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."
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."
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