Yesterday I sat beside the ocean and reflected on the
sweetness of that hour of peace.
Like most Saturdays, I’d begun the day with time on the roof
to pray and read the Bible. Then it was shower, laundry, sweep and clean. Then
there was breakfast, study, and departure for Creole lesson. For two hours I
had Creole class, then returned to the house, deposed my belongings and
commenced a project. In the mid afternoon we had our meal, then after washing
dishes my housemate A and I set out for the beloved Weslyan center.
This compound owned by the John Weslyan church is large,
boasting an impressive, well-maintained lawn with luscious growth of trees and
floral bushes. There are several buildings and classes which meet outside. But
the grounds are expansive and a quiet welcome sanctuary for students (and
sometimes couples). It’s our sanctuary, too, a place Beverly and I were
introduced to, and started venturing to ourselves to sit in tranquility under
the palm, mango, and almond trees, beside the hibiscus bush, on the stone wall
beloved by lizards, buffeted pleasantly be sea breezes and departing before the
sun disappears over the mountain in its cascade of gold.
Yesterday A and I sat on the concrete ledge (which always
makes Beverly nervous), dangling our feet over the narrow strip of sand between
sea wall and tide. The view is of the mountainous coast, the island of Gonaves,
and a perpetually glittering sea. Delightful breezes usually ruffle the waves and
our hair, and we join our voices in song with the rustling palm fronds and
percussive tide. Sometimes we read Scripture aloud. Sometimes we share our
reflections, tell stories, share insight or seek advice. Sometimes we just sit
and gaze.
Yesterday after we’d sung and read Scripture, we sat and
gazed.
I gazed over the silver-spangled waves and reveled in the
fresh salty breeze in my hair and sunshine on my face.
And I determined to remember that these moments of peace are
all the sweeter because of the usual chaos of our lives.
In the same way, the laughter and silliness are more vibrant
in the tragedy and hardship.
Sleep, showers, and food are all the better, more relished,
refreshing, and savory because of the fatigue, copious sweat, and draining
labor. We eat a limited diet every day, drink water constantly, and shower
without heat. We’re perpetually sticky, and more often than not malodorous. We
wake up scratching mosquito bites from those insidious pervasive insects that
evade screens, walls, deet and citronella. We stand on concrete floors to teach
in rooms without electricity, mats, or proper ventilation. We breathe charcoal
and dust, trod through waste, and use haphazard internet with almost predictable
electricity.
We don’t keep to schedules. We don’t stop.
We are blessed beyond measure.
We serve a God who knows just what we need before we say a
word. He anticipates our every thought and has planned our every reprieve. So
just before we collapse from fatigue, faint from hunger, crumble under the
tragedy—He gives us repose. He gives us those moments of peace.
Peace on the roof at dawn when the rooster has finished
crowing and the moon hovers on the treetops, watching stars abscond in furtive
couples, and the sky herald in the sun with streaks of color.
Peace dangling feet off the ledge to the tide below,
breathing salty air and counting boats on a blue-hued, gray-toned,
green-tinted, silver-spangled ocean.
Peace closing eyes to bask in the melody of song, enveloped
by worship of different tongues and nations, united in the harmony of a common
Father.
Always we are singing.
Singing carries us through the chaos, the fatigue, the
sweat, the tragedy, and the frustration.
Singing over the ocean is to join chorus with the wind and
rustling branches, to blend with the waves and tumbling stones. Songs there
admire the majesty of sea and mountain and cloud.
Singing on the roof at sunrise is to anticipate another day
of challenges and victories, of joy and pain, of another chance to show God’s
love to another needy soul. Songs there marvel at the prism of shifting color
from teal to tangerine, salmon to mauve.
Singing on the roof at dusk is to give thanks for another
day winding down, another set of goals established and obstacles overcome.
Songs there welcome the burgeoning stars and anticipate a time of rest.
Singing in the salon during service, the household’s evening
devotion, is to raise hymns of grateful praise. We give thanks, we marvel, we
anticipate, we admire, and we cry out with all emotion. We blend our voices,
beat out rhythms and hear the astounding echo of our harmony. The acoustics of
the house are ideal for voices raised in song. Sound is magnified. Praise is
amplified. The weak are made strong.
Today we sang a lot. At church this morning the majority of
two hours was spent in song. In the afternoon there was singing and prayer over
Doctor F, our housemate who passed out last night after his hospital shift and
himself spent the night in a hospital bed. His sister, Madame R and Pastor had
been at the hospital until midnight. Before departing for church at 6 AM we who’d
been abed the night before heard this news. We gathered and prayed for F, and
for Madame R, his older sister and delegated Manman. Ten minutes later they
brought F home, face haggard and steps slow.
Through the afternoon there was singing of supplication and
gratitude as he rested and the elections continued.
As I washed dishes after supper, I kept singing. The rest of
the household in the vicinity were quiet. They were listening.
In the salon, Madame R was sitting while IL braided her
hair.
As I commenced “Because He Lives,” she began to sing along.
Together, in English and Creole, we poured out our hearts in
praise, grateful beyond expression for the sovereignty of our Savior.
Resting in the peace of that sovereignty.
Tomorrow is rife with unknowns.
There could be rioting in the streets. There could be
violent manifestations over election results. There could be a hurricane forming
to the southwest, following Matthew’s legacy of destruction.
There could be school with children not listening, arguing,
having accidents, getting sick—there could be no school because of
aforementioned rioting.
There could be moto accidents, road blocks, electricity,
rain, extreme humidity, large spiders, feast or famine.
There could be a spectacular sunrise. There could be cool
breezes.
Tomorrow may not come.
Only God knows that.
But I do know that He lives. An empty grave is there to
prove our Savior lives.
No, I can’t tell you where that grave is exactly. I can’t
lead you there, let you feel the ancient stone or trace the impression of his body
where it laid temporarily.
However, I do know that such a place exists. And he is not
there.
Just as he left that stony tomb, so we will leave this
world. One day.
In the meantime, in the fatigue, the hunger, the sweat, the
uncertainty, sickness, and tragedy, we can take heart. For before we are
undone, before we are defeated by all this opposition, by the challenges large
and small, God will aid us.
He will give us those moments of peace.
He will give us songs to sing.
He gives us rice and beans, peanut butter crackers, Bongu and
Malta, when we need energy. But he sustains us through his Word.
Beneath the concrete on which our feet tire and knees groan,
his foundation holds us up.
He rains down rejuvenating mercy with that unheated water,
cleanses us with grace sweeter than the (brief) freedom from sweat.
And at the moments when we shake with loneliness, he sets a
hand in ours, puts a smile to us, wraps arms around us. He surrounds us with
tangible love, with valentines signed with his name. At our school alone we
have 121 tangible valentines with hands to hold, joyous smiles, and loyal arms.
Through all of those blessings, all of those rejuvenations,
we can sing. There are songs for every occasion.
I’m tired now.
I’m free of sweat but misted in deet.
I look forward to sleeping but I look forward to getting up,
too.
I look forward to seeing Doctor F on his feet, venturing
from his room to make silly, sassy comments, tease his sister, and giggle like
a little boy.
I look forward to seeing our 121 valentines and their
luminous smiles.
I look forward to hearing our voices resound in the kitchen,
in the salon, along the balcony, off the rooftop, through the classroom where
the teachers gather before school to pray and sing.
I look forward to recognizing God’s peace in the midst of
the chaos.
Because he lives, I can face tomorrow.
Mwen Konnen L’Vivan
Bondye voye pitit
li, rele l’ Jezi
Kite
vini e padonen
Li
rachte nou e li mete nou lib
Konye a la, li ak
papa l’ ap ret tann nou
Kè
Mwen konnen li
vivan
M’ap konte sou
demen
Paske l’ vivan,
enkyetid mwen ale
Paske m’ konnen,
o m’ konnen
Li se tout lavi
mwen
M’ap konte jou
pou l’ vin cheche m
Paske l’ vivan
Sel espwa mwen se
sou li selman
Paske l’ di mwen,
l’ap vin chache m’
Eprev nan lavi sa
p’ap fe m’ doute ditou
Bondye
m’ nan gran e li vivan m’ape tann li
Because He Lives
God sent his son, they called him Jesus
He came to love, heal, and forgive
He lived and died to buy my pardon
An empty grave is there to prove my Savior lives
Chorus
Because He lives I can face tomorrow
Because He lives, all fear is gone
Because I know, yes I know, he holds the future
And life is worth the living just because he lives
How sweet to hold a newborn baby
And feel the pride and joy he gives
But greater still the calm assurance
That child can face uncertain days because he lives
~“Because He Lives” Bill Gaither
You have searched me, Lord,
and you know me.
2 You know when I sit and when I rise;
you perceive my thoughts from afar.
3 You discern my going out and my lying down;
you are familiar with all my ways.
4 Before a word is on my tongue
you, Lord, know it completely.
and you know me.
2 You know when I sit and when I rise;
you perceive my thoughts from afar.
3 You discern my going out and my lying down;
you are familiar with all my ways.
4 Before a word is on my tongue
you, Lord, know it completely.
~Psalm 139:1-4 NIV
“Do not be like them [unbelievers who pray publically
and repeatedly], for your Father knows what you need before you ask him.”
~Matthew 6:8 ESV
“You
know just what we need before we say a word. You’re a good, good Father.”
~ “Good,
Good Father” Chris Tomlin
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