Excessively Rainy Weather
or: a most perfect afternoon

It was one of those rainy days that whispered of hot tea cups and baking cookies and all things November. So we stayed in yoga pants and footie-pajamas and had the most epic hammock chill-out. This small boy fell asleep for a good hour, and Anna had a chance to just. be. still.

The rain is pouring here in Haiti. Literally non-stop for over 24 hours. It's nuts. This morning the streets were so flooded that the 4-wheeler couldn't get out of the schoolyard (water came up to its headlights). Back home school gets canceled for snow days. Here it's excessive rainy weather. Gotta love it.

Here's to wishing I had packed rain boots!

the start of the school year 

otherwise titled: why i've become a coffee drinker

School started a week ago- the days a blur of chalk dust and photocopies and disorganization. 4 months ago, I walked into that tiny square of a classroom and hugged their little faces goodbye. And now we are here, a full week into a new school year. The days hold the typical frustrations and joys one might imagine for a classroom of 8 in a country such as Haiti. We chase the dogs from the classroom, sweep out rat poop and dead cockroaches, and hang a blue tarp to block the hot Haitian sun from melting us completely. And all before 9 am. There are some moments where the absurdity of this life really hits me. But it's never long before the beauty of it does too. 

(doesn't everybody do this before school?)

Exciting things that have happened, let's see. Well, the kids got their uniforms. Ricardo and Judenal walked home to Bonnie and Ray's place after school one day (still wearing their green shirts and navy blue dress pants) and had all of Limbe asking where they went to school. haha. Poor Jenni who's 4 years old and the the size of a 2-year-old is swimming in her size 8 jumper until a replacement size comes in the mail. Sweet thing. Ray and Mark (to make a long story short: Mark's a guy who came to drill wells for 3 weeks and has instead had to learn hard lessons about patience and grace and God's timing, the poor fella) poured concrete and did other construction-y things my nerdy mind doesn't comprehend. Basically they are one huge step forward to finishing Ray and Bonnie's house down at the orphanage (it's been in process for 9 months now). I skipped church to bake peanut butter chocolate cups and lesson plan. And took a walk up a hill to see a gorgeous view of Limbe I'd never seen before.

Yesterday -one full week into school- left me feeling like a wrung out wash cloth, hung and left to dry. The days are always insane, frustrating, and hysterical all rolled into one mess of beautiful crazy. I guess you just have those days where everything becomes a bit too much, and that would describe my Monday. I introduced the concept of creative writing prompts, which resulted in an hour and a half of confusion and spelling out simple words and explaining why "I like a ball because I love it." is not exactly the result of effort and hard work. I love these kids and I love this life, hear me well. But sitting in a room where half of the kids refused to be a part of class, three whined at every worksheet and one wouldn't even look at me, doubt and defeat swooped in swiftly for the kill. Monday afternoon found me eating nutella (straight from the container, mind you) for lunch, recalling the life I left behind in Chicago, unable to think any thought other than: I gave that up for this? Why?

While there is a fine line between an emotionless "oh suck it up" mentality in which one entirely disregards their feelings, and throwing yourself a full blown pity party, a month in and two dozen meals of rice later, I think my heart needed to grieve that loss a little bit. And wide-eyed late into the night, my sister messaged me. Name 5 happy things from today. 

The sound of fresh mangos thumping to the ground. Quiet nights and Thomas Newman instrumentals. Rudlen's smile and Maxson's laugh. Iced coffee. Smiling faces and snazzy new uniforms. 

(my class of cheeky monkeys)

Some days you have to dig your fingernails deep, but the beauty is always there. 

I've started this project of writing a post-it for each kid after class, with an encouraging note. What started as a way to encourage and acknowledge them and the things they did and accomplished in the day has also become a way for me to keep perspective, practicing the finding of something happy in each day. Because I can teach English and stress over vowel sounds and lesson plan for 10 weeks, and entirely miss the point. In that classroom where kids climb over the walls and the tin roof cooks beneath the sun and it takes 20 tries to get that gosh-darn lock open, little lives are taking shape. Greater lessons than times tables and science chapters are being taught. Diligence, teamwork, self-confidence, perseverance, and respect are being learned right alongside "2x2" and "what foods contain proteins?" It's just so much easier to see it while writing behind a computer screen, rather than living in the moment.

I'm spending the afternoons doing one-on-one work with the kids, keeping a schedule of who gets to read and do flashcards on what day. So far the kids really seem to enjoy it, and it's also helpful for me to know where they're at. And to get some one-on-one time and connect with the little cheeky monkeys. Slowly a schedule is taking shape, it's just taking some time. The kids really have made some incredible progress over the summer, and it will be exciting to watch them continue in that.

I'm finding myself with yet another sleepless night here in Haiti, the rain a steady pour outside and the curtains fluttering, spreading coolness to a usually warm house. Lightning streaks the sky, thunder rumbles low, and the rain comes to wash the day away. The power flickered out long ago, the ticking clock causing my laptop battery to be drained next-to-nothing. Three boys sleep soundly in the other room, the air heavy with their breathing and this God-grace that sustains us one day at a time. 

I cleaned out the kitchen upstairs this afternoon, and thought I'd share the photograph of the cuddly little friend I found hiding behind the refrigerator. I'd also like it to be know that upon discovering him, I didn't even scream. Oh the things you'll find when you clean. 

For A Lack of Words

otherwise entitled: two weeks of randomness

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Being Back

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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:

on daily happenings and photographs

This place is stealing a bit more of my heart every day I am here. My days here are so ordinary in some ways- multiplication tables and spelling words and kids and more laughter than imaginable. Here are just a few photos of daily happenings around here and the precious kids I am falling in love with.

My view from the balcony in the mornings. God is so incredible.

School-time for the 1st and 2nd graders.

Crazy children, loving on their puppies. 

Countless loads of laundry hanging on the line.

Two crazy sweethearts, being goofy.

Silly self-ies and not-quite-ripe mangos and one very energetic kid.

"Your ways, O God, are holy. What god is so great as our God?" -Psalm 77:13

life lessons from the ekisa kids

I always say these children are teaching me, always teaching me. And I've been reflecting for the past couple of weeks on what exactly they teach me, each of them individually. So meet our kiddos, and hear the things I've learned from them over the past 5 months.

Ziki- he teaches me the beauty of sweet friendship.

Zak- he teaches me how to communicate without words.

Mweru- he teaches me love, how to love and be loved. 

Walter- he shows me what compassion for the defenseless looks like.

Isaac- he teaches me not to take life too seriously.

Ibra- he teaches me that love knows no language.

Elijah- he reminds me that we serve a God of justice.

Joshua- he shows me the pleasure of a sweet, happy disposition. 

Rachel- she teaches me to just be myself [and that creepy is okay].

Paul- he reminds me to keep my eyes open for an opportunity to be a good helper.

Jason- he teaches me not to live behind masks, feelings were made to be expressed.

Arafat- he teaches me unabashed, unashamed joy and how to find it in everything.

Zuena- she taught me that life is precious and short.

Sam (Hasanee)- he teaches me we serve a faithful Healer.

Debra- she teaches me that strength and joy and patience are not bound to our circumstances.

Fiona- she reminds me of His faithfulness.

Daniel- he teaches me the happiness of fellowship and simply being with someone.

Misach- he's just cute :)

Isaac (Little)- he reminds me to enjoy the simple things, like back scratches and foot rubs.

Tasha- she teaches me that each life is precious, and wonderfully made.

James- he teaches me to laugh lots (and to not bite our friends).

So thankful for these kids, and the many things they have taught (and continue to teach) me.

moving the rock

"In Him our hearts rejoice, for we trust in His holy name." -Psalm 33:21

I lay in my bed with Misachi after a particularly rough day. I want home, and the people of home, and familiars of home. But as I snuggle what may be the world's cutest child ever, I realize how deeply it's going to hurt to leave these children I've come to know and love. He looks up at me with those eyes of his and that grin of his and my voice breaks as I whisper, "Misach, I don't know how I'm going to leave you." 

I come home late, children are in beds and lights are turned dim. And I do what may be my most favorite thing to do at Ekisa- peek in and see sleeping children. But she's still awake, sitting in her bed. "Auntie come!" Rachel says, holding her hand out. Bag still around my shoulder and shoes on my feet, I sit on her bed and hug her hard. "Oh," she says, "Auntie Anna, you are leaving for America?" I pull back and look into eyes so brown and sad, realizing they must reflect my own. "Not yet, Rach.. not yet."  But I know that day will be here in the blink of an eye, so I hug her tighter.

We're on Skype, with Auntie Gracie and Auntie Michelle. We bring kids into the room, one at a time, to say hi to the aunties on the computer. And it hits me like a blow to the chest. In not too long, I'll be that auntie who gets skyped in to say hey every once in a while. I'll be the auntie Jason asks about at bedtime, the auntie Walter gets shy on the computer around, the auntie Mama Nam cries about when the car pulls out of the Ekisa driveway. 

I can count on one hand the amount of weeks I have left here in Uganda. And while it fills me with such excitement at the thought of seeing you all so soon, I know it means saying goodbye to some of the most precious children who have wrapped their little fingers around my heart. I'm afraid, because I know the heartbreak that awaits. I find myself -sitting on the porch at nighttime, feeding babies, chasing children in the yard, going on walks to Kimaka- soaking in the moments, knowing 3.5 weeks are going to fly fast and these moments don't last for forever. It feels like last summer felt all over again- excited for a new season of life, heartbroken to say goodbye to the one I'm living now.

When I watched Mama Nam say goodbye, I didn't understand it. I sat on the couch, rubbing her back as the tears fell, wanting to ask her, "You know aunties aren't here for forever, why do you let your heart get so attached?" But in my mind, I replay the moments… her and I hand washing laundry in the yard, staying up all throughout the night laughing, making cassava fries, saying good morning [one of the few things we can communicate, since neither of us knows each other language fluently], sitting on the porch ledge on Sunday afternoons. Moments filled with such laughter and such joy. This young woman is the most joy-filled person I have met. She doesn't guard her heart or her emotions or attachments. And every time an auntie leaves, she hurts like none other.

I've told myself to not get too attached, because goodbye is coming. And the more attached you get, the more it's going to hurt later. But then I think of Nam. I think of the deep joy she knows. She lives with her heart on her sleeve; and I know that's how I want to live too. Because I want to know joy like she knows. And that kind of joy, you can't know it unless you're willing to feel the sadness too. But seeing Nam's joy helps me see how it is so worth it.

There's a future of unknowns that starts the morning of March 8th when I wake up in my own bed and planning a Uganda-trip isn't in my near future. I think of two months from now, and two years from now, and 20 years from now. What will I be doing? I shake at the fear of not knowing so many things… how life will have changed, how my heart is going to be so happy to be home, how much I'm going to miss my life here in Uganda, what this new season of life holds. 

I'm standing with my hand on the rock, and He asks me, "Do you trust Me?" It's like when Lazarus is raised from the dead. Jesus standing outside the tomb and Mary whispers, "But Lord, the smell, it will be great." And I know her fear… not of the smell, but of not knowing what Jesus is going to do with the inside of the tomb. I don't know what lays inside the tomb. I want to put off the moving of the rock and knowing the future, because I don't know what He's going to do with what lays beyond that. 

Whatever lays ahead, the joy and the heartbreak, the known and the unknown, the many more seasons and people and hellos and goodbye's that will come… do I trust Him? Do I believe -truly, sincerely believe- He knows what He's doing? I'm hesitant to say that I do and that I always will. Because do I really mean that? Will I mean that in 10 years? I'm afraid to answer, because I'm afraid of what happens if the answer is not "Yes, I trust You." 

But I have known life with Him and what that's like. And I have experienced it- a life lived with Him is the only life worth living. And I know that there's no going back to any other kind of life that isn't centered around Him. So together we will walk to places of indescribable joy, and also to places of great sorrow. And there's no other One I'd trust enough to walk those places with.