Haiti comes just before the school year, just before summer ends. Breaking up three months into these discrete chunks.
Royal Family. SOLD. Middle school camp. Sister's wedding. Haiti. School.
And, I've poured out hundreds of words, but, somehow, haven't even begun to scratch the surface of what I intended to say, the beauty and the holiness and the Grace that washed over us like salt waves. The murky cool of wind whipped water on the lake. The crystal warmth of an ocean pulled by a waning moon.
Cleansing. Uplifting. Reflecting and absorbing fractured shards of light.
Because, it wasn't perfect, this thing that we were part of. Mistakes were made. Hearts were hurt. And, healing was invited to make her slow and silent way through our souls.
It was on me, for forgetting that every tomorrow is an "if the Lord wills." For being so certain of my own presence that I failed to set other leaders up for success. For ignoring the prodding checks in my own spirit and moving ahead "as things have always been."
It was on another leader, for allowing stress to overpower Grace.
On the kids, in some strange way, even when every cell in my body wants to insist that it is never on the kids, that it is always, always on the adults. Always on the ones who stepped up and asked them to come with us. Always on the ones who promised to lead.
Their own reactions were on them. But, the situation was on us. And, I found myself scrambling to try to fix it. Reminded by physical distance and intermittent cell service that I will never have the power to make everything right in their worlds. I am not God.
But, I have the power to pray.
And, when we pray, Grace washes over us.
Grace that brings them fresh from the lake, covered in salt brine, flustered and uncertain, but satisfied.
Grace for after dinner hours on the soccer court, the ball scraping along worn concrete until dusk has fallen and sound is the only thing that they are playing by. For long conversations in English and Spanish and Creole. For explaining where my sister is and promising to tell her hello. For Gael's questions and Neal's antics and Roberto laying quietly beside me when he gets tired.
It comes in syncopated waves that take my breath away. Burn my eyes with their salt sting. Cleanse and purify these shallow wounds.
And, slowly, my fickle heart begins to hear the theme that rises from our falseness and our chaos. "Deep and wide and beautiful, but slow and blended with an immeasurable sorrow, from which its beauty chiefly came."
I watch our kids play and coach and take their turns sitting along the sidelines. Watch their hearts melt from more than the sweat that soaks their bodies. Watch injustice take up residence in their eyes as we drive through Pétionville and they see the contrast, not only in houses, but in trees. As they catch a glimpse of Haiti as it might have been. As it could be.
I watch our PIF kids in Fond Cheval practice over and over again to try to learn these American names. Watch them pray and sing and play soccer. Watch their respect and their patience and their gentle service. Watch them pour into these relationships that would be nothing if it was not a two way street.
Deep and wide and beautiful.
A coach with a guitar under the shade of fruit trees, making up silly songs to get a laugh out of four and five year olds. A pastor watching and praying and serving his people well. Clapping games and soccer drills and water bottles shared with half a dozen littles.
But, slow.
Four years in the making. A steady return that is orchestrated by not-us but makes our hearts sing at the very idea. Littles who are less little and smiles from faces that once held suspicion. Quiet conversations in halting Creole.
And, blended with an immeasurable sorrow.
Because, this is our world. Our broken, beautiful, only in one place at a time world. Because, our hearts hurt with the idea of leaving long before we have even arrived. Because, these eleven days will form the framework for our year.
Because, Grace comes like salt waves. And, it burns your nose a little every time you jump in.
Royal Family. SOLD. Middle school camp. Sister's wedding. Haiti. School.
And, I've poured out hundreds of words, but, somehow, haven't even begun to scratch the surface of what I intended to say, the beauty and the holiness and the Grace that washed over us like salt waves. The murky cool of wind whipped water on the lake. The crystal warmth of an ocean pulled by a waning moon.
Cleansing. Uplifting. Reflecting and absorbing fractured shards of light.
Because, it wasn't perfect, this thing that we were part of. Mistakes were made. Hearts were hurt. And, healing was invited to make her slow and silent way through our souls.
It was on me, for forgetting that every tomorrow is an "if the Lord wills." For being so certain of my own presence that I failed to set other leaders up for success. For ignoring the prodding checks in my own spirit and moving ahead "as things have always been."
It was on another leader, for allowing stress to overpower Grace.
On the kids, in some strange way, even when every cell in my body wants to insist that it is never on the kids, that it is always, always on the adults. Always on the ones who stepped up and asked them to come with us. Always on the ones who promised to lead.
Their own reactions were on them. But, the situation was on us. And, I found myself scrambling to try to fix it. Reminded by physical distance and intermittent cell service that I will never have the power to make everything right in their worlds. I am not God.
But, I have the power to pray.
And, when we pray, Grace washes over us.
Grace that brings them fresh from the lake, covered in salt brine, flustered and uncertain, but satisfied.
Grace for after dinner hours on the soccer court, the ball scraping along worn concrete until dusk has fallen and sound is the only thing that they are playing by. For long conversations in English and Spanish and Creole. For explaining where my sister is and promising to tell her hello. For Gael's questions and Neal's antics and Roberto laying quietly beside me when he gets tired.
It comes in syncopated waves that take my breath away. Burn my eyes with their salt sting. Cleanse and purify these shallow wounds.
And, slowly, my fickle heart begins to hear the theme that rises from our falseness and our chaos. "Deep and wide and beautiful, but slow and blended with an immeasurable sorrow, from which its beauty chiefly came."
I watch our kids play and coach and take their turns sitting along the sidelines. Watch their hearts melt from more than the sweat that soaks their bodies. Watch injustice take up residence in their eyes as we drive through Pétionville and they see the contrast, not only in houses, but in trees. As they catch a glimpse of Haiti as it might have been. As it could be.
I watch our PIF kids in Fond Cheval practice over and over again to try to learn these American names. Watch them pray and sing and play soccer. Watch their respect and their patience and their gentle service. Watch them pour into these relationships that would be nothing if it was not a two way street.
Deep and wide and beautiful.
A coach with a guitar under the shade of fruit trees, making up silly songs to get a laugh out of four and five year olds. A pastor watching and praying and serving his people well. Clapping games and soccer drills and water bottles shared with half a dozen littles.
But, slow.
Four years in the making. A steady return that is orchestrated by not-us but makes our hearts sing at the very idea. Littles who are less little and smiles from faces that once held suspicion. Quiet conversations in halting Creole.
And, blended with an immeasurable sorrow.
Because, this is our world. Our broken, beautiful, only in one place at a time world. Because, our hearts hurt with the idea of leaving long before we have even arrived. Because, these eleven days will form the framework for our year.
Because, Grace comes like salt waves. And, it burns your nose a little every time you jump in.
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