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.

School Days and Continuing On

otherwise entitled: I now want a cat

5 weeks in, 6 to go.  The fact is a little hard to wrap my mind around.  Being out of the States for over a month now, I’ve entirely forgotten what clean feels like, my definition of good night’s sleep is probably incredibly distorted, and real meat leaves my stomach feeling a bit queasy and unsettled. The weeks have their up’s and down’s. The same days that hold the most infinite joy can transform into the most testing and trying of days; such is life here, or anywhere else on this crazy earth. 

We are trying new things in school this week— separating the class into spelling groups, adding in reading comprehension stories, working through math and doing science questions on protein foods and vitamins. I think deep down (way deep down) the kids like it. At least, that’s why I tell myself as they whine and complain throughout the morning. haha. Denial. Works wonders.

I’ve got one little guy in particular I seem to be at a loss with lately. He’s an artist at heart, a dreamer. One of those kind who were born to compose incredible creations and spin masterpieces. I love him dearly. And perhaps that’s why I feel so tattered. We’ve had a rough two weeks— everything from him egging the other kids on to him refusing to participate in class, then having 5 million questions later on. I stayed up late last night, mulling over things and mostly just praying for this little guy. Our day today was great. Not that greatness is defined by whether a day is frustrating or how well kids listen or how much work we get done. But he wasn’t nagging and irritating someone every 5 minutes, and he actually finished all his papers first. And that felt pretty great for the both of us :) 

The artist in me can identify with so many aspects of his mind… when you’re lost in your latest project, you cannot simply pull yourself from the world of creativity at the snap of a finger, nor do you want to. And the homeschooler in me aches for him… so many years I’ve seen the ‘classroom’ tailored for just one, how do you lump all these strengths and weaknesses together? These complex personalities? The likes and dislikes? The dreams and talents? Couple that with limited resources, an inadequate amount of sleep, and ½ a dozen children who want to be involved in anything and everything you’re doing.

So often I feel like I fail them. If I could just fashion the classroom for each one individually, if only there were enough hours to teach them all one-on-one, if only I could access to this book or that website or different technology… but I can’t. And playing the game of “what if” will run you ragged as the circles beneath your eyes grow. There are some nights it’s more haunting than others.

The time feels stretched thin and ever-fleeting. The flip of the calendar, the way my jeans fit a bit looser, the dwindling supply of tea (well, let’s get real, that’s still overloaded) all remind me the days are passing quickly by. Soon November will come. And while there are days that doesn’t seem close enough, tonite I’m feeling a bit nostalgic. Silently panicked, begging for the clock to slow its ticking just a smidge.

But that’s the funny thing about time… the more you grasp for, the faster it evades you.

Nikki and Jason came back to us today. It’s the first time I’ve been here without them around, and it’s been a bit odd to not see their faces walking about the compound. The ladies are quite excited to have them back. Yesterday when I told Prevelia (in my very best Creole which is a far cry from semi-decent) that they were coming, the look on her face was absolutely priceless. Everything feels settled and normal once more. I'm happy, all my people finally in their special places and spots once more.

There are baby kittens down the road I walk past on an almost-daily basis to adventure out to purchase bread, or run to the market, or accompany children to ‘go buy’.  Never have I ever felt the urge so greatly to bring home a little bundle of a fur ball and name it something ridiculous. I almost considered buying a house in Haiti just to have someplace to house the little bundle of cuteness. Maybe next time ;) The kids I was with laughed at me, telling me of this poor creature’s fate. I’ll leave you to figure that one out on your own (spoiler: dinner plates are involved).

All in all, we are continuing on in the days here. I’m watching geckos roam the ceiling, feeling  the mosquitos suck the blood from my ankles, and waiting for the ibuprofen to kick in.  Through broken headphones,  Sara Groves’s “Great Is Thy Faithfulness” plays through one ear, while in the other, the voodoo drums beat in the distance. 

The Sunday routine now consists of me feeding this little cheeky monkey oatmeal. This past week we tried blueberry flaxseed, which didn't go over so well. Maple-cinnamon seems to be the favorite for this picky eater. He's surprisingly clean in this photo, all things considered. Usually a ridiculous amount of oatmeal is spilled all over his clothes as well as mine, and all over his face and plastered to my chest. Every day he makes me laugh. 

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. 

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. 

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.