For A Lack of Words

otherwise entitled: two weeks of randomness

Almost two weeks ago, a plane landed the runway strip and Haiti's heat near suffocated my 70-degree-summer-accustomed self. In that amount of time, I've finally learned their names, I can successfully sleep through barking dogs and crazy chickens, and I know two new Creole phrases. The kids have become quite entranced with Pick-Up sticks-- the game that brings me back to my childhood. It's more a borderline obsession at this point with their consistent asking to 'go get the game upstairs', almost making me wish I had left the game back in Chicago. While I speak little-to-no Creole, sitting with the grandmouns has become my favorite pastime. Mostly it's me speaking poor sentences composed of some Creole and some English, and the ladies saying, "Wi, wi, wi!" to anything and everything I say. haha. But two weeks ago, I didn't know their names from their faces, and now I know both that and the Creole word for glasses. Progress. Slowly but surely.

Bonnie and Ray came back two days after I got here. They also brought along their daughter, and it was such fun to meet "The Vanessa" after hearing so many stories. She took me on some 4-wheeler adventures around Limbe and shared fun stories from when she lived here in Haiti with the kids. Having them back made everything feel settled and complete once more. It's funny how you can forget how much you miss people until you see their faces and hear their voices, and this flood of memories come rushing back. However the settled feeling was short-lived, as Nikki and Jason have left for their time out in the States. They will be gone until October, road-tripping and speaking and enjoying all that the good ole United States have to offer (which, let's get real, consists of constant electric and restaurants and this incredible store called Target. It should be a good month for them). 

The kids and I peeked into the classroom a few days ago-- desks disheveled, papers and chairs strewn every which direction, and charcoal boxes stacked in the corner.  But the red-yellow-green stoplight chart still hangs on the wall, and after such a long summer, the cabinet still holds quite a few of the things I left back in May. I think my mind was in a bit of denial about coming back to Haiti, and so I'm currently feeling very ill-prepared for another round of school. But the teachers who were here working with the kids this summer did a great job, the kids are reading and sounding out so much more than a few months ago which is so exciting to see. Vanessa and I cleaned out the classroom last week, restacking chairs and sweeping floors and doing an overall clean. Later I went through and organized books and papers and the-like, hanging new posters and the cork squares and other fun classroom-y things.

Being that Nikki and Jason have left the compound and are in the States, Bonnie and Ray have been the sweetest and are letting me unpack by bags at their place in the meantime. They also bought me a battery so that I could run a fan during the night after the power went out, so I'm feeling incredibly spoiled by such kind people. Let's just say that fan at 2 a.m. is something I would give up all the dark chocolate covered acai berries I packed in my bags for. Priorities people. But in all realness, it's sweet people doing unexpected things for you that make the crazy of this country a little less insane and mean so incredibly much. Daily I'm reminded of how blessed I am by the friendships here, and I'm praying to never take any of it for granted.

I'm struggling to find the right words for this little blog. It's as though they're a jumbled mess in my insides and I can't get them out right. I've done lots of reflecting on the past summer-- the insanity and the busyness. Although when I left here in May I was fully confident, the decision to come back was not an easy one. And I've second-guessed that decision every step of the way. Even now, with my brave friend Finn in the hospital (for the third time this summer) and wanting so badly to help there, or hearing little details from the day-to-day back at home and what Ellie is cooking for supper, or focusing on the fact that my ankles itch so bad I could scratch until I draw blood and yesterday's shampoo won't entirely wash out of my hair. But I'm beginning to believe this tearing and longing to be two places at once is a feeling that doesn't go away with time. And that's ok.

Because the beauty of it catches me in the chest-- while corn chips sizzle in the pan and their small fingers roll the dough, when his laughter erupts and echoes loudly through the house, as kites soar high and fingers point, after the knock on the door for the hundredth time. I almost missed this. Every fiber of my flesh whispered of a hundred reasons this too hard, too much-- too many goodbyes, too many mosquito bites, too much loneliness. too much heat.. it's. all. too. much. Every voice of reason said stay, stay where you can really make a difference and see it. Yet somehow despite it all, I end up here. Where his oatmeal gets spit on my shirt. Where I watch them give and give and give more of themselves, and stand awed. Where the dogs bark late and the sleep is terrible but somehow it's more than worth it. Where they laugh loud and run the compound and the laundry doesn't get fully cleaned and they play wild in the kitty-pool outside.

On this Sunday morning it's where I find myself, despite it all. Daily I'm thankful for His grace and His grace alone, for it keeps us where we should be. And now, standing in the midst of it all, I know I could choose nothing less. 

And to leave you with another fun photo, here's Nana from yesterday morning. I thought it was a decision to roam the compound this way. But as the story goes, apparently the water went out on her mid-shower. Another day in the life...

Being Back

otherwise entitled: why children shouldn't help you unpack your bags

Back. After 3 plane rides, 2 nights of restless sleep and a lot of heartbreaking goodbyes. Back. Where the hello’s have been the sweetest and I’ve yet to stop sweating (seriously). Back. With their laughter echoing in my ears and his smile so wide it melts my heart. Back. Where everything seems different and yet nothing has changed. Back. To where I am so close while also so far from the ones I love. It is absolutely lovely to be back.

The plane landed at 10:15 in the morning and stepping out into the humid Haiti air, it seemed a bit surreal to be back. Customs passed without a hitch thanks to Vero and immediately upon walking out of the airport gates Jason was there to help with my bags and the overwhelming flood of people who want to try to help you with your luggage. It was a most precious sight to open the trunk of the car and see 4 little faces peeking over the back of the seat. The girls ransacked my luggage in search of my Haitian phone, wanting to play games. And driving through Cap Haitien back to Limbe I took in the all-too-familiar sights of the now well-known drive home. I dropped my bags in my room, cleaned spotless by sweet Nikki. I felt incredibly spoiled by such a sweet treat. It was a huge blessing to not have to sweep and mop and pick up stuff before settling in.

Seeing the kids again was the sweetest, and filled with a mix of reactions—excited hugs, shy giggles from around doorway corners, and only Creole speaking I couldn’t pick out. I found my little buddy chilling in his pac ‘n’ play and was welcomed back with his hands about my shoulders and a wide smile I haven’t seen since December that near melted my heart. Absolutely precious. Mikey chilled upstairs with me as I began the tedious process of unpacking, giggling and cooing every time the oscillating fan blew his direction. We chatted about the last three months of our lives, checked out some of the sensory toys packed in the bags, basically got next to nothing unpacked, and it was absolutely perfect.

I forget exactly how it happened, but at some point in the day I found myself in my bedroom with Rudlen and Mayline ‘helping’ me unpack. We started out making successful strides in the world of “how do I sort through all this crap?!” There were excited gasps and goofy giggles at some of the contents in my bags—short readers, pretty dresses, a light up bouncy ball, flashlights, and my underwear— accompanied by countless pleads from Rudlen of, “This! This one! May I have?” He would take out the flashlight batteries thinking I wasn’t looking and turn to me, “See? It’s broken. No good.” Haha. The child has a serious fetish for flashlights.

Eventually progress turned to madness, ending in Jahntzy opening my box of chai while three-quarters of Rudlen got stuck under the bunkbed. Wildaneise pranced the room wearing two layers of my clothing and sweet Mayline stood by my side asking, “What else, Hannah? What else do we put away?” We decided it was time for a break and made iced tea before heading back downstairs.

Jason was the sweetest and left his afternoon clear so that he could take me to run errands—money exchanging, phone minutes, internet stick, all the essentials. We sat in natcom for quite a while, where we learned I needed a new SIM for my internet stick that would cost a whopping 50 cents extra. The unexpected expense near broke my budget, let me tell you :) While we ran errands, I got caught up on a bit of Nikki and Jason’s lives and some of what’s been going on in Limbe since May.  They leave next Tuesday for their time in the States, and while I’ll miss their friendship dearly, it will be good for them to catch a break for a while. Jason is so faithful in sharing the Gospel, telling me story after story of people he has shared Christ with and the ways God had used him to speak truth to the people here. It is all together humbling, convicting, and inspiring.

I closed my door that evening and tackled my mess of a bedroom full on. There’s still some stuff not put away, but overall it feels fairly put-together… at least, as much things can be in Haiti. After calling home I slept soundlessly from about 8:45-12:30, much thanks to the white noise app Sarah downloaded to my phone before I left. Best. Thing. Ever. Dogs howled on and off throughout the night, pretty sure I heard a rooster going off, and I’m half expecting to run into a rat here at any time, so the second half of the night was a bit of a restless one as I readjust to the nights no longer being peaceful and quiet. The power came on at 6, waking me from the hard sleep I had finally fallen into an hour before. But it was power, so I couldn’t be frustrated. Electricity is greater than one more hour of sleep.

In the time it’s taken to write this, the kids have been at my door about half a dozen times and the sky has turned from shades of orange to a full on bright blue. It’s been three months since I’ve written anything on here. I’m dusting off the keyboard and breaking the silence, working out the kinks as I fall back into the pattern of writing for more than just myself. For now I’ll leave you with a photograph of what was possibly the highlight of my day yesterday—cuddles with this little cheeky monkey.

how the story ends

Perhaps he knew the fear and uncertainty better than most, being called from the winepress to the battle field in a matter of minutes. That would shake your life up a bit, I'd imagine. The command is clear, "Go in the strength you have and save Israel out of Midian's hand." [Judges 6:14] Yet he asks for a sign: the offering consumed on the altar. And he asks again: the dew on the fleece. Still again, he asks: the ground covered in dew. He's the lowest in his family, and from the weakest clan. He does not have the assurance of a seasoned warrior, but a mind filled with doubt. Did I hear You right? His question hangs, suspending in mid-air, "Am I not sending you?" 

As I read it, I can't help but shake my head in exasperation. With an attitude of, "Really Gideon?" He knocks me off my high horse. 

How many times have I done the same thing?

The past 5 weeks have me feel more inadequate than ever before. I have the time to process everything that has happened in the last month, and it's hit like a ton of bricks. I feel like I'm a bit of a basket case, succumbing to tears over the littlest of things. Most days, I often fear I have not heard him right. Rather in fact, I fear I've heard Him entirely wrong.

Bonnie and Ray came back on Tuesday. The kids were an excited mess of crazy-- cleaning up the yard and the orphanage, making posters and paper-chains, and wearing their smart clothes. Their presence back here has been a blessing in a number of ways, a sense of sweet relief. To know someone is here again for the bandaid moments and the spelling words and the singing time and the grit of every-day life. To have their company back and fellowship and conversations, even if it's only for a few more days, is sweeter than chocolate-covered-almonds. To not have the weight of nap time and temper tantrums piled upon the already-existing stack of schoolbooks and spelling words is a relief. In a way, it's absolutely wonderful. And in another way, it's been incredibly hard. Because it means I am finally Hannah again. Not mama-Hannah, mommy, or Bonnie-Anna as the kids have taken to calling me since April. Just Hannah. And through her eyes I can see all the ways she's come up short in the last month. 

I'm clawing for more time, exhausted but desperate to relive the past month again as myself. To fix all the moments I have made a mess of, all the situations where I haven't been enough. I'm soaking in the moments, the school days and the witty comments and the hugs. But their faces and their voices haunt me, reminding me of all I haven't been in the last 5 weeks. I get caught in the what-if and the if-only of it all. And there's nothing he loves more than to ensnare me with a sense of regret. "If you had given up an hour of sleep for better lesson plans… If you had tried to talk to him more, instead of sending him away in frustration… If you had stopped by the pac 'n' play on your way to the depot…" 

It's why we love the clean slates, the New Year's resolutions, the crisp pages of a fresh journal, the start of the school year, the way the sunlight dances across their faces. We want to know we still have a chance. That, despite it all, there's still time to leave a mark. 

He tells me it's too late. Smugly he sneers, "How could you have been so naive?" What will sleepovers and burned pancakes and conversations on the basketball court and Michael-hammock time mount to in the end? What good am I, when he withers in pain for 3 hours and I can do nothing but sit there and watch it all unfold? How beneficial is it to get children attached to someone who comes and goes with the wind, boarding a plane every few months. It's what keeps me awake into the late hours of the night, the notion that maybe I've actually done more harm than good.

He tells me run. He tells me flee. He says why even bother. He says give up now, it'll save some heartache. 

I question whether I've heard Him right on a daily basis. I feel as inadequate for this life as the wheat-threshing Gideon probably felt for the battle field. I think of people better equipped to do what I have done for the last 2 months, how so many others could've done it so much better. And He pierces to the heart of my fear, "Did I not send you?" 

I trust in His sovereignty. I have full confidence in the depths of His unspeakable wisdom. I say His ways are higher and are better. It's not the One who has spoken all these things that I question, it's the ears that have heard Him. I am much like Gideon after all it seems, wanting one more time to just be certain I've heard it right. 

The days are dwindling down. I have 3 full days left here, 2 plane rides, and a suitcase to store away. It's hard to explain it all really, because just as badly as I ache to go to Chicago, I want just as much to remain right where I am. A love and a heart for this place has grown that is so unspeakably God, it brings me to my knees. As much as I didn't want to pack my suitcase to leave Chicago, so now I don't want to pack things here. Forever torn and forever longing. The feeling accompanies me everywhere I go, following me closer than my own shadow. It integrates my soul, becoming part of my very self and the story I tell. 

Life here will continue on, just as life back home has continued on. And I guess I'm scared. How much will have changed in that little Chicago neighborhood since February? How much will change here, between May and July? Thursday night I had a sleepover in the orphanage with the two Haitian teachers and the older teens and I was struck by the beauty of it as we sat in the dark and talked and the music blared loud: friendships have formed here in the last 2 months. On the other end of the spectrum, I ache to do the things with my sister that I've done with people here for the last however-many-weeks: movie nights, popcorn, talking, reveling in paint schemes and curtain colors, laughing loudly. I'm terrified to lose that, both in Haiti and in Chicago. 

"And Gideon came to the Jordan and crossed over, he and the 300 men who were with him, exhausted yet pursuing." [Judges 8:4] I cannot imagine the weariness after a day of combat, but I love the imagine of this wheat-threshing-turned-warrior continuing on in his endeavor despite his fatigue simply because the story cannot end like this. "Go in the strength you have…" and where you are not enough, I will be. "Go in the strength you have…" and when you fall short, I will carry you. "Go in the strength you have…" and know My grace covers every moment. 

Go, love. Will I not always be with you?

absurdity and photographs

It's a bit of an intimidating task to write a blog. It's scary- to pour your heart out over the keys of a computer for anyone to stumble upon. To post some of your most intimate and real of thoughts leaves you feeling bit exposed and vulnerable. There's lots of fear involved. Fear that you won't capture the days quite right with your words. The fear that you'll fail to express your heart at those crucial points, and your words will be taken entirely wrong. Also there's the fear that what you'll write today will no longer pertain to your thoughts viewpoints tomorrow, and your blog becomes a place of regret. There's the fear that perhaps you will go too far or say too much, and suddenly your honesty was just a little too honest. Let's not forget about the fear that what you're choosing to write about isn't interesting and not what people want to hear. And then there's the fear of being misunderstood-- the significantly large fear that has kept me from writing for the past week. 

My days have taken a wild change of course in the last month. Nap time and temper tantrums and dirty laundry and bath time now take the place of days that once revolved around spelling words and sticker charts and addition problems. In some ways, it has been good and given me pause I might not necessarily have taken otherwise to reevaluate what I'm doing here. But in other ways, it has been entirely exhausting and overwhelming, leaving me desperately homesick and ready to pack my suitcase. 

In the past week, I have wrote many a frustrating word in emails, and had more than one conversation where I fear all I've done is vent on and on about the insanity of my days to poor, sweet Nikki. Her presence has been a tremendously huge blessing in the past few months; to have someone you can voice some of your innermost ugly thoughts to and to know they still understand your heart is more precious than dark chocolate covered almonds. I am thankful daily for that friendship. Pray for her (and Jason) as they finish preparing things for the senior center. Jason is putting the finishing touches on their apartment and Saturday is (hopefully) the big moving day for them. They aren't going far, literally a few paces away. But after living in one bedroom for the last 2 months (and the 2 months this past fall) they are anxious to move into their own place and to open the senior center doors in (hopefully) July. The place is looking beautiful- both the apartment and the senior home- and it's going to be so incredible to see what God does with it all.

The kids continue on with their schooling and studies, and the days hold the typical frustrations: Lovena doesn't want to have anything to do with class, Nana is screaming from the depot, Jahntzy has meandered out front again, the teachers are late, everybody is missing their pencil, I'm constantly chasing puppies from the room. This past week we played the game where you have to fish for candy on a plate of flour, using only your mouth. The kids had a blast, and it ended with Rudlen eating mouthfuls of flour and kids running and screaming and a lot of white dust flying everywhere. We took a market trip on Monday and actually found eggs which was a most exciting discovery. We've gotten more rain in the last two weeks than in the entire time I've been here. The yard was flooded for two days and muddied in some spots for quite a while after that, so hopefully Haiti's wells and rivers will fill back to where they should be. Two of the girls taught me how to cook Haitian rice the other night, and now there are more promises of learning to cook spaghetti and macaroni salad and other assortments of Haitian cuisine. 

To be entirely honest and to put it rather bluntly, the past week has felt terribly awful. And here is where the fear of being entirely misunderstood sinks its teeth in deep. 

I love this country and I love these children and I love this life, but I am so tired. Precious and few are the hours where I am totally and completely alone. I fall asleep to the sound of Jahntzy's snoring, only to awaken to his wide-eyes directly across the pillow from mine. There's children who come home from the orphanage for dinner and a sleepover with us and, in their usual child-like curiosity, want to know who and what I'm writing on Facebook and can they see so-and-so's picture. We arrive at the orphanage in the morning, where I let go of Jahntzy's hand and another child comes and takes his place. It is constant, and on a scale of 30, incredibly overwhelming. 

Most days I go to bed feeling like little more than boo-boo fixer and bottle maker and meal provider and fight breaker-upper and depot-key-holder and cracker-giver. They are children and they need, need, need because that is how life works. But at the end of the day when the house grows quiet, I cannot suppress the feeling that I am little more than that: someone they can get something from. Most days I feel like a worn and tethered door mat in a high-traffic area. They need and they want and does anybody love me for me anymore? It seems like such a selfish cry in the midst of such poverty, and I feel petty for even writing the thought. 

On Thursday, in my desperate state of I'm-so-sick-of-consantly-being-surrounded-by-children-I-could-scream, I made a rash decision I would come to regret for days later: I allowed the three-year-old to go into the bathroom unsupervised. Allow me to clarify, there were 3 boys (all 14 years and younger) also in that very same bathroom. So yeah, basically unsupervised. But I simply wanted a quiet cup of coffee, and my brain is not able to make good judgement calls at 7 a.m. My suspicions should've arose when Ricardo came out for the mop, but my naive self wanted so greatly to believe he actually was cleaning up after himself (the kids always make a puddle of the floor when they shower) that I turned a blind eye. And five minutes later comes the call of, "Hannah!" laced with fear and dread and oh-crap-this-is-bad. As it so happens, the Tiny Terror dumped a 1/2 gallon of precious laundry detergent all over the bathroom floor. Nearly a week later and blue liquid still seeps from beneath the washer machine and the floor is slick in spots and the mop stiff with bubbles. I'm still trying to decide if the cup of coffee in silence was worth it.

Basically the day was a downward spiral from there, involving school chaos and an epic 3-year-old tantrum and me sobbing over a text on my phone during nap time. Sadly, there are some things even chocolate cannot fix. I'm averaging about 4 hours of sleep per night, which is so awesome (if only sarcasm had a font…) and Saturday I woke up with Jahntzy's cold-- chills, fever, sore throat, headache, hurting bones. Why is it three-year-old's are the worst share-ers in the world, until it comes to germs? (now it's just a stuffy nose and one of those headaches you almost-but-can't-quite-shake.) I reached a new all-time low in which I basically ignored the children knocking on my door at the orphanage calling my name, and covered my head with my shame and my blanket, whispering, "Anna's not here.." while the tears soaked the pillow. I never intended to be the person who ignores a crying 3-year-old. Jahntzy and I slept alone that night, and since I'm putting it all out there, I'll admit to knocking him out with benadryl so I could enjoy a 7:30 pm bedtime and 7:30 a.m. wake up. Desperate times call for desperate measures, right? Alvin and the Chipmunks just weren't cutting it anymore. We also wore the disc out from playing it so much. Jahntzy basically fended for himself Saturday night into Sunday afternoon, even making (a mess of) his own bottle. Yeah I know, great parenting skills in the making here.

I don't know how to explain it all really, these days. Because the past week has literally been one of the worst weeks ever. Scoots (Haitian boy scouts) camped out on the compound and played their drums and radios late into the night on Saturday. The marching band decided to play right outside our house during nap time on Sunday. And Sunday night a radio blared Haitian music right on the other side of my window until midnight. Last night Jahntzy leaked through his diaper and I rolled over into pee-soaked sheets at 2 a.m. and if I every gave you story and every scenario and every crazy moment, I'd have a blogpost compiled mostly of what looks like whining and complaining and the world's greatest pity party. I will admit, it took me from Thursday to Sunday to get over my state of depression and I have eaten an unhealthy amount of chocolate in the process. But despite the absolute madness, I can sit on the basketball court in the afternoons with 3 kids hanging on me and another 4 trying to converse with me and 5 more who are showing me why they need bandaids and still absolutely love my life. Yes, I do know how completely absurd it all sounds. Check me into a mental facility, because I'm fairly certain I've about lost my mind.

Every night my head hits the pillow and I don't know how I stand to face another day. Except by His grace alone.

As the weeks dwindle down and my time here draws to a close, I'm doing a lot of thinking back and mulling over memories from the past 2 months with fondness and tenderness, as well as a sense of regret. The days here have started to fit like a well-worn glove. And it makes leaving hard because can one simply pick up where they left off with something like this? With the relationships and routines and habits etched into time? There's a certain bittersweetness one can hardly deny, because I know that the Chicago days will come to feel the same-- errand running and babysitting and dinner cooking and family time. And there are things I can't wait to pick back up again there, too. You constantly feel like you are teetering between one world and the other.

Two things remain constant in a world that currently feels like anything but: I am never quite ready to leave, no matter where I am and no matter how much I ache for school days and unbearable heat and sister-time and morning runs. And the other is this: your love and your prayers and your support and your encouragement humble me and overwhelm me every time, no matter what kind of soil my feet are on. You have been the body of Christ to me, and I can't express what that has done for me and how that has changed me. But I am so, so thankful.

Because I've been absolutely terrible at it for the past two months, here are some pictures of what we've been up to recently:

melodies of grace

The kids have been off school this week (Easter break) and so this Thursday, Friday, and Saturday two of the teachers initiated what they call "Break-Out". It's a 3 day Bible camp where the kids learn new worship songs, have a Bible lesson, and play ridiculously awesome games (like bobbing for mangos. haha). They have loved learning the new songs and games, whatever kids come with us home at the end of the day, they all say the highlight of their day was Break Out. The afternoons are a mix of shrinky dink crafts, water balloon tosses, yard work, and mango hunting/rock chucking. The week off school has been nice; U haven't had to rush out 3 kids out the door by 7:45 or try to do spelling words while keeping on eye on Trouble, the man himself. Jahntzy and I have started to come back to the house for nap time, versus trying to have him nap in my room at the orphanage. It's easier all around, to not feel like I am living in 2 separate places, to not have to pack lunch and a milky and paci, and -in complete honesty- to be away from the kids. The kids call from the balcony during nap time and knock on the door and I hear them playing and my heart feels so torn between the 3-year-old and the other 29 kids downstairs. So for sanity and nap time's sake, we leave the compound entirely. This way Jahntzy gets a full nap, and Hannah gets some almost-guilt-free chill out time. 

The days seem quite simple and relatively not busy, yet somehow by 6 o'clock, I feel as though I've just finished a 10 mile run and pulled an all-nighter. The other night Jahntzy laid in bed next to me, not quite tired enough to fall asleep right away. And he laid there making fake snoring sounds while I struggled to stay awake. Pretty sure he won, because the last thing I remember was him sitting up singing the words, "My lighthouse," over and over again. He popped out of bed with me at 5:30 the next morning, ready to rock and roll. My birthday was spent getting 30 happy birthday greetings and hugs, even Judenal wished me a happy birthday. I also got the best night's sleep I've gotten in a a long time (that's basically priceless here). Jason and Nikki treated me to a burger in town (Jason braving the Saturday Cap Haitien traffic definitely made me feel loved) and Fredline wrote me the sweetest birthday card. After the kids went to bed, I also may or may not have eaten almost an entire bar of chocolate. It was a most wonderful day.

Today the kids had an Easter celebration-- complete with cupcakes and fancy dresses and egg coloring and a dance-off. If I ever get it together enough, I will have to post some of the pictures of the evening. The party that was supposed to start at 3 didn't start until 7. What's a Haitian party (or any event) if it doesn't start at least an hour late? The kids sang some of the songs they learned during Break-Out, "Hosanna" and "Forever Reign" among the mix. The boys danced quite the snazzy little dance that left all the kids screaming and cheering at a eardrum-blowing volume. They colored eggs-- teachers Dianna and Darleen oversaw that, and my goodness was it the most organized egg-dyeing I have ever witnessed. The girls did an amazing job planning this party and all of Break Out. It was so incredible to see the way they love these kids-- planning the games and the songs, cooking the meal and running to the market for eggs, waking up at 5 a.m. to decorate the downstairs to surprise the kids. We left the party a bit early and had to rush home in the thunderstorm and pouring rain. Poor Jason was entirely soaked by the time he walked from the orphanage to the team rooms back to the orphanage and to the car. So thankful for the ones who drive you home in the rain and become so drenched they look like they just got out of a swimming pool. 

Most days life is a rush of messy and crazy and such ordinariness. Some days we are put together and the 3-year-old's face has been cleaned and the dirty dishes are washed spotless. And then most days I feel as though it's been a successful morning if I've brushed my teeth and gotten the 3-year-old out of his pajamas. My fingers click the keyboard and my mind is a mess of thoughts and I'm so tired but the sleep just won't come.

This place, it brings out the worst in you. Cynicism and frustration, self-righteous judgment and impatience, pride and selfishness.. these things come easily and swiftly in a place like this. Day to day tasks take twice as much time and effort as they would back in the States. Cooking supper, washing your laundry, even doing the dishes, all these end up more complicated than they ought to be. The other night the power went out on me mid-shower, and I'm grasping in the dark trying to get to my flashlight while the three-year-old bangs on the bathroom door and the dogs howl in the yard. That coupled with the corruption of a third world country, the immense need, the heat and the dirt, the kids in school and the kids out of school, not having your own space or the familiarity of home, missing the friends and family you've been with all your life, and the lack of sleep…it's as if you're living in a pressure cooker.

The past week replays through my mind, all the things I have said and thought and done, and nearly every moment is laced with a sense of deep and absolute regret. The last month has held more moments of impatience and frustration, more situations I have looked at through skeptical and judgement eyes, and more children I have brushed off out of selfishness than I'd care to recall. I am quick to form my own opinions and quicker still to shush them and ever-so-slow to spill the grace. Perhaps it's because here in this place I am exhausted and stretched so thin, moreso than back home. Or perhaps it's because I'm out of my comfort zone here, absent of all things familiar and easy. Or hey, maybe it's because rats run across my toes and little boys throw spiders in my face. Whatever the reason, there is no hiding it: here I have seen what lies in the darkest recesses of my heart, and apart from Christ, I know there is nothing good in me. As a people, we're a tangled mess of sin and ugly. We make a mess of ourselves and our lives, wreaking havoc on everything we touch. Even with the greatest intentions, we turn the most beautiful things into atrocities because we are a sin-tainted people. 

But He does not leave us here. And I am so thankful. 

I've sat in the nap time silence over the worn pages of Isaiah and spoke it to no one-- I've got nothing left. And suddenly I realize, that's exactly where He has wanted me. Here, where I am stripped away of any sort of 'righteousness' or 'good deeds' I think I might acquired on my own, any sort of love or compassion I believe I've mustered in my own strength, anything good I think is in me that is apart from Him, I remember who the true Source of those things are. I stand before Him broken down to nothing. Nothing but my pride, and my selfishness, and my impatience, and my sin. He breaks me, that I might see how desperately I need Him. "Where sin runs deep, His grace is more.."

He brings me back to the cross, again and again, and whispers it, "Here is where I've made it right." I look at the cost of my salvation, the price of my sin that He did not shy away to spend. My eyes take in the splintered cross, deep stained with precious red. I run my fingers across the scars on His hands. This is how much I love you. A torn garment and twisted thorns, a back beaten bloody and a sky gone dark, and this is how much grace has cost. It was not a list of rules that brought me to Him (for surely that is an impossibility to attain), nor was it the most noble of deeds. It wasn't in seeing the grandest of miracles or watching the most majestic of sunrises. What brought me to Him was Calvary, where His love spilled out on a heart so undeserving. What changed me was that whisper of grace, in a world of ungrace and rules and striving to earn. Where He whispered most assuredly… 

I have loved you at your most unlovable. 

We love because He has first loved us. And I pray to never forget the depths of my own depravity. He's loved me at my most unlovable… and oh, how thankful I am. In wake of that gratitude, how can I not do the same for the 30 little faces and voices down there that I live among? When the 3 year old screams because I've told him no, again.. when he utters the meanest of words with the most defiant personality.. when they fight and kick and argue and bicker amongst themselves.. when she screams from the depot.. when he throws rocks at her or he purposely eggs him on to the point of yelling and crying.. when she bullies the one who can't stand on her own… when we can't play a simple game or do a fun craft because it ends in chaos and crying… I see myself. I pray it again and again, a constant murmur under my breath.. to hear the melodies of His grace, that we might be changed by the One who sings the tune.

Grace, how greatly He has lavished it upon us. Laying at the foot of a blood-soaked cross, clinging to a slaughtered Son, where it all spills out and runs over and pools beneath my feet. 

Oh, may I never forget. 

patchwork quilts and constant threads

Under my bed are a dozen or more half-finished knitting projects. I started each one with vigorous determination, my mind fully intent on seeing this project to completion. I don't know what happens, but somewhere between the cast on and row 37, I lose that zeal. I've spent hours pouring over artsy books, bookmarking page after page, highlighting certain patterns. My pinterest board is filled with more projects than I'll ever have the time to complete. I walk the aisles of the craft store, fingering the yarns and the spools of threads. My lungs breathe in deep the scent of fabrics and woods and paints and ideas coming to life. I could waste my weekends away pitter-pattering through these aisles. The textures of the yarn and the hues of colors and the seemingly endless rows leave me in a state of wonder. There is so much to create. After careful consideration, I pick my project and my needles and my yarn… and two weeks later, it's another piece for the scrap pile that is continuously growing. Beneath my bed is a haunting place that screams of things left mostly unfinished.

Oftentimes, my life feels the same way.

The past week has been a juggle act of sorts-- learning how to balance life with Jahntzy and a life of school. It's been one of those weeks where my failures are screaming louder than my successes; an eat-nutella-with-a-spoon-from-the-container-and-let-it-smudge-to-the-corners-of-your-mouth kind of week (I ran out of dark chocolate covered almonds this week, this is the next best thing). Jason has been so sweetly kind and has given the kids and I a ride on the 4-wheeler back and forth from Bonnie and Ray's to the orphanage every morning and evening (I am currently living a short ways down the road from the orphanage in order to watch the little dude). Never once has he complained or grumbled when I've had to interrupt his day to give us a ride, despite the fact that he's been feeling under the weather. 

The days go something like this-- coffee at 5 am, children waking up at 6. A rush of breakfast and showers and clothes and where is Jantze's milky? Before long, it's 7:45 we are out the door and headed to a world of papers and jolly phonics and spelling words and good morning hugs. Only half of the homework is turned in and a tricycle whizzes across the room and too many names are on orange and why didn't I drink that third cup of coffee? After school and lunch come nap time. Here a little one sleeps while I sit in the silence, and mull over the past few days. Nap time ends and the children call from the porch and the afternoons are a rush of madness and chaos and fun. We pick two kids to come home and dinner happens and showers and someone picks a television show and before long the power is out and he's laying next to me, paci in mouth, "Time for sleep. Close da eyes." 

If I had to describe the past week in one word, I would choose torn. Trying to be Jahntzy care-taker while maintaining being Hannah has proven most difficult. Don't get me wrong, my world has been blessed with goodnight cuddles and conversation with some of the girls and kissing 10 little toes fresh from the shower and the hands that turn my face towards his when he's asking a question and I am looking elsewhere. This morning the iPod blared loud and the soap suds flew as two little boys sang along at the top of their lungs, "My God's love will see me through, You are the peace to my troubled sea." She laughed loudly and we burned the pancakes and the movie was cute and we almost broke the lamp that morning but it's all okay. It's been a beautiful week, friends.

But my patience is worn razor thin before I even make it to the classroom by 8:15, and my attention is split between reading with Judenal and watching the ball-of-energy-boy run about the compound. I tell them after nap time we will be back down, and I watch their eyes beg as the excuses pile high. Jovenal wants to read and I brush him aside. They want me on the couch for a movie, but there are worksheets to write up for the morning. I watch him slipping through the cracks as the lessons go over his head and he struggles to keep up and my heart plummets because I know I don't have the time I need. I say it in a rush "One more minute, one more minute," although it will be more than that. I spin from one end of the room to the next, trying to pull it all together when he asks me so innocently, "Hannah, why you go so fast?" and my throat burns hot and the words fail and all I can do is stare at him sadly. I want to do both, and to do it well. But I can't. 

We've had a busy week, with long "i" spelling words and jolly phonics songs and the kids excited about a week of Easter break. Monday afternoon I initiated a game of "Steal the Bacon" with the kids and ever since, it's been the afternoon go-to. Half the time, the kids spend more time fighting over who won than actually playing the game (I'm only slightly regretting the whole thing). Wednesday the day ended with Bello throwing a handful of dirt into Ricardo's eye (that was a real mess to sort out), Youseline kicked Rodenflor in the back, Wildaneise and Mayline fought over who ate who's lunch, and all the while Nana screamed from the depot while Jahntzy -the poor, poor child- tried to keep up behind me, calling, "Eena Eena!" It's also been a long week, friends.

It's easy to romanticize the days here. I am young and naive, struggling to find the meaning and the beauty and the hope everywhere I look. I search and I search, because surely it is here. I am a writer. My soul comes to life with every sentence formed, every paragraph transitioned, every comma and period placed just so. Late into the night I pour over the words until they fit like the pieces of a puzzle, spinning and playing and creating. In the writing, it's so easy to see the beauty. 

But more days than not, I don't know what I'm doing here.

At the end of the day, when my head hits the pillow and the lights flicker dim, I reply the hours through my mind… a book here, spelling words there, a conversation here, a quick email home, a game of trouble, practice telling time. I want to read with him, and sound out each letter. I want to find out, truly, why she's crying. I didn't tell her I appreciated her sweeping the classroom, or tell him he did a good job hanging the laundry. I can't make it stop playing, the list of things I wanted to do but never accomplished. And it's agonizing. There were so many things left undone. And in the silence, I weep. Because here in the darkness it all looks like scraps. 

There are different colors and patterns and textures and sizes; nothing seems to add up or fit together. It's a tangle mess of moments really, these lives we live. I'm sitting cross-legged on the bed, watching the rise and fall of his chest, haunted by all the snippets and pieces-- the faces and conversations and missed moments. All the ways I have failed. All the moments I could've done more. My thoughts are further now from this compound, to a place where a little sister is turning 13 and it's the first birthday I'm not there to make the pad thai and bake her a cheesecake. And I feel the sting of that so deeply, because I so want to be there too. I ache for Chirpy Chick days and feeding tubes and Munchie cuddles and Wheels on the Bus. I miss movie nights and kitchen dance parties and the dear ones I am so fond of. I feel like I am missing so much. And my already-torn self is torn even farther. 

Bits and pieces of my life are scattered in so many different places, and fragments... it all feels like fragments. 

One of my favorite knitted pieces are quilts, in particular I have long loved the patchwork quilt. I admire the beauty of it-- the difference shades and textures, the array of sizes, the quilt's overall erratic look. I find myself fascinated with the details, my fingers lingering on the seams of the blanket, feeling its ridges. It takes my breath away, the beauty in the way each piece -seemingly random- fits just right. There is nothing consistent about the quilt at first glance. To the naked eye, it is a makeshift of half-completed projects and failures and long forgotten ideas that were deemed unfit for use. But ask any knitter and they will tell you-- beneath the layers and between the pieces runs one constant thread that holds it all together.

On their own, the scraps are simply that: just scraps. But I know the One who is the constant thread. Amidst it all, He weaves Himself in and out and between our days and our moments. Each piece intricately and strategically placed as He binds all things together for the furthering of His kingdom. He fills in the gaps. Every encounter and every fragment and every moment surrendered can be lived to the fullest- complete with confidence in the One who will lovingly weave all things together for His glory.

when He fights for you

Where to start? It's been a long week with little sleep and lots of crazy and a decent amount of homesickness involved. When it's been over a month since you last had a clean-feeling shower, since you last hugged your dad or laughed with your sister, or since you've been on a good, long, mind-clearing run… it's as if the honeymoon stage of it all has faded, and you're staring square in the face with reality. 

In school this week we've created a new reward-and-punishment system for the already perfectly well behaved classroom full of little angels keeping our crazy class semi-functionable. For all you CFC teachers and mamas out there, we've introduced the all-familiar green, yellow, red stoplight to our classroom. In complete honesty, it's worked better than I had hoped it would. Six of the kids got four (some even five! what?!) days on green, and therefore will be rewarded with a flashlight pen tomorrow morning. My wimpy, lack-of-discipline self wants to hand out 8 pens on Monday, but I know that would totally defeat any sort of progress we may have made this week. So six flashlight pens it will be, and hopefully next week there will be 8 charts on the wall filled with stickers for staying on green everyday. At least, a girl can hope. The cabinet in my classroom also got a lock (with a key! hey hey hey) and so yesterday I spent the morning organizing the cabinet while Carl soaked Jantzee with a bucket of water outside and 6 'helpers' got their stinky little fingers into everything I was working on in the classroom and Sadrack chased the rest of the screaming kids around with a lizard (gecko? I still didn't get the full story) tail  All in all, I'd say it was a pretty good day.

On Thursday night I woke up to the sound of a crinkling wrapper in my room. I remember thinking in my dream, "Oh, that's not a good sound." and fully awoke to the sight of not-so-little Gus Gus (aka the rat) eating a package of crackers on the bed across the room. The kids have been giving me their candy and crackers to hold up in my room for them (such little hoarders they are) and it appears the stash has been discovered by the rat. So here I am at 1 a.m. staring at this nasty looking rat, trying to use the beam of my flashlight to chase him from the room. I successfully managed to corner this cracker-loving-critter into the corner of the bunk bed, where he then slipped under the bed entirely and I lost all visual contact. Which was pretty lame, because then I could hear him, but not see him. Eventually he made his way to the bathroom, and then out to the kitchen. I suppose I kind of deserved a night like that, seeing as I put crackers out in the open of what I knew to be a rat-infested place. Regardless, two lessons have been learned. First, put crackers and candies away in tupperware containers. And second, a rat's a rat, no matter how cute of a name you try to give him.

What else? Bonnie and Ray left for the States on Friday, despite the scare we tried to pull off in attempting to convince them they weren't booked to leave until April 15th. Entertainment has to come from somewhere when you're in Haiti, come on now. It'll be a bit of a sad and lonely month without them, but they also need the time back in the States to be refreshed and filled. Their absence has left me in charge of little Mr. Jantze (the Tiny Terror 3-year-old). The past 2 nights have been lots of thrashing and kicking and face-slapping and snotty boogers on my pillow, which is awesome. But I woke up this morning to little hands on my face and a voice whispering, "Eenna, Eenna." in my ear. It's moments like those that I will cling to when the tantrums rage and the sleepless nights catch up with me and there's another poopy diaper to change and nap time ends too soon.

Right now there's the hum of the fan and a fast-asleep little head pressed against my legs and my thoughts in a complete disarray from the past week. It's late and this is mostly rambling and oh friends, where do I even begin?

I came across a quote by John Piper a few weeks ago that has struck a chord deep within me. "Fight for us, O God, that we not drift numb and blind and foolish into vain and empty excitements. Heaven is too great, hell is too horrible, eternity is too long that we should putter about the porch of eternity." Perhaps this week more than any, I have sensed the realness of heaven and hell and eternity. All around us wages a battle unseen for the souls of every one of us walking this earth. It's a vicious battle, and there's a prowling enemy ready to pounce and attack at any given moment. He knows our weaknesses, what trips us up, what causes us to doubt in our great and good God, and what leaves us terror-struck. 

I am distracted all too easily. This world that is fading fast is so tangible-- I can touch it and see it and smell it and hear it. Heaven and hell and eternity seem like a far-off dream in comparison. I live like I belong to this world, to the here and the now; not that I have been, in fact, made for an entirely different world. But the truth is that we were made to dwell here for just a short time, because this world is not our home. We were meant to be people with a heavenly mindset-- looking expectant towards eternity and such a glorious day, and doing our best to further His kingdom here on earth in the meantime. We are made to be a people all about the kingdom of God.

And there's an enemy whose only goal is to keep us from that.

In a place where voodoo ceremonies and crazy holidays and witchdoctors run rampant, one can hardly deny the battle that rages in the unseen. Sin is enslaving, lies leave you in bondage, and the hatred of our enemy is a strong force. There is no subtleness about it here. I think of all that God and His kingdom are about-- light, truth, love, mercy, compassion, kindness, redemption, forgiveness, freedom. As Christ-followers, we are ones who should know the depths of this, because we have been set free by Him. As Christ-followers, we are the ones who proclaim this message to an enslaved, hopeless, hell-bound world. As Christ-followers, we should sense the direness of it, because we are the hope on earth.

I love the quote from C.S. Lewis's "The Weight of Glory" (so much that it's on the side of this blog). The words are ones I long to have shape every interaction, every conversation, every moment of my days. The idea of it is overwhelming: that each person I look at and see is a soul that will either spend eternity basking in the goodness and the love of our God, or a soul that is eternally damned, forever separated from all He is. And how am I helping this person in front of me now to know of His goodness and the life He offers? 

I pray to grasp the direness and the realness of the battle that rages on, that I would not be so easily distracted by empty excitements. I know without Him, I would drift along numb and blinded in oblivion, ravaged by sin and the effects of evil. If I were to attempt to fight in my own power, it would quickly end with my defeat. But thankfully, we can know the One who is the Great Victor. And in our weakness and dependency, we can pray:

Fight for us, O God…