scrambled eggs and rat tails

Three girls lay sleeping on the bunkbed across from me. The day's steady pounding of rain has turned to the sound of droplets. The power just flickered out. Haiti's night promises to be yet another long one.

Tomorrow is Thursday, at least I think it is. It's easy to lose track of the days when you live in a country where time literally means nothing. Three days into school has left me feeling overwhelmed and inadequate, as it usually does. Mentally adjusting to being back has been harder this time around than previous times, making me feel like I have a lack of patience in the schoolroom. The kids are doing well in school overall. They've remembered more than I imagined they would and my one little guy who tends to be a bit of a struggler has really been engaged and interested in class this time around. Pulling him out to work with him one-on-one has probably been my favorite aspect of school. I've loved watching his face light up as he "gets it" and the change in his overall attitude. There's an excitement for learning I hadn't seen before that's coming to life in him. And it's so cool to watch.

We cooked scrambled eggs for dinner tonight, and danced to Ben Rector and Rend Collective in a rat-infested kitchen. Once three little kiddos were snuggled warm in pajamas and the floor swept clean, we played math bingo and scrolled through my facebook newsfeed. I brought a children's Beginner's Bible back from the States, and we poured over the pages and pictures, reading the Christmas story. Slowly the giggle-fits quieted as three tired minds lost the fight to sleep. 

This late night in Limbe leaves me alone with my thoughts. And my furry little creatures who thump around in the ceiling- I think I'm thinking of calling them Templeton's Crew (Charlotte's Web readers, anyone?). That or "The Ferocious Team of Terror Rats".  Let's just say this new group of rats has me aching for the days when Gus Gus and his little friend Jacques were my biggest problem. And yes, anything past 8:30pm in Haiti is considered late.

Life is good here in Limbe. Some days leave me feeling more emotionally paddled than a ping-pong ball back and forth across the table. In one instant 4 more weeks sounds like an eternity I cannot endure, and the next moment I'm clawing and desperate for more time. In light of so many changes that are taking place, a big part of me wishes there was a fast-forward button to all of this. Skip the beginning-- skip the hard, the awkward, the sad, the uncertainty. Skip to where life is finally settled. Thankfully that is not an option; we would miss out on far too many crucial, precious moments if it was.

I find I'm continuously reminding myself He ordains our every moment. Nothing ever has been -nor ever will be- beyond His grasp, no circumstance inescapable from His great grace. As certain and real as the contented sighs from the bed across from me are right now, so these days of ours are all always God-breathed. 

being enough

The transitions are finally over. That's what I told myself 3 months ago as I packed away my Haitian life in totes to be stored until the new year. Routine happened, and I settled into her ways gladly. Somehow rats in the kitchen and screaming children and constantly smelling of pee and dirty sneakers became... well, strangely normal. And I could see myself in that crazy class, with those sensory-play afternoons, and the dirt and the joy and the hard for some time to come. I started to plan on it. After an adventurous journey out, I landed on American soil, thankful to be back in the country of hot running water and laundry that actually gets cleaned. Ready for a break, yet comforted to know my return tickets were booked. 

The past 3 years of my life have been new places, changes, unknowns, plane tickets, packing and unpacking and repacking the one thing that has remained constant-- my trusty green duffel. It's had its joys as well as challenges, its thrilling adventure alongside complete fear, immense heartache and laugh-until-you-cry memories. And I would do nothing differently. 

It started as an 18-year-old in love with the adventure of Uganda, and overtime grew to be what it was always meant to be: the adventure of loving Him. As I have transitioned to loving Him, rather than the places or the people or the cultures He brings me to, I have discovered something greater and far more precious than any country or language-- His heart. 

"Delight yourself in the Lord, and He will give you the desires of your heart..." I like to think this means be a good person, do all the right things, live the right way, and God gives you what you want. The past three months have taught me that it's anything but. I'm learning to live out this verse, to find my sole delight in God Himself. And I'm watching -as my heart desires only Him- how that changes the longings of my heart. No longer do I ache for countries and cultures and plane rides the way I ache for Him. Yes, I love packed bags and hot climates and the blur of foreign languages. I think I always will. But because I love Him more, I long more for what He wants.

In March I start a job as a full-time nanny for a most incredible family in the northwest suburbs of Chicago. There truly is no way to capture the immense bittersweetness of this season. But God has made it all so evident that this is what He has next. I am head-over-heels for this sweet boy and his family, and so beyond-words excited for what the next year brings. However the weight of these too-soon looming goodbyes is a constant weight that laces every moment. 

"You are enough for me..." I've whispered it walking through Bugiri hospitals where babies lay starved and toddlers burned. "You are enough for me..." I whispered it when she died, when special needs was overwhelming terrifying, when I was blinded by tears of homesickness. "You are enough for me.." I whispered it when I wanted to escape a small, suffocating island in the Caribbean, when rats ate crackers in my bedroom, when the classroom got crazy and I doubted morning would come. 

Now I need to learn to whisper it in the land where there is enough- where the electric stays on all night and comfort poses threat on my soul. You are enough for me. Always. 

There are ways in which this decision seems absolutely crazy and ways in which it seems absolutely perfect. My steps will tread in peace, because I know this is what He has planned next. And "next" is all I ever need to know. For when have I ever seen anything but good come from His hands? It's not heartbreak free, nor is it comfortable or easy. Most days, I want to run... but in the core of me I know: it is always good. 

And so I will stand in the land of because He says so. And I will choose to believe His goodness will never fail us.

seasons and transitions

The thought is bittersweet: This is the last night of good sleep you’ll be getting for a while. I’m in pajamas by 8:30, and curled under the covers by 9. I fight with sleep, stubbornly refusing her to steal these precious moments. The countdown consists of hours now.  Chai steams hot in my favorite blue mug the next morning. I stay in pajamas and stocking feet until a ridiculously embarrassing hour of the morning. Sunlight filters through the windows, my spot on the couch cozy-warm. I scroll through blogfeeds and articles, my phone buzzes with a text, "Sleeping At Last" is on my Pandora shuffle. There are no rats here. No howling dogs. No ants in the sugar.

Tomorrow I will head to the airport at a ridiculous 3 in the morning, and my feet will be walking Haitian soil by 12 o’clock noon. The past 2 months have been a whirlwind-- emotionally, physically, spiritually, and mentally exhausting. Yet, so beautiful.

My duffel is packed, filled with water balloons and sensory-play toys and a chocolate stash that isn't quite sufficient for life in Haiti. My passport has been dug out from the chest of important papers and plane tickets confirmed. I have a carry-on stuffed with 42 diapers, countless short readers, and osh-kosh overalls sized 5T. The last load of laundry is in the dryer, every bill has been paid, all the odds and ends tied neatly as possible.

It’s all coming back, like the rushing of the tide… the laughter, the water balloon fights, afternoon senior walks, his infectious fits of hysteria , the mangos that thud the roof, responding to “Hannah” again.

Transitions are never easy. But to everything, there is a season.

“A time to cry and a time to laugh.

A time to grieve and a time to dance.”

- Ecclesiastes 3:4

Cannot wait to hear these giggles again :)