Clean dirt

Everything smells like soap.

I abhor it.  I even made the mistake of spraying a spritz of a ritzy perfume as I anxiously perused the airport gift shop, and it, too, smells like soap.

I haven't had a proper shower in 47 days; I should not smell like soap.  I've never been so offended by such a smell of cleanliness. I have a headache from everything smelling "too clean." what irony. 

Even in jeans and layered t-shirts, I've lost my battle against goosebumps since I boarded the plane in Port-au-Prince. The frigid assault on my skin soaks down into my bones and I ache to return to a simpler time , approximately 7 hours ago. 

Arriving in Miami was greater culture shock than the streets of Haiti, but resembled more of a race against the sand draining from an hour-glass. I felt the wave of panic begin to mount as we waited in line for customs, but it was quickly diffused as a new lane was opened and we took off like a herd of cattle being corralled by a cowboy. With a delayed departure just shy of three hours arriving at 8, my Nashville team teetered upon missing their 9 p.m. connection after clearing customs, picking up baggage, making their way through immigration, dropping off their checked bags, and racing to security.  Of the nine other travelers, three of them had made it to security by 8:45; the others were stopped when they attempted to re-check their bags.  Without a phone, and with a much later departure time of 10:20, I slowed through security and still don't know the fate of the others. 

With a mind still racing from the speed lap around Miami International, I got on the speed rail, missed my stop, turned around at the next one to return, only to realize I had the wrong gate number, and had to get on again and head to station 1.  With a few minutes to kill, I stopped for an iced coffee at Starbucks, and caught myself rehearsing my order in Creole. Although everything in this airport is in Spanish, I found myself thanking the cashier with a "mesi," before finding my gate.

I'm surrounded by old, plastic, retired, white people in polo shirts and a man with the Greek omega symbol literally burned onto both arms. I am beyond perplexed. Materialism rules as extreme here, and the ease with which my disgust for it could dissolve furthers the tension of hatred. 

Perhaps the hardest part of reentry is assimilation without resuming the same culture I left.   Or maybe its fighting harboring bitterness or judgement while I try to find a way to return to normalcy. Lord help me to fight the disdain and bitterness and judgment without putting on the same greed and self-absorption that I yearn to avoid.

Progress

Haiti isn't exactly conducive to goosebumps, so when you get them you need to take note. You're either teetering between a stomach parasite or malaria, sitting in front of a fan in sweat-soaked clothing after the generator kicks on, or the Holy Spirit is doing a new work in your heart. 

Thank you dear Jesus for the ways your Spirit reminds me that your mercies are new every morning.  For not leaving me the dirty, broken, prideful mess that I am. But loving me enough to ignite new passion and vision and hope for this country, and specifically for your children.

The other morning, a group of volunteers and kiddos took a hike across the mountain to a waterfall.  Everything in my heart was full of (what I at least thought was) righteous-jealousy. Having arrived in Jacmel after night fall, I was eager to see the landscape and become acquainted  with another new city on my voyage across the country.  I wasn't exactly pleased that I needed to stay behind to sort through some of the supplies and discuss some details about the lessons and activities I would be leading throughout the week.  I stayed behind without complaining, but my heart was full of resentmentand disappointment. 

Yesterday and last night, the Lord continued to work through my hardness of heart with every prayer of repentance I prayed and every morsel of the ugly honesty I let escape from my heart and be brought into the light as I examined all my dirtyness. 

And praise God! Seriously, He is so good.  He doesnt leave His children to sleep in their own filth! he takes us out of our soiled mess and puts us into new garments of (His!) righteousness!

Cora and I sat down after lunch to talk logistics of this weeks activities and to sort through by visually mapping out each evenings perimeters and limitations.  As I organized a schedule, Will, one of the founders of H&F, decided to take a group of kids and volunteers to the cove to go swimming.  Although I would've been interested if I was available, it didn't ven remotely bother me to miss out.  I can't tell you how HUGE that is, as I've done little ore than notice the depths of my selfish nature as of lately.

As our plans progressed and the skeleton began to take a little more shape, our conversation evolved to responsibility and accountability within the country, and specifically to the educational needs within the community. Before I knew it, a fire was lit under my heart regarding literacy for empowerment, the very topic of my Master's thesis!

I retreated quickly to plan for tonight's lesson, and once I finally found myself in isolation, humbly praised Him for this moment. This time to write, this time to pray, this time in seclusion. The opportunity to be used for this lesson, this opportunity to dive into the word and have a reason to draw away and be focused on Him! For the excitement He restored to me over Haiti and education! For the fact He allowed me joy and the ability to actually be content in doing the thing I'm doing, and not the very thing I hate!  

God you are so good to me! You are so good to your children. Thank you Jesus. 

I do the very thing I hate

As she choked back tears, I didn't even flinch. 

As they were confronted with the severity of the poverty, and the feeling of helplessness that accompanies it, I plugged in my headphones and barely took notice to the depth of despair on the other side of of the van window. 

As they saw Haiti for what it truly is, the third poorest nation in the world, I glassed over the dirt and scum and burning trash and saw nothing but beauty of creation.

I've forgotten the reality of Haiti, and seeing my TVC teammates be introduced to her via the staunch streets of Port au Prince, made me realize the callousness of my own heart.  I've become desensitized to the severity of the problem.  I've lost sight of my hope for repair for this country, even moreso, lost sight of the need for repair.

As the only one on my team that has been to Haiti before, I fielded questions like an expert.  I truly love to share my love of this country with others, but every word out of my mouth felt like arrogance and superiority.  It sickened me, but I could not stop it. I tried to season my words with lowliness, but it felt like nothing more than false humility.  I sat in a tension of sharing my love and knowledge and experience, but also not wanting to come off as a know-it-all or pointing every story to me and my experience here. 

For I do not understand my own actions. for I do not do what I want, but I do the very thing I hate. Now if I do what I do not want, I agree with the law, that it is good. So now it is no longer I who do it, but sin that dwells within me. For I know that nothing good dwells in me, that is, in my flesh. for I have the desire to do what is right, but not the ability to carry it out. For I do not do the good I want, but the evil I do not want is what I keep doing. Now if I do what I do not want, it is no longer I who do it, but sin that dwells within me ... Romans 7:15-20

I could tell this was going to be a long drive. 

Somewhere in my past 6 weeks, something changed in my heart.  The part of me that was broken by my surroundings had become completely apathetic, unaware even, to them.  The part of me that had been concerned about sowing into the lives of others has twisted into pursuing my own selfish love of learning language, seeing sights, and acclimating myself to the culture, rather than ushering in a Kingdom culture.  The part that used to be enraged by the poverty that causes a child to beg or a parent to sell their children into slavery, is nothing less than annoyed when I'm asked for money, simply because I'm white. 

Somewhere, I traded out the new eyes that the Lord has given me, for a set of glasses so clouded by self-consumption and tinted with pride, too dark to see past my own reflection. 

This is not okay with me.

I long for the compassion that once drenched my heart and drove me to dream about change.  I want to choose to stay silent when my stories would rather say, "look at me!" I want to see Haiti, to se this world, as it truly is, and not neglect the need for reformation. 

My prayer for this week in Jacmel is that God would allow me to once more trade in my sin-stained glasses for His eyes. That He would enable me to see and feel for His children the way that He feels for them. That my heart would break over the brokenness in this world in the same way that His heart is broken for this world.  That I would ultimately feel the excrutiating pain He must feel to watch His people, the orphans, the voiceless, suffer while the rest of the world sleeps. I pray for new eyes, that wouldn't just register in my mind with images, but rather, be burned into my heart with a deep desire to see Haiti reached for Christ and redeemed under His grace and mercy. 

Wretched man that I am! Who will deliver me from this body of death? Thanks be to God through Jesus Christ our Lord! So then, I myself serve the law of God with my mind, but with my flesh, I serve the law of sin.  Romans 7:24-25

motherhood

So it's no big secret that I'm slowly inching towards thirty, and needless to say, I'm still single and definitely not a mother yet as I would have predicted as I entered this decade. I figure I might as well just get straight to the point, because there's really no way to tip-toe around the topic, and yet still be honest.

With babies becoming the new black among just about every one I know, it is hard to not be just the slightest bit envious of the idea of family that I've longed for for some time now. As if that wasn't hard enough, I get here to Cap Haitien and totally have fallen in love with these two sweet sisters, Lovemida and Christela. The moment I saw Lovemida, she came over, grabbed my hand, and begged to be picked up. She's hardly let me put her down since.

I'd be lying if I said I hadn't considered what it would be like to take these two sweet girls home with me, (if only it were that easy!), but apparently Haiti has some pretty stringent rules about adoption, and I don't qualify as being 35 or married for 10 years. Yes, I did ask.

A few nights ago, I was overwhelmed with this desire for a family of my own. I felt the Lord calling me to my knees, so, I went to the only place i know I won't be interrupted by 62 Haitian children: my shower. And on the wet, tile floor, I spilled my tears until they mixed with the cold water spiraling down the drain.

do not be anxious about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving, let your request be made known to God. And peace, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your mind in Christ Jesus. --Philippians 4:6-7

As I sat on the balcony to pray some more, Gaelle came up to sit with me. She's the sweetest, most beautiful, mature 11 year old you'll ever meet. And she's funny and sweet and I really enjoy her company, and I can't say that about many girls her age. With her head on my shoulder, she sighed and said to me, in English, "I love you."

And my eyes well with tears as they did that night, when Jesus spoke through the lips of an eleven-year-old girl, and told me He had heard my prayers.

You may not have a family in the American definition of the word, but look what I've entrusted to you. You have shown this child a mother's love. You may not have a child of your own, but see the 62 children of mine that I'm allowing you to love on and to love you?

And everytime I think of what I'm "missing out on," the things that the Lord has just not timed for me yet, a husband and a family, I can think of the moments that Christela has fallen asleep in my arms and I've carried her to her bed to tuck her in, or the six beautiful faces and sweet giggles I get every night at 8 when I go in to hug and kiss each one of them at bedtime, or sweet Lovemida as she asks me to pray over her when I put her to bed,-- or this well-timed moment that Gaelle just came to find me (hiding in the visitors dorm), to tell me goodnight and she loves me.

So no, I'm not married. And no, I'm not a mother in the biological sense of the word. but I have a world full of children that God has called me to love. What greater honor, what greater responsibility, than to care for the orphans of this world.

religion that is pure and undefiled before God, the Father, is this: to care for orphans and widows in their affliction, and to keep oneself unstained by the world. --James 1:27

Covered in flies

Walking through the market is not for the faint of heart.

For starters, you must love heat, because boy, oh boy, is it hot! And you certainly must not be troubled by large crowds and tight spaces, claustrophobes need not apply! And if you have sensory processing issues, or simply tend to prefer organization to chaos, you probably shouldn't go downtown to the market either, let alone, Haiti in general.

There's an exhilaration that comes from hearing the roars of motos, the forceful chants of "blanc! Blanc!" bidding you to buy from them, the bananas being shoved in your face as one vendor vies for your attention. There's an excitement produced when negotiating the best prices on avocados (I get 8 large ones for about $1.25... Oh yes! And we eat them in about 3 days time), or comparing the lot of one vendor to the lady next to her. One moment your eyes are filled with the popping colors of peppers and tomatoes and pineapple and greatfruit, the next, you're backed up to charcoal and live chickens, bound at the feet and pleading for mercy at the feet of every passer-by.

And dare you be brave enough to visit the meat market.... Be prepared for the onslaught of offense to your senses. The foul odors may induce involuntary gagging, but your more than likely to vomit by the sheer sight and thought of the intestines spilling out on tables before you, the putrid odor as thick as the flies that surround every cut of meat.

I have a strange addiction to the market. The over-stimulation, the refusal to back down from confronting you with the raw and the ugly and the barebones; that is the center of Haiti's character. Whether it be the meat, the sewage, or the poverty, it can be nothing more than raw.

Im not sure what it is that draws me in. Certainly, it's far different than my love affair with France, or my longing for a Pacific holiday on the coast of Costa Rica. Haiti is, for me at least, like stepping into the market: it's a full on assault to your senses, and you either choose to vomit and run, or to embrace it. I've learned to embrace it, and to navigate my way through it, stepping in as few piles of questionable muck as possible.

When you look beyond the heaping piles of burning trash, the mangey goats and dogs that over-populate every main road, and the roadside canals of incomprehensible, unsanitary water, you are able to witness the beauty. But you can't appreciate the beauty of the mountain tops, the pristine and well-preserved coastline, the plethora of papuya, plantain, and passion fruit trees without first recognizing the deep gap between the beauty and the brokenness.

As a believer and follower of Christ, I can so relate this to my faith. As Christ taught, to those who once owed much, those deeply in debt, those dirty in the eyes of many and themselves, to those beyond hope of fixing their own sin-- it's to those that much is forgiven. The depravity, the void, the gap between our own raw sewage and the sacred holiness of Heaven is a canyon so wide not one of us could ever cross it. But one man did bridge that canyon, and with a Cross indeed.

When I am confronted by the dark, ugly, unsanitary parts of Haiti, something in my heart resonates. It's as if my soul recognizes that without Christ, I resemble much of what I see here. And as I can take in the beauty evening sky as it rolls in from the coast and over the mountains, as I see the unperverted beauty of small-town flora and fauna, as I lay peacefully on a beach underneath a coconut palm with the waves crashing at my feet, I understand the beauty of grace, and the glory that can only be attributed to Christ alone.

Haiti gives little mercy for the dark parts of my heart. When the things I can hide behind, even the good things, are removed, my brokenness is exposed, much like the bones beneath the sagging skin of the frail widow in her mud-and-tin home. There's an impossibility to ignore my own brokenness and my own need for a savior. Every ounce of selfishness pours from my skin, like liters of sweat at high-noon, until I'm sitting in a pool of it and unsure how to ever rid myself of the stench and become dry. The heat reminds me of my weakness, and how I lack the propensity to endure physical labor. When the sounds of the night run quiet from the hustle of the day and the noticeable lack of sound where the generator used to run and the fans used to hum, my mind is reminded of my dependency on comfort and my disappointment when I realize I have to suffer through the still of the night, fighting off the Mosquitos within my net and the sweat collecting at the small of my back and soaking into my sheets. I scoff at the thought, yet forget to be thankful in all things, like, having a net. Or sheets. Or a bed and a room and a roof. And a fan on most nights and relief from the heat when i seek it.

And its here, at these moments that I fully realize my depravity, when nothing more than my inclination to seek Him and cling to Him remains.

And instead of Him calling me to dwell on my brokenness, He calls me to survey the view around me. To glorify Him for the beauty of His creation. To pray over little ones in His name. To declare that the ugliness of my sin, although still there, is overcome by His power and grace. He calls me to draw away from the moment and to worship Him. To consider the Cross, to meditate on the beauty of grace while sitting beneath the beauty of a cool, Caribbean night sky. He showers me with His love, even when i still feel as if I'm covered in the muck from the canal behind the latrines. Sitting in His presence, I become aware that His shower is not only love, it is a cleansing flood that declares me holy and righteous. And knowing how dirty I am, and once was, I'm beyond amazed that He would desire me to even crawl humbly into His presence.

He doesn't see me as the garbage that washes up in heaps upon the shoreline; He views me as clean as the pristine, pay-beaches. And being here, in Haiti, for some reason forces me into confronting the dirt and poverty of heart in my own life, just as most people would judge the juxtaposition of garbage, grace, and goodness in this adulterated and overlooked island nation.

If my life is any inclination of His redemption, I have one word for you Haiti: hope. There is such hope for you, Haiti.

Tea-kettles and cowboy boots

I have to admit, the diecut tea kettles, cowboy boots, and construction paper hearts that hung from the ceiling looked a little out of place as church decor out at Terrier Rouge last weekend. Sort of comical that they dressed it up with hundreds of these cut-outs strung across the ceiling. I get the fake flowers, still covered in their cellophane protecting them from the dust and elements, as Haitian churches (or buildings for that matter) don't have windows, but rather, typically use concrete cinder block with holes to create breezeways through the walls. but construction paper, exposed to wind, rain, and dust, is definitely not going to cut it.

this last Sunday, I noticed that the church here in Petite-Anse that we attend had really upped their decor too. Twine held up the large, maroon and gold curtains wrapped around the white columns that lined the aisle ways. They still had the metal grommets at the top, and probably fit around the column at least a good three full times. I guess it was meant to protect the white column from the elements, too. Although, I'm not from this nation, and I usually try to appreciate things of other cultures, all of this decor seemed so unnecessary, silly, and just out of place.

I wonder how often God looks at us in our churches and thinks the same thing.

Unnecessary. Silly. Out of place.

We spend so much money building buildings, perfecting stage lighting, replacing pews with cushiond chairs, doing sound checks. We pour our pledges into concrete, instead of people. We watch our money grow on the big, red thermometer on the wall, instead of seeing His Kingdom expand.

Will we ever be content with having everything we need in a two-thousand-year-old book? As David Platt put it in his book, Radical, "His Word is enough for millions of other believers who huddle in Africn jungles, South American rain forests, and Middle Eastern Cities. But is His Word enough for us?"

Yesterday, we sat around a coffee table at a guest home of another ministry in town. Our Bibles in hand, and a podcast playing over a computer, we listened and read through the book of Amos. In place of a/c, we opened both doors and let the breeze continue through the room. In place of our Sunday's best, we wore the same sweaty, dirty clothes we wore to church earlier that morning. In lieu of singing along to a praise band, we interceded over each others prayer request corporately. We didn't need a pastor, a fancy sanctuary, or stage presence. We had His presence. What more did we need?

I'm not saying American churches (or the church as a global body even) are a bad thing, at all. They serve a huge purpose in our communities, and are intended for good. I'm just challenging you to take a look at how you define your church home/family/body. I know that's a bold challenge, but I can't help but think of what God would have to say about how we define our standard of church. You can have the grandeur rooms, the pricey instruments, the entertainment value. But if you don't have the Word and His presence, those things are nothing more than temporal, construction paper tea-kettles and cowboy boots.


Some of his disciples were remarking about how the temple was adorned with beautiful stones and with gifts dedicated to God. But Jesus said, "As for what you see here, the time will come when not one stone will be left on another; every one of them will be thrown down." Luke 21:5-6