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…