I tucked them in, squeezed them each tightly, and whispered love into the creases where I kissed their little cheeks before bed.
I crawled into the bunkbed with my oldest girl, Lindia, and watched through my mosquito net as they fell asleep. Soon the dim candlelight withered and the room fell to the night, and I was filled. Filled to the upmost with contentment deep in my being.
I was home. With 19 children that hold shackles to my heart. Home in Chrislove and Wood falling fast asleep against my chest, home in the constant buzzing of Creole and no hints of my first language to be heard. Home in being surrounded by little people, and with the distant kompa music as night falls. Home in leaning against Richard, in tickling Micheline, and in being tangled in a mess of tiny limbs and brown eyes every hour of the day.
Joy nestled itself against the walls of my chest and threatened to unleash my heart from its place.
But then the night wore on, and on, and the conditions threatened to make me miserable. The rancid smell of urine coated the beds, their clothes, and the entire house. Utter filth covered my entire body and I couldn't distinguish between what was dirt, or sweat, or mosquito bites. Mosquitos screeched next to my head, but most of all, it was HOT. With ten bodies in a little unventilated, equator-weathered room...I laid there with my body soaking with sweat and my skin feeling as if it were being burnt by the sun itself.
I must have laid there for hours. But for hours full of a longing and parched soul, talking with Jesus in my sweat-drenched sheets.
He was with me in the way I so wish I could form into words. I was home in the truest meanings of such a word. I had returned to a place of communion with Jesus that was intimate, sacred, and full of desperate neediness for Him. I had returned home, where I look a whole lot less like me, and much more like the one who is able to form such places inside of me.
Home is something I find myself thinking of quite often, maybe because I have been transitioning almost nomadically over the past three years, or maybe because I can't really call any place "home." When I lived at the orphanage, I began to understand, to intimately know, what it means for Jesus to make a home inside of you, and for that home to be the truest meaning of such a word. But now that I'm not living at the orphanage anymore, I'm learning how to reach that place again, even when I don't feel desperate and needy and lonely.
So far, my experience in Haiti this time is drastically different from when I was living at the orphanage. I am seeing new parts of Haiti, am on the go constantly, and am experiencing new things every day. It's strange to be living with people who know my own language and culture. It's even stranger to not be waking up every morning to nineteen kids calling my name. Strange isn't the right word for that, it's hard.
I'm learning and seeing so much, that I'm finding it almost hard to process and retain everything. From learning basic everyday life skills, to different legal processes, to experiencing riots in the streets against the capital. So many of my questions are being answered, and yet, so many more questioning are just beginning to form.
It was overwhelmingly hard for me to leave the states this time. The month leading up to my return to Haiti, I felt the weight of what I was actually preparing myself to do- of what it meant to give up my entire world, of realizing the extent of what kind of sacrifices I would be making in my future. To leave my family, my friends, and my community. To be ushered into a life with so many unknowns- void of a culture I was born into, a language I was filled with, and people that I dearly, dearly love.
This is where I am supposed to be. That is the overwhelming truth in my heart. I am filled with excitement, readiness, and relief. Relief of feeling it all again- of a place so sweet, of knowing that I am exactly where Jesus has asked me to be, and that as much as I stumble and clumsily chase after Him, I'm there, right close to his heels.
This must be what it feels like to be both incredibly human and sinful, and have a Spirit of the living God breathing and living inside of you.
"...but the son of man has nowhere to lay his head."
Following Jesus...it's beyond painful. It is to welcome discomfort and sorrow into your life, and to not have a a place that is home. And yet, it is beautiful and full. He loves us that much to not let us back out or choose otherwise. He is a chasing, pursuing, and forever beckoning God that jealously holds us tight against him. He doesn't leave me to myself or abandon me in my struggles with my flesh. I am not alone. And He proves that to me over and over. He is here. Before me, beside me, within me. He unravels the ground beneath my feet to lead me toward Him, towards home.
And so I look at the sorrow and sacrifices in my hands, and toss them to the wind. And I start running, running to the Lord of all that I am, and ever hope to be like.
I was home. With 19 children that hold shackles to my heart. Home in Chrislove and Wood falling fast asleep against my chest, home in the constant buzzing of Creole and no hints of my first language to be heard. Home in being surrounded by little people, and with the distant kompa music as night falls. Home in leaning against Richard, in tickling Micheline, and in being tangled in a mess of tiny limbs and brown eyes every hour of the day.Joy nestled itself against the walls of my chest and threatened to unleash my heart from its place.
But then the night wore on, and on, and the conditions threatened to make me miserable. The rancid smell of urine coated the beds, their clothes, and the entire house. Utter filth covered my entire body and I couldn't distinguish between what was dirt, or sweat, or mosquito bites. Mosquitos screeched next to my head, but most of all, it was HOT. With ten bodies in a little unventilated, equator-weathered room...I laid there with my body soaking with sweat and my skin feeling as if it were being burnt by the sun itself.
I must have laid there for hours. But for hours full of a longing and parched soul, talking with Jesus in my sweat-drenched sheets. He was with me in the way I so wish I could form into words. I was home in the truest meanings of such a word. I had returned to a place of communion with Jesus that was intimate, sacred, and full of desperate neediness for Him. I had returned home, where I look a whole lot less like me, and much more like the one who is able to form such places inside of me.
"Foxes have dens, birds of the air have nests, but the son of man has nowhere to lay his head." Matthew 8:20
This scribe came up to Jesus and said, "Teacher, I'll follow you wherever you go." And yet, this is how Jesus responded to him. I say this to Jesus all of the time, and just as he knew, this is what I constantly find myself wrestling through.
Home is something I find myself thinking of quite often, maybe because I have been transitioning almost nomadically over the past three years, or maybe because I can't really call any place "home." When I lived at the orphanage, I began to understand, to intimately know, what it means for Jesus to make a home inside of you, and for that home to be the truest meaning of such a word. But now that I'm not living at the orphanage anymore, I'm learning how to reach that place again, even when I don't feel desperate and needy and lonely. So far, my experience in Haiti this time is drastically different from when I was living at the orphanage. I am seeing new parts of Haiti, am on the go constantly, and am experiencing new things every day. It's strange to be living with people who know my own language and culture. It's even stranger to not be waking up every morning to nineteen kids calling my name. Strange isn't the right word for that, it's hard.
It's hard to be so close to them, and yet unable to see them every day, but thankfully, I am able to spend more time with them than I had anticipated coming down, thanks to Jesus making the way.
I'm learning and seeing so much, that I'm finding it almost hard to process and retain everything. From learning basic everyday life skills, to different legal processes, to experiencing riots in the streets against the capital. So many of my questions are being answered, and yet, so many more questioning are just beginning to form.
But I am eager and excited, as I consider what possibilities may lie ahead for the kids, and as Jesus whispers more and more about what He may have planned for me to do here.
It was overwhelmingly hard for me to leave the states this time. The month leading up to my return to Haiti, I felt the weight of what I was actually preparing myself to do- of what it meant to give up my entire world, of realizing the extent of what kind of sacrifices I would be making in my future. To leave my family, my friends, and my community. To be ushered into a life with so many unknowns- void of a culture I was born into, a language I was filled with, and people that I dearly, dearly love.
"I bet you're so excited!"
Over and over I would hear those words, but little did everyone know, that a deep warfare was upon my soul, where my flesh and deep wanting for Jesus collided. I was excited, but more so, my being was heavy with mourning all that I would be sacrificing.
This rich young man runs up to Jesus and kneels before him, as I did, and seeks life, seeks life in fullness that lasts forever, and longs to know how to follow him more deeply.
"And Jesus, looking at him, loved him, and said to him, "You lack one thing, go, sell all that you have and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; and come, follow me."
But the man walked away in sorrow and made the choice to keep what he had.
I was excited, so excited as I looked into Jesus' eyes, and as he opened his hands and beckoned me forward, invited me to renounce what I had, so that He could give me what I really wanted and asked for, which was to know him more deeply.
But I felt it. I felt all that He was asking, all that He really meant.
I guess I had thought people, were the one thing Jesus would never ask me to give up for him. Because Jesus is about people, and community, and a kingdom.
But he did. He looked at me and loved me, and asked me to give up the one thing that would actually produce real sorrow and turmoil in my heart.
I felt the sorrow of that rich man, but the rich man did something I could not, he walked away. Instead, I carried all of my grief, fell hard on the feet of Jesus, and my king somehow put me on that plane.
This is where I am supposed to be. That is the overwhelming truth in my heart. I am filled with excitement, readiness, and relief. Relief of feeling it all again- of a place so sweet, of knowing that I am exactly where Jesus has asked me to be, and that as much as I stumble and clumsily chase after Him, I'm there, right close to his heels.
I have never been more scared, baffled, and hopeful in my entire life.
He's doing it again, healing my human heart. The past nine months have been full of beatings as He overthrows my heart and tethers more of his ravaging love and inhuman being to my lowly body.
I am both feeble and strong. Torn by my mourning and ignited by my hope. Scared of just what He is asking of me, and so longing to surrender everything at but a word. I feel both small and unlikely, and yet emboldened and competent.
"...but the son of man has nowhere to lay his head."
Following Jesus...it's beyond painful. It is to welcome discomfort and sorrow into your life, and to not have a a place that is home. And yet, it is beautiful and full. He loves us that much to not let us back out or choose otherwise. He is a chasing, pursuing, and forever beckoning God that jealously holds us tight against him. He doesn't leave me to myself or abandon me in my struggles with my flesh. I am not alone. And He proves that to me over and over. He is here. Before me, beside me, within me. He unravels the ground beneath my feet to lead me toward Him, towards home.
And so I look at the sorrow and sacrifices in my hands, and toss them to the wind. And I start running, running to the Lord of all that I am, and ever hope to be like.