brought memorized. 

- the beauty is intricately woven throughout your days.

- it's an endless and hopeless search for bananas. which makes no sense, because you live on a tropical island.

- staying awake past 9 o'clock is life on the wild side, friends. truly.

- there are hard stories and heartbreaking situations, and some days all you can do is beat your hands against the floor and cry to the One who is still sovereign and still good.

- the question haunts the back of your mind, "how can I stay in such a place?" and the only answer you have is another question, "but how on earth could I leave?" 

- there's probably bug spray in your bloodstream by now.

- you look forward to sister movie nights and baking parties with great eagerness. 

- nothing ever makes sense here. ever. (hence the banana thing)

- you've done jumping jacks and crunches and push-up's before in attempt to "warm up" for your ice-cold shower. it didn't work.

- you're fairly certain you'll be gray-haired and wrinkled before you can speak fluent Creole. 

- there's always room for one more!

- your room has become the holding place of candy and gum and crackers for all the little hoarders that live downstairs. 

- they are absolutely crazy, but you love them dearly.

- there are moments you can't remember your own name. 

- just when you think there's not one more piece of your heart to lose, this places snatches yet another bit of it. forever ruined.

- life feels so bittersweet, because your heart forever resides in two entirely different places.

- your life holds both a sense of great sorrow and immense joy. but mostly longing. because you realize you will never have all the ones you love in the same room. this gives you great joy when you're with the ones you haven't seen in a while. but a deep sense of sorrow for the ones you've left behind. mostly what there is though, is longing. for eternity and for His kingdom come. 

when you're sitting at His feet

It's been a whirlwind of a week. Quite honestly, I'm not quite even sure where to begin. We had a team come in last Friday, and I tagged along on their weekend trip to visit their sister church. Let's just say after 1 night of sleeping on an air mattresses that totally deflated and then the next night a pool floatie that half-deflated, coming home to Limbe and my bed was such a sweet treat. But it was fun to get to see another part of Haiti and to experience something different than life here on the compound, and also to get to know the team that spent the week here. Piece by piece, I'm finding my heart falling for this country a bit more and more (God's ways are just so ridiculous, aren't they?)

School has been a bit non-existent this week, being that we didn't get back with the team until Monday afternoon and then on Wednesday we went to the beach. Every day this week has felt like a Monday-- starting back over, trying to re-establish routine, introducing spelling words, re-explaining concepts and such. It's left me a bit defeated feeling in many ways, because let's get real, does anybody really, truly love Mondays? But in so many other ways it has been so encouraging. I've seen Sadrack read whole sentences on his own, sounding out each letter and putting the words together. Abel has learned to tell time. Cassandra has participated in class more. Judenal has had an excited attitude about learning that I had yet to see since being back. Even Bello will sit and try sounding out words in a book with me. So often I feel as though we take one step forward and then 3 steps back. But the Lord is faithful, and He speaks encouragement in those moments where I doubt. 

The rat continues to make himself quite at home in my bathroom. It seems Gus-Gus (as I now affectionately call him) has been attracted to the rolls of toilet paper that are stacked on the shelf in there, and has spent the late hours of the night tearing into it and (I'm assuming) making himself quite a cozy little nest somewhere hopefully far, far away. I put the toilet paper away in a bin, so hopefully he will move on to bigger and better things that don't take place in my bathroom. Preferably the destination of this bigger and better is not my bedroom.

The Lord continues to be faithful in the littlest, yet most profound ways. Life here can be hard, and the hopelessness and the darkness of this place overwhelming. But it makes the light and the love of my Jesus that much greater and stronger. After a particularly rough day this past week, I went outside to have a chill-out in my hammock (God bless whoever invented eno's  because mine has been my sanity the last 3 weeks). After 30 minutes of some good ole fashioned hymns and time to just be still, I looked up to see a little brown fuzzy head peaking from around the doorway that I knew to be Bello. His grin broke wide as I called him over, plopped him in my hammock, and gave him my iPod. We sat on the porch as the craziness of the compound unfolded below us and I listened to his high-pitched voice sing along to the music in his ears. 

Name above all names, worthy of all praise, my heart will sing how great is our God.

The exhaustion and the stress and the fear from the day vanished like a vapor as I listened to him belt out the words, eyes closed, swinging back and forth in the hammock. It was a humbling moment, to be reminded by Bello's sweet voice of the God I serve and the reason I am here. It's all too easy to lose sight of this truth: He is so good. It comes in quickly, the inclination to look only at the mess, at the many things that you didn't get accomplished in the day, at the need that is so great, at how tired you are and how futile it seems. You can exhaust yourself and busy your every waking moment, and still have it all feel like a drop in the bucket at the end of the day. But in that moment, He reminded me of Who He is, and who I am in light of that. 

The truth is that honestly, He doesn't need me. He is a fully capable, all-powerful God for who the mountains shake and the oceans roar, at the mention of His name the morning breaks in glory and the angels bow down. And what are we, but mere breath and fleeting shadows? Yet still, in His infinite love and mercy, He lets us have a small part in His grand story. And He molds us and shapes us and changes us along the way. The work He longs to do is not so much the work I see in a physical sense as much as it is a work in the inner heart.

While I see the boy who is learning to sound out letters, He sees the boy whose self-confidence is growing. What I perceive as an interruption to my day, He uses as a divine appointment, an intentionally placed opportunity to love like He loves. I see a small one who can read little readers on her own, He sees a girl who will one day pick up His Word and let it breathe life into her. I sigh over a table that has to be set with 17 plates and cups and forks and knives, He sees the opportunity for 7-year-olds and a dance party and too much laughter and sneaking bites of hot dogs and vanilla pudding.

It happens quickly, and so often we miss it. We are a busy people. I will be the first to confess, I am easily distracted by my own personal to-do list, consumed with a sense of failure when the tasks left undone outweigh the things accomplished. But the failure never rests in how much or how little I consider accomplished; in how many loads of laundry were switched or how many stories were read or how well kids listened during school that day or how many emails I wrote back to. Failure lies in all the moments I miss what He is doing, in the many instances I’ve chosen to run about the house banging pots and pans or standing over a boiling stove or sweeping the ground, instead of choosing to simply sit at His feet.

His whispers it to my soul with a tender rebuke.. as gentle as this breeze brushing my face, as penetrating as the hot sun is on my skin. I can do more in your waiting than in your doing you could ever accomplish. 

As the day grows crazier and the pace quickens and the papers pile high, He beckons. He pleads with us all the more as our human need to feel like we’ve accomplished something screams loudly and we are tempted to tack one more thing onto the ever-growing to-do list. The spot at His feet sits readily available and He calls out with the sincerest of love…

Child of Mine, come and dwell here. 

when he gets 100 on his spelling test

I love this spot.

The sunlight dances golden pink across the yard, single rays of light penetrating the shadows. The morning is still, the hush of 6:30 a.m. still in the air as the world wakes from a restless night. Messy hair, still in pajamas, shaking the sleep from my head, I stand there. Wednesday has pressed in hard, my shoulders heavy already beneath the weight of the last 2 days. The darkened basketball court blurs out of focus. Two weeks in and I whisper it in the darkness, the words falling on no ears but my own, "I can't do another day."

First it's just him, the one I thought never studied. He's wrapped up in that white and blue striped hoodie, fingers curled around his pencil. "R.. A.. N.. ran." His voice is a quiet echo by the time it reaches my window. Then comes another to sit beside him, carrying in his hands a short reader. I watch his brow furrow in deep concentration. Head bent, he licks his lips, straining over each letter sound. The minutes pass like this- with the smell of my chai tea and the cool morning air and the hush of their spelling words. The night has been long, and the week even longer still. It's been a week of such beauty-- so much letter sounding-out and sentences read and a love for learning that I hope is taking root in their little hearts. But it's been a week that has left me feeling battered and bruised. There is such a long way to go, and I'm equipped for none of this.

I watch as they trickle out slowly. One… two… three… four… five of them. Each taking their place along the edge of the basketball court, notebooks aligned, helping each other study. It's a beautiful sight for a weary soul. I close my eyes and breathe deep, willing my heart to be still. Because I want to remember every detail of this moment. 

The warm mug pressed to my waking lips.  

How he dances at each word spelled correctly.

Sweet sunshine warming the earth. 

The way his laughter rings loudly.

Tattered notebooks, worn and smudged. 

His bottom lip and how he bites it, deep in thought.

The hope that floods my heart.

So many moments I feel like I am failing them. I watch my patience wear thinner and thinner as the same words are sounded out again and again and again. I recall the way I evade those little readers simply because I cannot read the same story yet another time. I see the lessons I could've taught differently, the ways I could've explained concepts better, the frustration because a classroom of 8 kids gets loud and rowdy and oh-my-gosh-I'm-losing-my-mind. So many times it has all looked futile. But in that moment He whispered it most assuredly. It's not all in vain, love. 

The week back to school has been a lot of things-- exciting, chaotic, trying, beautiful, exhausting, hopeful. Memories of the past week swirl through my mind. Excitement over the green and purple vocabulary books that are written in and thumbed through. The way she participated for all of class yesterday. How he studied so hard all week. Watching their hands shoot up to read the flashcard sight words, and the laughter than ensues. The look on his face when he sounded out that sentence all. by. himself. Hearing his voice volunteer to sweep the classroom. And perhaps the sweetest moment: when Bello got 100 on today's spelling test. I looked him eye-to-eye this morning, the grin on his face growing wide when he saw his paper. Recalling the lines written and the way he tried so hard in class and how he studied all week, the words are a choked whisper because we have seen it, all his hard work paid off. "I am so proud of you." Words simply fail at trying to capture the sweetness of the moment. 

I was reminded of this on Wednesday morning… as those five little notebooks and five little heads out on the basketball court spoke His truth into my bones without saying a word at all. This week has all been only because of His grace. And I stand, ever grateful.

when there's a rat in your bathroom

The past week has felt like a settling in of sorts, becoming reacquainted with the days here, falling back into old patterns. Familiarity becoming my friend as I remember a life of water filters and laundry lines and powerless nights. Even the simplest of things are done differently, like teeth-brushing. I've caught myself several times near-ready to immerse my toothbrush in water running from the tap that has who-knows-what in it. There's always an adjustment, on either side of the ocean, that has to take place.

Within the past week, I've spent countless hours with hands locked tight around my waist, or fingers combing through my hair, or contorting my arm backs and upside down so that someone can look at my watch and practice telling time (that has been all the rage recently, it seems). There have been dinners and movie nights and sweet conversations that have left me so thankful to be back here. It's hard to believe it's been over a week already. Somedays it feels like the chill of Chicago winters just left me yesterday, and other days I feel like it's been weeks since my last real shower.

Last Wednesday Maxson and I spent the morning cleaning out the classroom. We walked into a room of complete disarray-- desks piled high with papers, books falling from the shelves, chalk-dust in every crevice and corner. Madness. We sorted and organized, our papers for the burn pile growing with each desk we tackled. We removed the unnecessary papers, the random kitchen utensils (I mean, who doesn't need a spoon when they're working on math problems. Am I right?), the toys, the pairs of underwear under the chairs, and the good ole trusty rat poop. Once we finished that, I brought down the folders and the name tags and other fun school things I had packed away in my bags and now everybody has a folder, and every desk has a name tag, and nobody should be missing a pencil or an eraser tomorrow morning (I know, I even laughed writing that. But a girl can dream for a day, can't she?)

The kid's most recent project has been digging a hole for the construction that's happening on the compound. They spent a good part of last week digging a 6-foot, septic tank hole, and being that they haven't had school for the past week because of Haitian craziness holidays, they've accomplished quite a bit. Their newest endeavor has been digging around on the other end of the compound, filling the wheelbarrow with dirt, rolling it across the yard (and losing half the dirt in the process) and dumping it to build up and level out the dirt so that the next team that comes in can hopefully pour cement for the foundation of the house. More often than not, if you were to look out through the upstairs window, or walk outside at just about any moment, you will find a small handful of boys shoveling and digging away, covered head-to-toe in dirt. Or you'll see Carl -in all his energy and volume- pushing another child in the wheelbarrow that is on its way back from just being poured out. These kids are hard workers, that's for certain.

Last night I stayed awake reading before the power went out [this book is a great read, if you haven't already heard of it or read it]. Head in my hands, propped on my elbows and feet tangled in the mosquito net dangling up above my bed, I was entirely absorbed in my reading. After quite some time, I paused to check my watch and realized two things: the power was about to go out any minute now, and coming from the bathroom I suddenly became aware of the very distinctive sound of a rat pitter-pattering through the drawers of the bathroom sink. No sooner do I have this realization when the power goes out leaving me sitting in the pitch black, can't-see-your-hand-in-front-of-your-face darkness.

And all I can think is: there's a rat a mere few feet away from the foot of my bed.

Oh, and there's also this: I have to pee.

Now rats are hardly an uncommon thing here in Haiti. I've woken up to the sound of rats in the ceiling or the sound of things rustling in the kitchen more times than I can count. I'd like to tell you I wasn't fazed by it, that I grabbed my flashlight and walked into the bathroom like this was totally normal (let's get real, this is Haiti, it is fairly typical). But for whatever the reason, last night the idea of this rat in my bathroom was a little too much. Reality is that I eventually fell asleep, knees to my chest, listening to the sounds of this rat, terrified. Let's just say I've never claimed bravery as one of my strong suits.

The night was a bit of a restless one, even though the rat eventually quieted and (I'm assuming) moved onto a new adventure that didn't take place in the bathroom cupboards. Despite the sensation of oh-crap-I-really-really-have-to-pee, my half-asleep self still could not put my feet to the floor. And so I cowered in the darkness.

I do this a lot.

Usually it's not from rats though. In the dark of the night, when the single beam of a flashlight is all there is, I cower from His plans. Be it the feeling of inadequacy, fear of the unknown, a sense of defeat because the situation looks so overwhelming, or just my plain stubbornness because I currently want to do things my way and not His.. I sit in the dark. All the while, I listen the thumping of the cabinets and stare at the shadows in the room, letting the fear rush in like a flood and overtake me. I cower on the bed, clinging to the false hope that being 6 inches off the floor is going to keep me safe.

I don't want to live life hiding in fear of the rats.

There's much to be scared of when all there is is a rustling in the dark and the light beneath your feet that shows you just one more step. There are seasons where that simply doesn't feel like enough to go on. But sometimes that's all He gives. At His name, the waves still and the thunder falls silent and the darkness flees. And He is the same One who is waiting to hear the sound of His child, calling out for Him in the dark of the night. So shout it into the void, or whisper it with a hum that barely passes your lips. Because He longs to meet us here.

(Incase you're wondering how the story ends, and for fear of it sounding as though I wet the bed, allow me to clarify-- the electric eventually came on in the middle of the night and I decided to brave the bathroom where I found no signs of the rat. I'm currently taking name suggestions so that, if my dear little friend returns tonight, I can call him by name in hopes that will make him a little less intimidating).

when you're here

To be here. Where a 4-hour plane ride brings you to a place that seems like an entirely new world. Where rain hitting the roof is a deafening, beautiful sound. To be here. Where you've received more hugs and hello's than ever before. Where the car horns honk and the bodas weave between the streets and how could you have forgotten it all? To be here. Among the faces you didn't realize just how much your heart missed until you were back. To be here is good, so good.

The past few days have been a bit exhausting, but also wonderful. With last minute packing insanity, a 4:30 a.m. wake up, the last of the always-dreaded goodbyes, and being in O'hare for 6 hours due to flight delays, I felt worn out before I even left Chicago. Roaming the airport Thursday morning, I was asked by airport security, "Little girl, are you a minor traveling alone? We can escort you." I suppose my timid shyness doesn't exactly help my 5'1'' 15-year-old-looking-self seem more my age? Despite the slightly rough start, once I arrived in Florida everything went smoothly. I took my last hot shower, ate my last leafy green salad, and sent my last texts for the next few months. Bittersweet.

As the plane neared Haiti and land came into view, I couldn't keep the smile from my face. From the runway I spotted Ray's car and that chocolate-colored, 4-year-old, almost-practically-bald head poking out of the front window I knew to be Jantzee. I feel like the weight of the goodbyes always presses in hard the last week or so of being home, and it wasn't until that moment that I realized the sweet hello's that were about to take place.

The morning was spent running around town doing errands. The plane was unloaded and customs cleared all by 10:30. Being greeted by Ray and Bonnie, and Nikki and Jason, and Lovena and Jantzee at the airport was the sweetest. I can't imagine coming back to any other place without them, they're all pretty amazing. All the errand running around Cap made me feel like, in some ways, I had never left.

The afternoon was completed with Michael cuddles and picking the glitter from Carl's face and having my hair torn braided by Rodenflor and Maria and being called "Hannah" again. Pretty much the usual insanity I grew accustomed to before I left. It was exciting to see a lot of the changes that have taken place on the compound since December and to cuddle some kids again and catch up with everybody. I unpacked my things that evening, put sheets on my bed and called it a day. After a quick phone call home, I was out by 7:30. We party hard here in Haiti, what can I say?

Now the rain is pouring, the drops pelting the roof, creating a deafening roar. Children are running about the compound screaming, laughing, dancing, and fighting. There's frogs croaking and the rush of Creole words all about. And in this moment here, I'm struck by the beauty of it all.

This.. this coming back to Haiti, was never part of the plan. At least not my own plan. Sometimes the absurdity of it would hit me when I was back in Chicago; what in the world am I thinking, returning? The beauty of it all brings me to my knees; here I am, in a country I never anticipated being in, doing something I never imagined myself doing. But all along, there was One who knew the entire story. The realness of this truth has hit hard the last few days: I deserve none of this. All of this, it has been Him; ordained by Him, for Him, from Him, because of Him. He works and moves and plans our days in the most amazing ways, and I'm so thankful.

So, friends, to wrap it up in a nutshell.. being back in Haiti is sweet, so much sweeter than I anticipated. And it's pouring rain here, which is so great. And as much as I miss you all, I don't miss the snow or the below freezing temperatures of Chicago. Thank you for your prayers and your sweet encouragement and all of the support you've shown me. Words cannot express the depth of my gratitude.