safety of the heart

It’s hard to tell which is louder—the pound of my feet on the pavement, or the pound of thoughts in my mind. It’s Tuesday morning and the light is early and golden. Busy cars drive their routes to work. The occasional walker hastily makes their way to the train stop. Tuesday is waking up to the world.  

A blogger I love recently wrote an article regarding the expression “Time heals all wounds.” In it he writes, “Once we reach a certain age, we learn that the healing of the physical wound is not the same thing as being returned to one’s original state of being. [It] does not equal “happily ever after.”

I’ve been waiting for time to make things as they once were. But ‘once were’ is gone the way yesterday is: remembered and cherished, but never held again.

I miss yesterday. The tin roof and thunderous rain. His crooked teeth and big brown eyes. Rice upon rice upon rice. Jolly phonics. Nighttime games with the rats in my ceiling. Cold showers and hot drinking water. Bugs and dirt mixed with sweat and tears, but a joy that runs deeper, a love that stands stronger, a purpose that stretches farther. 

Yesterday became a part of me in a way I never initially wanted. Today is wonderful, filled with such happy and exciting things. A family I love. A job with a little boy I adore. A fiancé who has been every bit kind and patient and loving (and who I’m crazy about). Words cannot capture the way I love today, or how thankful I am. But yesterday’s wounds will never mend me the same. 

And I’ve become the girl on a run who no longer knows how to trust her God with tomorrow.

I’ve learned to not expect safe from the Christian life in physical terms—ebola in Africa, sketchy boda rides, riots blocking roads, voodoo drums. Recently, however, I’ve realized I also cannot expect safety of the heart. Looking at the life of Jesus, I should expect just the opposite: weeping at Lazarus’s tomb, anguish in the garden, tears over Jerusalem.

My God is well acquainted with the sorrow.

Tomorrow is something I’m struggling to leave at His feet. In the midst of that though, I take comfort in the words of Job: “For He wounds, but He also binds up; He injures, but His hands also mend.” 

He cannot mend tomorrow what I haven’t surrendered today. The words of C.S. Lewis come to mind as I make my way to this thing called surrender.

“Safe?” said Mr. Beaver. “Who said anything about safe? ‘Course he isn’t safe. But he is good. He’s the king I tell you.”

He is good, friend. Let us never forget that.

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.

songbirds and sunshine

I hold a mug between my hands, watching the steam. The sun has not yet risen. She catches my eye as they often do here, that one tiny bird hidden among the tree leaves. They are far and few between in this country, those little song-singers. All to herself, she tweets and whistles. I wonder how long she's sat there, how long it's been since she started.

"Hush," I think. "It's too dark. Too early. There is no light yet." I take in the dark around me. "Hush. Now's not the time for singing…" And at barely 6 in the morning, I learn a great lesson from a songbird who is smaller than the size of my hands.

I often wait for the sun before I start to sing.

I worship Him, not because of where I stand or what He has done or how close I feel to Him. I worship Him for Who He is. Worthy. Many things will change, but that never will.

Sing in the light of the sun if that is where He has you. Let His goodness penetrate your skin and fall across your face. Take it all in. Let your words ring loud and your heart be overcome, knowing He delights in the sound of your voice. 

But if you find yourself in the dark, waiting for the sun, then sing there too. He will let your melody be sad, filled with minor tones and keys more black than white. And if your voice cracks, that's okay too. Sing. Sun or no sun. And watch as (though the circumstances change not) your worship sets the world right again.

Sing, love. And know the dark will not last. As surely as the sun will rise, He will come.

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.

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.

Because He Says So
 otherwise entitled: Anna stayed awake too late

The night has been long and for all of their efforts, they have nothing to show. The docks are beginning to fill with life once again as the pale gray sky turns shades of pink and orange. There's this slapping of the tide and the rustling of the nets as they are dragged ashore and washed clean. A steady, slow rhythm of cawing birds and life arising from the dead of the night beats in the air. The people murmur as His footsteps come to pass, the air filling with a sense of awe and curiosity. The whole countryside has heard of him, of his teachings and his stories and his healings. They whisper amongst themselves, "It is he." The word spreads like wildfire. "It is this Jesus."  

Slowly the crowd grows as the people begin to follow Him to the water's edge. He climbs aboard a boat, causing Simon to look on in disbelief as this Rabbi sits and begins to teach. Simon rows away from the shore, his arms aching with the toils of the night. They are forgotten at a moments notice, with Jesus spinning stories and words and lessons. His arms wave wildly and his voice rises and falls with emotion as he speaks. Simon sits, mesmerized. With his wisdom he opens the eyes of the crowd and brings the Scripture to life before them. Who is this Jesus?

As he finishes, Jesus turns to Simon. "Put out into the deep. Let down the nets for a catch." 

The dull ache in his shoulders remind him of the night he has had. He stands, knees crackling beneath the weight of him. The boat rocks, unsteady in the water as he sighs deep, "Master, we've worked all night and haven't caught anything…" he pauses, looking to his men, the lines of fatigue etched into their faces and written across their slumped shoulders. He looks at his hands, calloused from years of net cleaning and rope pulling and working the docks. He looks heavily into the eyes of the One who has asked, finishing his sentence, "but because you say so, I will let down the nets."

Because You say so.. oh, how many times I have failed to let this be enough. 

The nets grow heavy with the bounty of fish. The men's weary grunts turn to shouts of ecstasy, the deck an array of excitement and madness. Anxiously they wave on another boat, sharing the catch. The boats fill to the brim, barely reaching the shoreline without sinking with the weight of their haul. One moment they are wearied and tired fisherman, and the next they rejoice in experiencing the catch of a lifetime. 

Among them there is one. It is Simon, who falls to his knees before the feet of Jesus. Simon, who let down his nets after a long night. Simon, who knew enough of Who Jesus was that "because You say so" was enough. Simon, who should be reveling in the best catch a fisherman not even dare to dream of. And we find him here, at the feet of Jesus. 

What a beautiful image. 

To experience the highest point in your life and to fall at the feet of Jesus. He has grasped that which is significant in the moment, that which truly matters. 

What went through his mind as he began the long row out to the deep? I often wonder. Did he think himself a fool? Did his arms buckle beneath the heavy nets cast overboard once again? I imagine the rush of emotions and questions that swept over him… the exhaustion, the curiosity, the stupidity, the fear. And part of me likes to believe there was a flicker of hope in Simon's heart that, though he try, he could not fully extinguish. 

Time in Haiti has taught me many things and led me to ask many a question late into the night. But perhaps the most pressing lately has been this whispering question deep within: where do you plant your hope? Here it is far too great a temptation to look at your surroundings, to base things off realism when you consider what can be accomplished. To do so is a dangerous infringement on your hope and your faith. Because here, the rules of logic and sense do not apply. Catch yourself quickly, or you'll find you've lost your focus entirely.

The truth of the matter is this, and only this: because He says so. For the past week there have been early mornings at the breakfast table with conversations and the clattering of plates and the steaming of coffee as the sink fills with bubbles and we live this crazy thing called life. Their voices rumble as the children shriek and their words penetrate. Over and over again I have been blessed to hear the hearts of those God has placed here. And over and over again it fills me with a sense of such joy. Their words give me much to ponder well into the evening, and their faith is one that inspires. Because they have lived in the midst of because You said so, each one in their own way with their own stories to tell. One can't help but become fascinated. 

This upcoming week we will start school, the days becoming a routine of books and papers and bathroom breaks and chalk dust. And I pray, that we'd learn more than just multiplication tables and sentence structures. Tonite a small boy sleeps soundly in a pac 'n' play. Even so my heart can't help but wonder how many more are out there? A language barrier vast and wide separates me from their world and the things i long to ask them, the stories my ears itch to hear. I know the odds and I've heard the statistics. I know realistically I am one small girl in a very large world, and these things unvoiced I'm so afraid to dream are downright foolish. But like Simon, I will choose "because You said so". And the nets may fill with fish and the nets may not. Ultimately that doesn't matter much.  What matters is this long row out to the deep, this bending of the knee and of the will. 

Stake your tent and your hope in this land, in this place of "because You say so". For surely, He does not disappoint. 

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?

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. 

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…