Words to a Small Boy

Dear Michael-

Not a day has gone by where I haven't imagined your brown eyes and that infectious smile. I have thought of you every day since I last saw you-- snoozing away in your new homemade pac'n'play in your home in Limbe. 

Long after you've gone, you still have this way of changing me.

I miss the sound of your laughter. The memory of our sensory play afternoons is never more than a breath away. The zip-up footie pajamas I walk past in Target never fail to make me pause, remembering you. You are a fond memory- one that pierces to the heart of me. 

One year ago, I watched you stand. 

Today I find myself miles from you. Yet I spend my days loving on another precious boy who reminds me every bit of you and the things I dream for you. So many dreams in one single day-- the dream to watch you blossom and grow, the dream to see you walk, the dream for you eat more than rice and spaghetti and oatmeal, the dream to see you thrive. 

In me you ignited a spark that lit so many hopes and dreams. In me you planted a fearless hope, to believe our God still does the impossible. In me you created this passion that floods my mind at night and consumes more and more pieces of me. 

You have given me a most precious gift. 

I'm finding the will of God it be a most puzzling place these days. I often feel like I am Abraham on Mount Moriah. But I am learning to trust in these heartbreaking and puzzling plans our God unfolds. For He is good. 

My arms ache to feel the weight of you in them, to kiss your cheeks and trace the lines in your face and whisper the ways you are so precious to the One who made you.

Until then,

All my love,

Anna

beautiful nevers

The page has sat blank before my eyes for nearly an hour. My coffee has long gone cold. The sun that was hidden when I first sat down has now brought light to the morning. I just feel like the words should be eloquent. When you had 90 days upon 90 days, what do you say when you're down to the final 8? You could never imagine the story, but you definitely did not imagine this.

As it is with the ending of one season and the beginning of a new, you find yourself looking back. A lot. And replaying the moments in your mind from the very beginning.

There's the day they took in the girl whose last name they didn't even know. The day you taught that class for the very first time. There's the day you decided you were going back. There's the days you realized motherhood is the single most demanding job to exist. Ever. And somehow, you miss those crazy days. The day he grasped a toy and laughed to no end is forever burned upon your memory. There's the day he was carried from the poor house to the nursing home and this. is. love. You've seen an empty building brought to life. There's the season your heart was literally torn in two. And then.. then there's the day that make all the bad ones worth it. There's the day he stood tall.

Looking back, I said a lot of never's. I could never go overseas. I would never be able to leave my family for 6 months. I could never do special needs. I would never love a dark and desperate country 2 hours from the coast of Florida. I would never understand Creole (ok, that' still a work in progress). I could never be a teacher. I would never meet a guy I wanted to date. I could never be a nanny. I could never… never… never…

I marvel at the way He has taken my never's, and turned them beautiful.

By now you would think I would learn not to have never's. But I am stubborn Israel and I've forgotten. Still He proves relentless. His grace is limitless and His mercy great. And I stand thankful.

Some moments are too sacred for keyboards and blogposts. And these final days in Limbe are just that. You've followed the journey from its very beginning, and it is far from over. But the next week I want to remember with ink on journal pages and quiet coffee mornings, waiting for the sun. The last 5 weeks have been a struggle of messy and heartache. But I can also say it has been absolutely beautiful. Never have I been more tested to trust He holds our every moment. And never have I walked away more confident in His goodness.

He has ordained it -all of it- from the very beginning.

May it always be so.

when he stands

"Hard things can be good things.." I whisper it in his ears. His arms are locked tight around my neck and he screams, fighting me at every touch. I coax his stiff, bent legs and attempt to strap his feet into the grooves of the smooth wood beneath his toes. Sweat trickles between my shoulderblades. His brow is furrowed furious, those brown eyes wide with bewilderment and terror. His stander. 

We make it 4 minutes that first day. His posture is improper and we have such a ways to go. But it's 4 minutes. It gives me hope. 

He shakes when I pull him out and bring him upstairs. We put on his favorite music (Sleep At Last) as slowly he calms. I hold him tight as he catches his breath. I tell him he did so good. He cries at me. I tell him I know it hurts. He sighs heavy. I tell him I'm sorry. He puts his head against my chest.

Hard things can be good things. 

I realize I came back for this very moment. His two legs strapped into that stander as he screams relentlessly. That night I toss and turn, overcome with the emotion of it all. He will stand. If only because I am too stubborn to cease praying for it. 

The what-if game tempts me to play. There are nights I do, knowing full well that I am destined to lose. "If only you had more time… If only you came sooner… If only you had actual training… If only you weren't leaving…" If-only will run you ragged if you let it. 

For days I think on how he fights. He fights me. He fights the stander. He fights nutritious food. He fights the cup of water I hold to his dry lips. He fights sleep. He fights medicine. He fights everything good.

I am not so unlike this boy as I sometimes like to imagine I am. 

Again and again I will take him, for as many days as I have left, and I will beg him to see… hard things can be good things. My hands have inflicted pain, but only with great love. I'll cry over every shove and push and scream he throws my way. I whisper it quiet in his little ears, "I know you need to fight. Nothing about this feels nice or natural. So fight if you must, but do so with a trust that I love you." I will remember-- from his vantage point, he cannot see the way I can. What he perceives as great harm is actually appointed mercy. 

As the days pass, I watch him (ever-so slowly) learn to love his stander and it's closer than the humid air stuck to my skin-- this hope that one day he will walk. I dream big. I hope for things seemingly unattainable. Headfirst, I dive "all in". Sometimes the price I pay in heartache is dear. But watching this small boy, with his striped overalls and love for spaghetti, stand taller and taller with each passing day, I know it: every ounce of sweat and tears are well beyond worth it. 

Working with Michael's stander during my final days here in Limbe are a most precious gift. And my knees will bow in reverence to the One who made it all possible. Who am I, that I get to be a small part of the grand story the Lord is writing on this little boy's life? The thought leaves me breathless, forever grateful.

You are good, Lord. You are so good. 

One day he will walk. And the steps he endured to get there will make it all the sweeter. I choose to believe that one day I will hear the shuffle of his footsteps across cemented floors and the both of us will know: the hard things are always good things.

a letter to a small boy

Every day I pray you know how precious you are. Hear me loud and hear me clear: you have been fearfully and wonderfully made. Your Creator made no mistake when he shaped your infectious giggle, created that mischievous, knowing look in your big brown eyes, and formed your delicate fingers that weave themselves between my own. If you believe nothing else, believe this: you are a gift. Knowing you has been the greatest honor. 

You are amazing. In three months you taught me more than any university or college degree ever could've. Every toy grasped, every spin on your mats, every afternoon spent balancing on that yoga ball, all the times you practiced standing tall, I saw your strength and determination (and stubbornness too). They run deep. Those moments I will cherish forever.

Did you know I fell head-over-heels in love with you? How could I not, with your charming smile and sweet heart? You had me wrapped about your fingers from the very start, and I've since to become untangled. Thank you for letting me enter your little world and for allowing me to love you so.

From you I learned so many things. You taught me success is not measured in tasks accomplished or goals completed. From you I learned a person's a person, no matter how small. Because of you I believe each and every life holds significance. You taught me to laugh, if only because it is a most beautiful sound. You taught me to start looking up -way above the treetops- a whole lot more. Through you I learned all things wonderful will take time, a lot of work, and often many tears. Because of you I now know giving up is never an option, even when 3 weeks in shows no progress. You taught me the worthiest of things call for incredible vulnerability. I also learned there's no shame in loving only 2 kinds of food. 

Perhaps the greatest lesson you've taught me is that I should believe more, because I serve a great and mighty God.

You made me feel inadequate on so many levels. You're the reason I stayed up late, pouring over massage therapy and sensory play books. I didn't know how to love you, or reach you, or do best by you. You made me aware, again and again, of the complete desperate and helpless mess I am when I'm on my own. And it led me to where I have always belong-- grappling at the feet of my Savior. Thank you for always leading me there.

Your culture has and will continue to label you many things. Sweet Michael, this is important: don't believe a single word their voices throw at you. The labels are ones that break my heart, because they are given out of such ignorance. How I wish they could see what I see. You are filled with such greatness, if only they would stop to really see you. Because you, dear one, are amazing. 

I have been forever ruined by you in a most beautiful way. I don't think you realize the depth of your impact on me. You see, because of you, I have been inspired to pursue an utterly crazy dream. Because of you, I now have plans. Plans to help little boys and little girls just like you, doing my part to be an advocate for the voiceless and a defender of their sweet innocence. It's an exciting mess of confusion and fear, and a lot of unknowns about the future. But when those moments rush like the incoming tide, I remember you… your tattered red overalls, those perfectly crooked teeth, that heart-melter of a smile, and the fears hush. You are my inspiration. 

The weak made strong, the voiceless defended, the oft-outcast finally understood, the hurt hearts healed, the weary ones given rest… can't you just see it, love? With every fiber of my being I long to do my part (whatever and wherever it may be) to make such a vision possible. 

Leaving you is shattering my heart into a thousand pieces; it will never be whole again. But the ache reminds me our days were real, and hold great significance. I know if your lips would speak, they would tell of how you want this too. So know that, while my feet may be leaving, my heart remains with you. And I refuse to believe this is the end for us.

I'm praying to see you stand. Two legs, strong and tall, unsupported. This is my dream. I cannot wait to see that day. And the day you run. Whether it's 5 months, 5 years, or an eternity from now, my heart eagerly anticipates it. And while the statistics and early intervention books and all logic scream no, I will choose to whisper yes. I will believe, for you and for me. And one day, we will stand tall. 

All my love, 
Anna

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 :) 

When You're Buying The Bread Alone

or: the One who can feed the multitudes

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, how quick I am to forget. 

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

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

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

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

The Grandmoun Kai
or: the coolest house in Limbe

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Moments That Make Our Days

or: keeping it wordless

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

Typical sight.

Cooking Saturday afternoon lunch.

Asleep and headed to town.

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

Post-afternoon play nap. All tuckered out.

One special boy's pajamas on another special boy.

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

Our class.

Abel, showing off our word wall.

17-27-9

Ricardo explaining the green-yellow-red stoplight.

Typical pre-school morning sight.

Grandmouns.

Maria and Prevelia, braiding hair.

After school spelling words.

My favorite spot.

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

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

Meet Michael
otherwise entitled: the other half of my heart

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

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

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

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

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

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

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