Brains and Boxes

Nine years ago, I sat on a dark rooftop with an uncertain and frustrated team. Frustrated by the four walls that seemed to be hemming them in, with having to stay still and contained. Uncertain of the rules about movement: where could they and couldn't they go that was helpful or safe or even allowed?

Uncertain what to do with the physical reminders of a country that had been changed by things outside of its control. Uncertain what the immediate future looked like, let alone the future future. Frustrated by confusion from the ones who were "supposed" to be in charge and by an ever fluid stream of information.

Frustrated by words that they used to know being combined in new ways that they only half understood. Frustrated with too much time spent in too close quarters and with things that weren't going according to their plans.

Frustrated by new rules and expectations -- and by not being sure of where to find more toilet paper if they needed it. Inundated by information about hand washing and hand sanitizer and new tricks to keep germs at bay.

Uncertain what to do with this unfamiliar sickness that hovered on the edge of everything. What should they be worried about? Should they even be worried? How worried?

Frustrated with themselves and each other for overreacting, under-reacting, ignoring the rules, or bring too strict.

Frustrated with adults who didn't seem to see them, didn't seem to see the ways that they were trying or triumphing or struggling. Staying up too late working to make sense of all of it and waking up too early for another long day of not knowing.

Uncertain what to do with emotions and reactions that seemed to rear up suddenly and without their consent. Frustrated to find even familiar feelings so much stronger or weaker than they should have been.

Tired of pretending like all of this chaos and unfamiliar was okay. Tired of pretending like they were okay. Cut off from many of their normal coping skills. Missing their people. Dropped suddenly into a world that seemed to be putting no effort into matching their expectations.

Stay inside. Listen to your leaders. Don't be a jerk to other humans.

We sat there, under a bright blanket of stars, and watched as clouds rolled towards the Dominican. And, we stumbled towards the phrase that would become so familiar to late Haiti nights, would become such an instinctive part of these high school teams.

"I love you guys, and I'm proud of you. Nothing about this is simple. What you're doing is really, really hard."

We sat on warm, rough concrete, and, we talked about brains. The last argument was about wearing shoes, but we chose instead to talk about brains. We chose to hold space. We chose to let it be hard.

And, the more that we talked, the more that they melted, bits of the tension and frustration and shame slipping off of their fifteen and sixteen year old shoulders. It didn't make it better, but it helped it to make sense.

Human brains, we discussed, are wildly effective sorters and boxers. We love neatly labeled categories and organization systems that make sense to our own internal world. New things are okay. New things get their own box or get examined until we decide that they fit into a familiar space after all.

But, too many new things, and the entire system can start to seem like it's falling apart. Brains don't like it when the system doesn't work. But, brains are also not particularly good at instant response.

The sorting (and all sorts of other things) might come to a screeching halt as we run around looking for a sharpie and a stack of empty boxes.

We might ignore the new things and tuck them up onto a high shelf somewhere, out of sight and out of mind -- until the shelf gets bumped (by something as simple as an adult asking you to put on a pair of shoes), and they all come tumbling back down on our heads.

We might scream and shove and force the new things into old boxes, and then find ourselves with arms full of old "stuff" that has been displaced by the New.

It's a mess. It feels like a mess. And, even if we keep the garage door shut, so that no one else can see the ways that we are struggling, the New is still there.

---

It has been nine years since that particular group of kids sat in that particular circle, but it feels like the conversation still applies. The last few weeks and months, there has been a lot of New.

There are things that you were hoping for, planning for, dreaming of, that suddenly aren't. Things that you never expected suddenly are.

Some of us have frozen. Some of us are ignoring it and then yelling in frustration at whoever came in and bumped the shelf. Some of us have found ourselves fighting old battles on top of these new ones. Some of us are carefully (or not so carefully) pulling out the boxes that we labeled during the last "thing," and realizing that not all of the New is as new as it might appear.

Even without social distancing, you are scattered too far for me to ever gather you onto a single roof. Some of you are in middle school or high school. Some of you are adults, doing your thing out in the world. Some of you are going to work. Some of you are staying home.

Wherever you are, and whatever you are doing today,

"I love you. I'm proud of you. What you're doing is really, really hard."

When nothing seems to be happening the way that it should...

When you can't conjure up how it felt to be that brave, bold little middle schooler who stood in a dark field and let themselves be knighted...

When it doesn't seem to matter how many times you've sat under those same stars and heard Jessica say those same words...

When the waiting is making you want to climb the walls...

When you're frozen or yelling or fighting...

When you don't remember how it was that you sank, defeated, to a Portland sidewalk and then stood back up, together, determined to try again...

When the New is overwhelming, and you are standing waist deep in the mess of your garage...

Pull out your mental sharpie, and let's label this first box together. Big, bold letters, so that you can see it from across the room.

"I love you. I'm proud of you. What you're doing is really, really hard."

Transition

Our second graders get to try their hands at making a mandala under the mango tree, and, like children everywhere, they run off without question, already certain of where to find the brightest flowers and the greenest leaves, even in the midst of this cool, dry season.

Some of them kick their shoes off to run through the short grass, while others collect fistfuls of just the right sized rocks, bringing them to the art teacher with far more care than what they use to keep track of pencils and notebooks.

Kids are kids are kids, some days focused in like laser beams and some days wiggly and talkative and doing their unintentional best to drive their teachers up the wall.

Two of the first graders act up just enough to get themselves sent out of class and then run down the road to buy cookies and toys that are quickly confiscated when they return. Because, they are eight years old, and, without the popsicle lady at her normal place by the gate, the money is burning holes in their pockets.

The third graders are reading through books faster than we can get our hands on them and they laughingly race to beat the American on their geography quiz, not the least bit flustered when we borrow their teacher to talk through the technology (three Am*zon Fire tablets for the school) that we are slowly adding into the classrooms.

And, we're all very human and all very messy, and the teachers are gracious enough to wait a few extra days for their supplies when the airline neglects to put my bags onto the same flight as my person -- because both of our governments are in a bit of a quagmire over how, exactly money should be spent.

It's a quick trip, just long enough to join in on the filling out of report cards and the giving out of a hundred hugs and share bites of a dozen popsicles. Just long enough to wrestle with contact paper on the kitchen floor and put up new blackboard paper over the middle bit that is too slippery to really be used. To sit with one of our school grandpas while his grandson picks moringa from the tree, and to rest in the shade with some of the staff when the preschoolers leave and the afternoon fades into relative quiet.

Long enough to take part in the gluing and the cutting and the constant scheming of ways to make it better -- because, these rockstar teachers, like rockstar teachers everywhere, are constantly full of ideas to make it better. Long enough to share cinnamon tea or hot chocolate with a dozen kids at once and for my water bottle to be used as a communal cup. 

Long enough for all of the jokes about how, exactly, the four year old is getting back to the States with me. And, long enough to watch him change his mind when he hears that, in the United States, we have ice on the ground!

Long enough to be very certain that, as much as I love these people, these kids, this school -- and as nice as it is to be warm for a few days -- my season here is finished.

There are other hands and minds and hearts that are better suited to this part of the task, other adults who are ready to take this school and continue to mold it into the best that it can be. Teachers and a director who have the power to take this so much farther than I ever could. This is their time.

This is a season where I focus instead on a crew of equally incredible kids in the States. Kids who find beauty in unexpected places. Kids who are some days laser focused and some days drive their teachers up the wall. Kids who read and study and play and laugh and sing. Kids who are preparing for and in the midst of trips and transitions of their own.

And, y'all, I am just as excited for that adventure as I was for this one.

Renew

Mid January, I get to spend the weekend hanging out in the snow with some of my favorite humans.

Or, more accurately, I get to spend the weekend hanging out near the fire with some of my favorite humans, while occasionally venturing out into the cold -- because, Winter and Snow and No-Longer-Living-in-the-Tropics and Jessica-is-a-Wimp.

But, God is gracious and these high schoolers are gracious, and, even from my semi permanent spot by the fire, I got to be consistently blown away by the way that these kids Love.

No longer the tinies who ran around climbing trees and jumping into recycling bins during Sunday School or the middle schoolers who we drug out of their cabins for a sleep fogged knighting ceremony, they have held onto that fierce, gentle love that has always driven them and surrounded them.

It has been molded and changed by time, by shifting realities, by the individual battles that they fight in their own hearts and heads, but these kids love each other uniquely and they love each other well. There are stories that I have missed in the past year and a half, victories and hurts that I am only beginning to make sense of. And, yet, when we are conscious enough to let it -- when I am conscious enough to let it -- their gentleness spills over onto us old people as well.

When we are fiercely protective, when we hold careful space, when we chase after God and let God chase after us, it is enough.

Enough to spend an hour in silence and solitude, followed by a half eaten lunch...and then a forty-five minute snowball fight that leaves them dripping and breathless just in time for chapel. Enough to sit quietly on the couches and talk about the future or the past or what it is that is happening right now, this weekend, this moment.

Enough to spend what totals up to a couple of hours in corporate prayer and a few additional hours of private time with Jesus, rather than going for stage theatrics or noisy, messy, destructive types of games. Not because those things are bad, but, because, this year, we might just need a quieter, gentler sort of space to heal.

A space where the kids can tell us when they are going to opt out of a moment or an activity that makes them uncomfortable, and where games of screaming ninja and fooseball can still send shrieks echoing through the space that we occupy. Where dance parties and odd traditions and the watching of The Little Mermaid mingle with watching the stars and taking goofy pictures around the fire pit. Where we curl close together to pray and they flop over the tops of each other on the couches.

Where we ground each other in stories, and where God is present. Maybe not always in the spectacular kinds of ways that we like to ask for, but present, nonetheless. Present in just the right kind of snow that is too wet for snowballs but perfect for being dropped over another person in chunks, so that the playing field for their snow battle is leveled, and they come back laughing and uninjured.

Present in arranging vehicles for the ride up and back, and in the quiet space that couches create in the midst of the hubbub of meals. In brilliant stars and in the whir of a kitchen dishwasher. In endless cups of coco and in cabin snacks for kids who skip meals but find themselves still hungry. In quiet, honest conversations, and in The One Who Hears every broken, hopeful word that we pray. Love that wraps around us in the places where we are wounded.

Here we celebrate when they are brave, sometimes with a glance and sometimes by loud applause. Because, in so many more ways than I could count, and in a thousand stories that are not mine to share, these kids are brave. Brave enough to come. Brave enough to keep trying. Brave enough to want to forgive.

For now, these ones aren't endless theology questions or wild energy. Instead, we have kids who scurry off to find paper towels for a spill without being asked; who show up in the kitchen as if it were the most natural place to be. Who watch each other so carefully that I can learn paragraphs simply by following their gaze. We have the ones who shield with church answers but let the truth slip out when they think that we might not be looking. The types of kids who are talking about boot camp one minute and their favorite poets the next.

Freshmen and Seniors who show us what it is to love without condition or expectation. Sophomores who who carry quiet wisdom and a stubborn refusal to be seen as anything but what they are. Juniors who hold our systems and our traditions, curate them for us so that we have proof, proof that we were here when God showed up.

Fiercely protective, holding careful space, chasing after God and letting God chase after us.

In some wild, messy, beautiful way, while we were all sleep deprived and tumbling all over each other like a pack of lion cubs let loose in a park, something Holy washed over our weekend with a gentle, subtle sort of Grace.

And, like all things Holy, it might not have been easy, but it was Good.

Week One... and Following

The first week of school brings crying three year olds -- because starting preschool is rough, y'all -- but also little people carefully tracing letters into sand trays and wearing the number one on a string around their necks. It brings rainbow colored scarves and watercolor projects that we hang up in the classroom, a dozen stories already read and a 2nd grader who writes that the best thing about flying would be being able to reach all of the mangos.

The PE teacher is teaching them to juggle and jog and toe off their shoes to join him on the mats when it is time to follow a video. The art teacher builds mandalas on the ground and laughs at the three year olds with their armfuls of rocks because, "They are having so much fun!"

Science, History, French, Reading, Writing, and Math fill the rest of the day for the 1st-3rd graders, and they are beginning to be better than I am at knowing what comes next.

Our new ones -- and there are a lot of new ones, 30+ of them -- settle in quickly, and the third graders are all giggles when they get to try their hand at Reader's Theater with a beloved teacher.

It's been two weeks, and, already, our amazing staff have largely worked me out of a job. I help find lost things, occasionally help shell eggs for morning snack, and give out lots and lots of hugs (#dreamlife). The rest, they've got covered.

In fact, they've got it so covered that, on November 30th, I will be bowing out.

I'll take the next six weeks to organize the remnants of summer messes, to train an intern who will keep the papers straight while I am gone, to give out all of the hugs, to walk little people home whenever they ask, and to let the four year old fall asleep on me after school when he simply wants to be held.

And, then, I will be moving back to the States to give everyone the space to fly on their own.

Because, oh my goodness, are they so very, very ready.

The plan is to visit a few times (potentially in January, April, and June) to check in and make sure that the teachers still have everything that they need to be awesome, and, in between time, to jump back in to life in the Tri-Cities.

Which is crazy and exciting and a little bit more crazy, as I begin to look into apartments and super flexible jobs, but also a testament to the volunteer labor of dozens of volunteers; the amazing support that has been given by friends and family in the States; the many, many hours of prayer and years of work that went into this school before I ever showed up; and the teachers who prepare day after day to pour into the "hardest working kids in all of Haiti."

One thousand and ten percent surrounded by rock stars, and excited to see what this next season holds for all of us.

In the meantime, I'll be filing papers, giving out hugs and buying a plane ticket!

Year End

 

Some things are the same across cultures, the slowness of the last few days of school, the careful tracking of who is or isn't already done, the stress of finals, and the disorienting excitement of finally making it to summer break – even amongst the ones who are too little to know what we mean by the phrase. 

 We finish off the school year with face paint and pictures in front of wings that they worked together to color. With eggs before the ceremony starts and cookies and pop after, and with thank you's for the teachers and staff. 

 Parents pack onto the school bus with us, and the kids dress in their favorite, cleanest, brightest non-uniform clothes for the occasion, so that we are a riot of color lined up in desks under the mango tree.  

Every kid gets a colorful pencil, an eraser, a sharpener, and two lollipops in a blue and white striped plastic baggie. The little ones get their report cards in folders that their teachers have spent hours coloring and decorating, and a few of the oldest ones are gifted with a beautiful new Jesus Storybook Bible. 

The teachers pin up balloons and streamers in the lower classroom, and a large speaker follows us off of the bus. Because, nothing is a party if there isn't music. 

 "I am the hardest working kid in all of Haiti!" 

They say it a dozen times just on this final morning alone, as we're trying to cement it into their minds before we hand out report cards, just how proud we are of them. Proud of the days that they came to school tired or hungry or worried about something that had happened at home. Proud of the days that they had a bad moment but they made it work anyways. 

Proud of the good days when they were certain of all of the right answers and proud of the days when they took a deep breath and tried again. 

All of them had half a year to try to jump 1-2 grade levels, after almost a full year away. 80% of them pulled it off. 

Let me say that again: 80% of our kids came in behind and still passed their grade in the space between January and June. 

In case you were wondering, that is pretty stinking impressive. We don't tell these kids that they are hard workers just to make them feel better! 

Grade levels aren't tied so much to birthdates here, and kids aren't pushed ahead simply because the rest of their class is moving up. You either pass or you don't, and, if you don't, you try again. 

Our 20% will meld with the kids who were a class below them, they'll take a deep breath, and they'll try again. And, they still will be the hardest working kids in all of Haiti. 

We'll spread out the curriculum, slow it down and insert all of the pieces that we didn't have time for in this year's breakneck schedule. We'll switch up who is teaching what classes and take the time for trainings and workshops that we weren't able to before. 

We'll work our tails off this summer to get it all ready, and we'll start back in the fall, not at a perfect school, but at one that is as good as we can make it. 

One where we continue to give out hugs and bandaids. One where kids come knowing that they will be fed. One where visitors remark on the calm and the peace and the good manners of our children, not because they have been threatened or cajoled into submission, but simply because these kids like it here. Because they feel safe. Because they feel loved. 

Because they are super smart and super kind and good listeners and the hardest working kids in all of Haiti. 

Because, we like good grades, but we celebrate progress. 

Good job, kids. Here's to a hot, sweaty summer of making things happen.

Neptune

"Madam Natacha, how far was Neptune?" 

 Our teachers' meeting starts with the same teasing question that has been asked a dozen times today, because this staff knows that you don't waste a good tease by only using it once. 

 Neptune was far. Out the gate and down the road and around the corner. Carefully counted out with three different classes of children. Three steps between the sun and Mercurcy. Six between Mercury and Venus. Two hundred sixty-nine between Uranus and Neptune. And, for once, we are glad that Pluto is no longer a planet. 

 As they go, they mark each spot with flat orange cones, balancing a rock on top from the planets set that our last set of World Racers painted for us. Counting slowly, carefully, heel to toe, heel to toe, the kindergarten boys running circles around their group and falling to the ground to wrestle somewhere near Mars. 

 We've done coloring pages and watched awesome videos put out by the European Space Agency, spent two weeks talking about stars and planets and convincing them that there is so much more to the story than simply, "God made them." Let's discover together how very incredible this universe is. 

The day that Natacha marks out the solar system with them, we spend our staff meeting talking about planets and orbits and rotations and seasons. How do you get from Earth to Mars? Why are days and years different on different planets? Did you know that they found a planet made of X? Notebooks become planets on the floor, because we have teachers who genuinely love to learn and to discover and to share. 

 And, everyone know how far Neptune is. 

 Because, ya know, why not get super excited about things? Why not trust the five year olds with oil pastels and let the art teacher give watercolors to the three year olds, even though we don't have paint smocks yet? Why not read stories and more stories and more stories? 

 Why not take the time to be gentle with kids who are at an age where so few things are gentle? 

 The 2nd graders start their Mondays with paints and brushes and then move to the other side of the wall to cluster up into tight huddles and take turns reading stories out loud. History means sitting on the cool floor of our largest classroom, and, if they are lucky, being read another story. 

 Recess. Lunch, where yet another teacher reads yet another story. Writing, sprawled out on their stomachs, brand new notebooks in hand. Math with ten students and half as many teachers. French and the hope for a few minutes to play soccer or frisbee before the bus comes. 

 The youngest of this class is eleven. The oldest sixteen. Outside of these walls, they are fully aware of the complications of the world. Inside, even the boys can join in on competitive hopscotch games with their classmates and their teachers. 

 Here, they are kids. 

Sometimes sassy, feisty, impulsive kids. Sometimes super responsible ones. 

 Here, they are artists and readers, jokesters and math magicians. Here, they sometimes have grumpy teachers and sometimes are grumpy themselves. Here, they occasionally have to be reminded that it isn't worth it to fight the nine year old girl. Here, they occasionally have to be reminded that it isn't worth it to fight each other. 

 Here, we circle up each morning to remind each other that we are good listeners, that we are kind, that we are intelligent, and that we are the hardest workers in all of Haiti. 

 And, here, we know that, if the sun were the size of this rock, Neptune would be down the road and around the corner.

Finding our Rhythm

 

We're falling into rhythms at school, things slowly settling out, week by wild week.

Every week, the teachers carry more of the weight, and, every week, the kids are a little more at ease. They laugh and tease and tell me what I am going to say before I even get a chance to say it.

"You are smart."

"You are kind."

"You are a good listener."

"You are one of the hardest working kids in all of Haiti."

"Yes, you can play with the ball."

"Ask your teacher."

"I love you."

"Use your manners."

"Go to class."

Because, just like any other group of kids and teachers, we have good days and bad days, quiet moments and rowdy ones, times when we're the cutest thing on the planet and times when the cutest thing on the planet is flipping off the other kids from his perch on your hip.

"Do you know that I love you?" 

The twelve year old has his arms wrapped around my middle, and, when I tip his chin up to ask the question, he breaks out into a grin, "Wi, I know."

"Good!" 

We're actually looking for something for one of the teachers, a lost bean bag or a handful of pencils, and there are a half dozen little ones on our tail, because, of course, there always are.

"Carry me. Carry me."

It's almost always said softly, sometimes as a pouty lipped command. Six year olds, seven year olds, eight year olds. Kids who are "too big" to be held but clamber up anyways and bury their face in the crook of my neck while I squeeze them gently around the ribs.

Kinders who go on walks around the compound with the co-director, their little fingers hooked in his pockets like a huddle of baby chicks.

First graders who grin and run to their teacher every morning and, sometimes, if they are lucky, get hoisted up onto a shoulder.

Second graders who start each morning with art or science and who watch carefully as a fifteen year old boy draws an intricate flower.

A sixteen year old girl who races the boys through their work so that she can get to the soccer ball first.

A pair of brothers who bring their homework back completed for the very first time all year.

A little girl whose teachers thought that she couldn't learn, but who is rapidly proving everyone wrong.

Middle school aged boys who help me to pass out the lollipops and pencils that come with Friday's homework, because, they've been watching for weeks, and they know how this works. And, because, they are certain now, that they can read well enough to recognize these names.

And, of course, all of the opposites, because we are very, very human, and, sometimes, the fiery grit that allows a little girl living in a restavek situation to have some of the top marks in her class spills over into fights on the playground.

Sometimes the boy with the quick, funny tongue and feisty spirit unthinkingly spits out other people's hurtful, private truths, while carefully guarding his own.

Sometimes we are chests puffed out or rocks picked up to fight. Sometimes we are sassy to our teachers or insistent on climbing shelves just to test if we can get away with it.

Sometimes we run when we don't want to obey and sometimes we throw our little selves, kicking and screaming on the ground.

Sometimes the grown ups yell, and sometimes a teacher puts themselves in timeout with some worship music. Sometimes children are left in timeouts of their own for far longer than intended, and, sometimes, the big people speak truths that would have been better not said out loud.

Sometimes we give out stickers simply because it is harder to be grumpy at a child when there is a cartoon puppy grinning at you from the middle of their forehead.

And, sometimes, you walk around the corner to find nine year old girls singing worship songs while they sit under a table and sort the box of crayons that has been driving you nuts.

Sometimes we find things that we were certain were lost. Sometimes the kids can spend an entire recess passing my phone without a single whine or argument. And, sometimes, when we take exams, a quiet first grader who looks perpetually distracted dumbfounds even his teacher with everything that he knows.

Teachers jump in and help to spread everything in the sun after the rain has soaked one of our classrooms. They crouch in the dirt beneath the mango tree to count pebbles with kindergarteners and sing and dance for hours with our preschoolers. They have Friday dance parties right before lunch and count down the days until break, just like all teachers do.

The yard mamas make sure that little people wash their hands and their faces and that no one falls into the latrine while it is under construction. They shoo children back to their classes and occasionally stand as silent back up for a frustrated teacher.

Our security guard helps the kindergarteners organize themselves into a soccer game and makes sure that the tiniest people get safely onto the bus.

The cooks shake their heads at me and repeat instructions in slow and careful Creole, making me repeat it back until they are certain that I understand. And, every day, like clockwork, each and every child is fed.

Every day, Jessica's job becomes easier and easier. Greet children. Hug them. Tell each day that they are amazing. Give out bandaids and cups of water. Find the soccer ball. Answer questions. Sit and talk while a little person absently plucks grey hairs out of my head. Ride the bus with kids who sing and play and rock my water bottle like it is a baby.

Go home to correct work, to make art samples, to create packets or laminate worksheets, to prepare the curriculum for as far in advance as we can go.

Eat. Sleep. Repeat.

Because, we're forty-five school days in, and, for all that we're still a half to a full school year "behind," we're nearly a full year ahead of where we started.

Making progress. Moving forwards. Some days crawling, some days flying. Some days little people and teachers alike falling asleep on the cool classroom floors.

"Can I play with your phone?" One of the middle school aged boys finishes his work and settles onto the classroom floor beside me, all of us off kilter and over tired from the time change.

"Not today."

"Can I have a hug?"

"Yes."

"Okay," he drops his head to my shoulder, watching our reflection in the laptop screen and leans closer, pointing out the answers to math problems, working the answers in his head, not on his fingers.

And, you would never know that forty-five days ago, he didn't recognize single digit numbers.

Today they're working on expanded form and learning to carry when they add.

By the end of June, they'll be ready for third grade.

Day upon day. Week upon week. Finding our rhythm.

Growing

The first day of school there are eleven kids.

By our third Wednesday, we have fifty-six, and we've capped all but the second grade class with its age range that stretches from eight to sixteen. 

Fifty six blue t-shirts. Almost seventy eggs cooked each day for students and staff. Seventy-five bowls of fortified rice, so that we always have extra when the bigger kids ask for more.

Sixty six pairs of shoes that slip on and off at each doorway, our floors kept clean enough for little people to sprawl out on, their work spread on mats or clipboards out in front of them. 

Because, of course this the kind of school where we work barefoot or in our socks, where we sit on the floor, where we share Jessica's phone and water bottle, and where, when the teachers ask, we say an emphatic, "Yes!" to staff wearing jeans and polos.

We count marbles to practice subtraction and flip over clip cards to see if we got the answer right. The reading teacher hides alphabet rocks and sandpaper letters in the grass and we use our fingers to trace on laminated cards and makeshift sand trays.

We draw and color and begin to let the big kids experiment with paint.

The tinies build the letter D out of foam pieces and rock it on their shoulder like a baby, and the PE teachers chalk lines in the hard packed dirt under the mango tree to play endless games.

Some days they run around with stickers decorating their arms and foreheads or wear rainbow colored scarves like super hero capes, and, on Fridays, we play musical chairs and have dance parties until the lunch supervisor begins looking pointedly at the clock.

Every day, he reads them a story while they eat, and, every morning, we start by gathering together in a circle to let a child choose a song and lead us in a prayer. Some days they choose a church song. Some days we sing the days of the week. Every day we tell them that Ms. Jessica thinks they are the hardest working kids in all of Haiti, and, three weeks in, they have begun to repeat it with confidence.

"I am one of the hardest working kids in all of Haiti!"

They are rewarded with the occasional lollipop, with stickers, with lavender oil rolled onto the backs of their hands, and, when they turn in their homework, with an overly exaggerated handshake ceremony in front of the whole school.

Because, to get from where we are right now to where we need to be by the end of June...they are going to need to some of the hardest workers in all of Haiti.

We have little ones who always want to finish first, always want to have the right answers, and ones who have never been to school before, still mystified by these squiggly lines and shapes that the big people seem to expect them to know.

Teenies who just turned three a few weeks ago, and fourteen year olds working to get each other up to speed. Math and art teachers who tailor lessons for preschoolers who work on one number all week and sixteen year olds who pick up the concept of subtraction in a single forty minute block.

Mix and matching a dozen different kinds of education and brainstorming each day after school as we search for ways to make it better. Ways to combine Haitian and American strengths, to reach all of our kids, to have fun -- and to keep the flies from overtaking.

Some days, there are an awful lot of preschooler tears, and, some days, the tears come from twelve and thirteen year old boys. Some days, half grown humans find themselves sent for a time out, and, some days, we have a lot of conversations about how they have good hearts and they are so smart and they can use good manners at school.

But, most days, the twelve year old helps me to bring lunch from the kitchen, driving his serving tray like a monster truck and making the cooks laugh when he "beep beep's" his way into the kitchen. Most days we give out dozens of hugs and high fives and exclaim over the kindergarteners' straight, quiet line, and the teachers run at 112% until they melt onto a flat surface for their break.

It isn't perfect, and no one is pretending that we don't still have a long ways to go -- or that I'm not still confused by the slight difference in the words for "pencil," "crayon," and "chalk" -- but it is the start of something good.

Something full of giggles and victories and kids who are slowly learning to ask for help when they don't know. Who are learning that we are more proud of their effort than their perfection. Who grin with pride when they ask for the soccer ball in perfect English.

Messy. Goofy. Active. Testing.

Always growing.

Learning Grace.

Save

Commit Your Way

“Commit your way to the Lord, trust also in Him, and he shall bring it to pass.” 

 There is an underlined note in the center margin of my Bible. In this particular verse, the word for commit could be more literally translated “roll off onto.” 

 Not the careful terms of a well thought out surrender. Not the giving of a gift or the turning over of a tidy folder. 

Absolute, foolish, trust. 

 “Roll off onto the Lord.” 

 Flop out like the eleven year old does when he is having a jealous day, his torso sprawled across my lap, our hands tucked in tightly to his chest, so that there is no chance of having to share. 

 Like the three year old who bounces her feet in the elastic fabric of my skirt, more than pleased to just sit and watch the adults move suitcases. 

The way that you sink into your bed after a long day. 

 Roll off onto the Lord. 

 When life is a rhythm of writing and researching and doing laundry. When we are a hundred different directions at once, and, really, each day becomes a rhythm of its own. 

Absolute, foolish trust. 

 Some days the kids at program make crafts with glitter and glue while three of us sit at the house and work on getting registration ready for school. 

 Some weeks it rains so often that everyone runs out of clean clothes, and some weeks the well is broken so there is no water. And, some days, a visiting team arranges to get the neighbor's generator from the pawn shop, so that we can purchase water from his well instead. 

 Some days are a whirlwind of teams or of people in the house frustrated over this thing or that, and some days are birthday parties and lingering over the Jesus Storybook Bible after advent time. 

 Some days are dance parties in the dining room and soccer in the courtyard, and some days are sitting with my computer or the quiet of the internet cafe. Because, with 30+ people under this roof, things are rarely quiet. 

 Some days American visitors craft thirty different activities to help kids practice counting to ten, or a man from Boise teaches the girls how to ride a bike, a line of little people waiting for these circles around the courtyard. 

Some days the piles grow wild and chaotic, and some days they are cleaned. 

 Some days we have impromptu trainings on TBRI and some days there is team that wants to talk theology and neurology in the back of a tap tap. And, when the conversation somehow winds from PANDAS to the Perseverance of the Saints...of course. Of course, it did. 

 Most days we eat rice or avocados, oatmeal, beans, green vegetables and the younger kids cheer when the power comes back on. The older ones go to school, and the middle set ride out to program to hear Bible stories and play games with their favorite teachers. 

 There are a few weeks without teams or school holidays, and life settles down a little, slows down enough for us to feel the press of time. Because, these weeks are the last time that we have before holiday travel, before January, before school. 

 It is enough, but it feels close. Feels like absolute, foolish trust. 

Commit your way to the LORD. 

 Spread out laminated cards on a classroom bench or under the shade tree and gather data on the kids as they register. Sit for long conversations about cross cultural ministry, about rhythm, about rest. Pile into a rented van for a road trip to get puppies and change clothes in a random stranger's house after the six year old gets carsick all down your front and into your lap. 

 Hold things in an open handed grasp. Wait in the tension of Advent. Already, not yet. Kingdom come, better world coming. Beauty in brokenness. 

 Commit your way to the LORD.

Pray, Then, Like This

The weather is cooling rapidly here. 

 Cool enough that we sleep without fans and wake up cocooned in our sheets. Cool enough to go the day without sweating. Cool enough for the eleven year old to wander around in a sweatshirt on the morning that he stays home sick. 

 It rains often, and someone mentions that we are moving into tarantula season. So long as they stay out of my bed, I can be okay with that. 

 Because, it is also papaya season. Also time for the kids in the house to fall back into the rhythm of school after two weeks of exams and holiday. Time to set aside the sorting and begin to shape the outlines of this curriculum. 

 How fast can we go? Where do we need to start? How much learning can we pack into a hundred odd days of school? Enough to get them ready for the next grade? Enough to do this well?

A visiting team helps me to paint alphabet rocks and counting stones, two high school girls scouring the backyard for the perfect rocks and scrubbing them clean. Odds this color, evens that. Earth tones and brilliant primaries. Making the sorts of beautiful materials that encourage kids' desire to touch, to play, to find the patterns, to learn. 

 And, there are still a hundred miles to go, but it is a glimpse of what I am hoping, what I am dreaming for this school. That it will be a place for little people to play, to learn, to imagine. A place to fill with love and peace and bins and buckets full of books. A place that belongs to the teachers, but more so to the students, because, when you care about a place, you take care of it. 

You learn to be responsible, to belong, to believe that you are loved. 

Because, my prayers for them are so similar to my prayers for my kids in the States. 

That they would know Love. That they would know Peace. That they would know Grace. 

That there would be beauty in the midst of whatever mess might come. That the one who holds the Universe would whisper Truth about their identity, about their strength, about their gifts, would scream it from the rooftops, to combat the lies that try so hard to fill their heads. 

That there would be healing for their hurts and shelter from their fears. That there would be an anchor in the midst of their storms. That there would be peace that passes understanding and a constant reminder that they are loved, that they are valued, that they are important. 

That they would be marked with a prophetic imagination, and that they would believe that they are capable of accomplishing the things set before them. 

That they would fall in love with words and numbers, with science and history and the things that fill our ancient, ever changing world. That their hearts would be captured by the Father of Lights and their spirits would be settled by the One who watches over them like a mother hen. 

The One who Sees, One who Knows, One who Hears, and Remembers, and Acts. The One with more names than we could pretend to grasp. 

That they would know that they are known by the Divine, and that everything else would flow from that knowing. 

Because, kids who feel safe, kids who feel loved, kids who feel at peace? Those are the kids who grasp what is possible. Those are the kids who learn more quickly and retain more. Those are the kids who grow. Those are the kids who find the courage to change their world. 

So, we'll study French and Creole and Art and Maths. We'll read and write and explore. But, when we hire teachers, we'll hire the sorts of adults who Love. 

If you want to pray, pray for those things.

SaveSaveSaveSave

Haraka Haraka Haina Baraka

Settling into a new place is slow, and life flows quickly here, teasing me with the temptation to scramble, to hurry. To forget the many lessons that I have already learned. The things that I have taught, or tried to teach, a half dozen teams of kids. 

 Haraka, haraka, haina baraka. 

(There is no blessing in being rushed – Swahili proverb) 

 Take a deep breath. Slow down. Look back as well as forwards. See the provision. Ask questions. Seek beauty. Hold onto the moments of joy and the moments when transition feels a bit like grief. Because, there is plenty of time for both. 

 Time for the cool of mountain rain to seep through the windows as you work. Time to marvel at tile floors in the house and shops that stock more treasures than you could ever think to use. To rejoice over wifi when it works and unused school supplies jumbled together in tubs that were packed months ago. 

 There is time to unpack these dusty boxes while the kids scatter on the floor to play with alphabet stamps and rubber figures and a viewfinder that keeps them busy for hours. It is enough to download a car racing game on your phone for the boys who always want to borrow it and to stumble your way through teasing conversations. 

 To collect a nine, ten, and eleven year old after church and walk home with the sixteen year old who might just be one of their heroes. Little boy laughter when you are terrible at playing marbles and noisy joy as you run together up the hill to the house. 

 These are familiar patterns. 

 Picking cherries on Sunday afternoon and watching a VBS team devolve into giggles and chase. Walking down quiet, garbage lined streets and the constant sound and movement of market day. Oatmeal for breakfast and cooking over a tiny, two burner stove. 

Games with the toddlers in the courtyard and hours and hours of dreaming and scheming and planning. 

This is new, but this is good. This constant climbing onto motos two or four or five bodies deep. The school bus yard next door that wakes you each morning with a deep rumble. The team that isn't here with HCM but was once at HCM the same time that you were, two or three summers ago. 

Green everywhere you look and tree covered mountains that dip into valleys. Rain and crops that grow and fat cows that laze in fields. Fuzzy colts that refuse to yield the right of way. 

The familiar smell of garbage smoke and neat piles of produce in the market as you duck under too-low tarps. Just different enough from G-town to make your heart ache a little with long forgotten homesickness, for desert sand and herds of shoats meandering down the road. 

And, if, for a moment, there is a lie that says that this place will never be home, you know better than to believe it. Because, tomorrow, things will look different. And, tomorrow, they do. 

Tomorrow, there is a sweet woman who will share her hymn book with you, over exaggerating the words until you can follow along, nudging her daughter she points out the right place in her Bible, the girl falling asleep beside you when the sermon stretches long. There is a neighbor girl to visit on the way home and little boys who jostle and tease for the closest place as we walk. 

There is a conversation to be had in imperfect Creole and new friends who buzz with the stories of a three month YWAM training. A shop to be walked to for the first time without an escort, and a friend to walk part of the way home with anyhow. 

Tomorrow will be Sunday longings for all of the things that were and a hundred different pauses to pray for your kids. You will wish that you could see them, that you could watch the slow but brilliant things that God is doing in their lives, and you will pray a little harder. 

This is Grace. 

It is okay when your heart whispers a little about the things that are missing. When your soul feels like it is fully present in two places at once. There are torn edges in the midst of this Grace. But, the One who Sees universes has never minded the distance when you pray. 

It's been a little over a week. Long enough to begin to see patterns. Short enough to be wrong as often as you are right. And, it is enough to take it one day at a time. Every day a little closer to settled. Every day finding one more thing that you don't yet know. Every day finding one more thing that you do. 

How to get smiles out of sour faced little boys. How to let little girls twist and pull and play with your hair. How to play duck, duck, goose and spin until you are dizzy. How to pray and pray and pray some more. How to trust that there is blessing in holding this space, in taking it slow. 

This is a long obedience in the same direction. It won't be quick. It can't be. It will be messy and exhausting and beautifully Grace drenched. 

And, that will be enough.

Island Time

For the first time in seven years, I land in Port au Prince without checking for any other heads or making sure that anyone else has filled out their customs form.

It is certainly quicker, traveling without a pile of checked bags or a fist full of claim tickets. But, I would be lying if I tried to pretend that leader habits aren't hard to break. The winding up familiar roads and biting back a dozen stories that wouldn't make sense without more context than it's worth.

Because, I'm here with new people, a new organization, visiting a friend in a town that is about forty-five minutes past the beloved and the familiar. And, even when it is messier and more frustrating than I could have anticipated, I am already in love.

In love with sassy little ones in a sun drenched school yard. In love with the early morning mist that curls around these mountains and the sun that sets behind the neighbor's roof.

Focused on watching and learning and seeing. Feeling my tongue trip over a language that sometimes comes easily and sometimes completely slips my brain. Hearing rain pour into water barrels and worship music after a tremor sends everyone scurrying from the house.

There's a school here that I have been invited to get back on its feet. Kids who climb up onto my hips as we spin in the classroom and who grab my hand to pull me into the field for a game of tag.

And, Heaven must know my weak spots, because we spend the week finding all of them.

"Come." "Come." "Come."

But, coming means going, going from a place and a people who carry such a massive part of my heart. Coming means breaking some of the rules of expat life that we have spent so many years carefully teaching our kids. Being here means not being somewhere else. And, I fill page after journal page trying to sort it all out.

Read through dozens of pieces of curriculum. Have sword fights in the courtyard. Practice English under the shade tree and pile onto a moto with tired little boys, rather than into a van with tired teenagers.

There is no one to be reminded to eat or drink or take their malaria meds, no mattresses to be carried, and such a private space that they don't even bother with a bathroom door. But, somehow, there are still bandaids to be handed out and water bottles to be kept track of. There are clapping games to be played and a phone to be shared.

And, then, there is a hurricane maybe coming and a flight to be changed, and a late night to be spent killing a tarantula before we say bedtime prayers.

"Are you coming back?" The spider monkey of an eight year old is perched on my hip, and the twelve year old, who has already asked, answers for me.
"She doesn't know."

"You can ask Jesus." I find myself echoing the same sentiment that I texted a college kid who asked about the same decision. "I don't know yet."

Because, there are a thousand reasons not to be here, some of them logical, a couple hundred of them familiar faces. But, I have already met a hundred reasons to stay.

So, I stand in an overcrowded line to board another plane. Speed through customs and easily catch my next flight before the winds and the rain that are threatening to pelt the coast. Spend the night with a few other people on the airport floor, and land into smoke so thick that you can barely see past the edge of the tarmac.

Back "home." Back with these little ones who are as simple as breathing and as complicated as open heart surgery. Back to similar questions and, for now, an echo of the same answer.

"I don't know yet."

Holy

When you are only home for a few days before you take off again, sometimes you let the kids invite whoever happens to be standing closest to join you all for lunch.

Crowd eighteen humans into a tiny living room and pile plates high with chips, and cookies, and the pulled pork sandwiches that someone's dad woke up early to make. 

And, sometimes it takes a far longer than it should to get from the youth room to the parking lot. But, sometimes you make up for it by piling kids into vehicles for the world's most cautious neighborhood half mile. Because, Bethel leaders are just a little protective of our kids.

Climb the giant retaining wall that is the backyard. Eat popsicles in the dining room. Pretend, for a moment, that school doesn't start this week.

Spend time. Talk about Haiti in between trips back to the kitchen to refill plates. Play on phones. Take a few pictures. Let the eighth grade boy lament how much harder it has gotten, in the last few weeks, to simply feel full. Because, it's summer time, and he is growing like a weed.

Taller, I am certain, than he was at camp, when we were first introducing these sixth graders to the wildly Grace filled mess that is this hodge-podge of a church family.

These kids who carry each other in their eyes and their hearts, who barely bother to learn names before pulling people into the circle. These ones who should be split by grade, by gender, but aren't. The seventh graders who boldly shape the world to their liking. The eighth graders who pounce each other with ecstatic hugs. Sixth graders who shrug their shoulders and go along for the ride. High schoolers who toe the line between leader and student.

Tonight, a few of them will cram into a DQ booth and tell me stories about the the Haiti trip.

Tonight, they'll shoo each other out of the church parking lot and carve out every last moment that they can before the last of the seniors leave for college. Tonight, they'll continue to navigate the temporary dramas that test and define their loyalties. Tonight, they'll be wildly human and wildly caught up in the Divine, and it will make all of our heads spin with the mess and beauty of it.

We'll spend our morning talking about Jesus with little ones, and our afternoon with noisy, hurting. courageous kids who fill up and hold space in an absolutely dizzying dance.

And, it will be good.

Because, this is Church and this is Family, and, whether we're playing "Headbands" with 1st graders or mixing up pitchers of cool aid in the kitchen, there is Holy in the midst of all of it.

Holy in the dishes being stacked into the dishwasher and the quiet lulls in conversation where kids catch each other's eyes or someone flops down close. Holy in freshmen who are still figuring out their place in this high school world and in college kids who are caught up in the new and the adventure.

Holy in our hurt and our confidence. Holy in hugs and hip bumps and giant bowls full of watermelon.

Holy in words and in silence.

Holy in little ones who talk a mile a minute and pull us along as we run through the grass. And, Holy in not-so-littles who have a hundred stories to tell, stories of second homes, of late nights and early mornings, of Joy and of Grace that carried them through.

And, it isn't a finish of anything. Isn't even a start. But, it is a middle. A thin place, where Eternity cracks through.

It is food and it is laughter, and it is sometimes looks that speak what we couldn't say in a thousand words.

It is Sunday, and we are ridiculous. And, it is good.

Road Trip

When you have a month of, largely, uncommitted time during the summer for the first time since you were old enough to drive, you rent a minivan and spend that month fan girling over rocks.

And, when your siblings find themselves with a similar, "in between houses," sort of a freedom, you make plans to pick up the whole crew, because your parents raised the sort of family that would rather pay for a little bit of gas (and pee in a lot of bushes) than pay a whole lot more in temporary rent.

From Washington through San Fransisco, I am on my own, winding along the coast and through redwoods, along with a loose collection of sprinter vans and RVs. We leapfrog one another at countless viewpoints and the occasional excellent nap spot, dot the side of the 1 and the 101 as we pull over for the night, and clamber over the same railings, eighteen years old or eighty, when the world is just too beautiful not to take a picture.

Hijabi college students and families full of gangly teenagers crawl over the same log jams and wade up the same emerald green canyons, and, when the trail is unmarked and winding, you simply ask questions of whomever happens to be coming the other way.

Glass beaches and ancient trees that have lived so long I am halfway certain that they can talk. And, eventually, San Francisco and the first of my sisters.

We wind our way through Yosemite, taking a few days to figure out how to best avoid the Disneyland style crowds, finding the best views of giant rocks, chasing sunsets, and leaving our stuff unwatched for longer than is probably wise when we decide that star gazing is more important than sleeping bags.

Eat spring rolls in the tent in Big Sur, and make all of the obligatory sound effects in the Death Valley canyons where parts of "A New Hope" were filmed. And, perhaps, lock ourselves out of the car at Dante's Viewpoint.

Because, this is #vanlife in reality, with all of the hand washing of laundry and constant hunt for toilets and drinking water that goes with it. And, if you are going to be stuck for a few hours, the prettiest viewpoint in Death Valley isn't a shabby place to watch the sun set.

We spend a day living in hammocks on Big Bear Lake and enjoying the fact that the only thing here interested in eating, biting, or stinging us or our food is the tiny chipmunk sniffing for leftovers. Head closer in to LA for a relative's house, take the second "real" showers since the Tri-Cities, and get ready for the other three to join us.

Laundry, a little grocery shopping, and cleaning the van of its accumulated layers of sweat and stink -- on the inside, at least.

Once we have them, it's a race to fit as much exploring into as few calendar days as we possibly can, jumping back into the National Parks loop and the constant stream of foreign languages that goes with it.

Joshua Tree, with its bizarre rock piles that are half movie set and half giant playground. Zion's brilliant red rocks and spectacular views from the top of Angel's landing. A campsite on the North Rim of the Grand Canyon and a hike just down to the Kaibab Tunnel that has us jogging on the way down and huffing and puffing our way back up in order to beat the rain and the sunset.

Bryce's crazy hoodoos and gentle hikes simply for the sake of hiking somewhere that isn't instagram famous. Capitol Reef, because, who knew there was a national park with free apples, and gorgeous slot canyons, and rainbow colored rocks?

And, because, our previous two attempts at slot canyons had led to pushing another family's minivan out of the sand and full on swimming through Zebra, so we needed another shot at twisting rock and crazy golden light. 

(Definitely do swim through a flooded slot canyon if you ever get the chance. Not everything has to be instagram pretty to be a good adventure.)

Goblin Valley for showers and sketchy hammock situations and a pint sized, Mario Cart style playground that still managed to keep us busy for a few hours climbing around on hardened mud blobs that were older than much of human history.

Arches, with it's honey combed trails and confidence that you will find your way in the right direction along these massive slabs of rock.

The Bonneville Salt Flats and a slightly frantic hunt for eclipse glasses when we realize that we are a few hours drive from totality.

The Grand Tetons for not nearly long enough, as our collective desire to not do anything outweighs the desire to cram in another couple of hikes. We are tired, and the lakes are gorgeous, and simply sitting by as many of them as possible becomes the objective for the day.

Because, if we can sit on warm rocks by cool water, while fan girling over massive chunks of stone that are jutting straight into the sky...we are pretty happy.

An eclipse and Yellowstone and a car wash that only begins to touch the caked on mud that covers the rental, and we are home.

Uncounted miles, plenty of Hamilton, and more talking about rocks and landscapes than we might have thought was possible. Van life is waking up to breakfast on the coast and falling asleep to brilliant stars. And, van life is five adults sleeping in a mini van when the weather conspires against us.

It is occasionally sleeping in Walmart parking lots, and often regretting our decision to leave the dishes until the next morning. It is a whole lot of mornings of bad instant coffee, and loosing all sense of where is a normal spot to pull out the camp stove.

Van life is a storm that breaks our tent poles and reinforcing them with sticks until we give in and buy a new one. It is free campsites and incredible views and beings absurdly grateful for phones that carry maps of everything that we could possibly need.

It is falling into patterns of setting up and breaking down camp and of silly things, like buying ice and filling water jugs and how far they are willing to drive for good coffee. When you start to make a habit of finishing the day with a "quick" four to five mile hike, and when anything past sunset begins to feel like the middle of the night.

Because, when MacFarlans say that we are going to road trip, we actually mean that we are going to spend a month camping on BLM land and national forests, hiking until we wear holes in our socks, and climbing up onto everything that gravity and our own coordination will allow.

Because, why wouldn't we?

SaveSave