Speed-walking through the Miami airport, rounding corners and peering round pillars, arriving at the assigned gate, scanning the heads for a distinctive silver-crown. Stopping by a family clump of children and parents, sandwiched in by their luggage, before laughing and throwing my arms around my precious co-worker, boss, and sister (assumed mother) of one year, my dear Beverly. Thinking, "We met here one year ago, strangers about to embark on a journey into the Great Unknown. Why didn't I pack up and go home? Oh, God, make me so brave again."
Looking out the plane window to the crumpled-paper terrain,
sun-browned mountains seamed with zigzag trails, and thinking, “Here is my
country.”
Pushing my cart of 130 pounds of luggage close after
Beverly’s heels, catching sight of two of my brothers waiting outside the
airport, and jumping up and down, 20-pound backpack still on and hands still
holding the luggage cart. Thinking, “Here is my homecoming.”
Trying to negotiate sense with the attendant at the National
Station, that if 20$ half-fills the gas-tank, then another 20 ought make it
full. Losing words in Creole while my shot-gun rider lacks words in English and
my burgeoning translator leaning in the window misses the point. The attendant
is either truly foolish, truly lost, or truly rascally to foreign [lady] drivers.
Thinking, “I need Pastor Levy. Is this worth the fight?”
Sweating while sitting. Sweating while standing. Sweating
while lying down. Sweating while unpacking, reaching, organizing. Sweating
while cleaning the shower. Sweating while talking. Sweating while hugging.
Sweating while walking, eating, relaxing, washing dishes, laughing, breathing.
Praying for breezes to move the still air wrapped around us like wet wool,
pressing on us like the weight of responsibility. Remembering, “Oh, yes, this
is sweat. I’ve hardly felt that all summer.”
Walking the black-sand beach. Reaching the sand and pulling
off my sandals, letting storm-churned water wash brownish cool over my feet.
Gazing left at mountains piled green and prosperous, gazing out at La Gonave
flirting with the horizon, gazing right at the distant north-climbing coast,
home to Wahoo Bay and a thousand bittersweet memories. Standing at the wall of
By The Sea, hand resting lightly on the inverted conch-shells cemented in
place, thinking “Something so beautiful to stand against invasion.” Gazing out
at that Northern Shore, counting blue after blue, thinking, “Oh, yes, Ayiti
bèl.”
Reaching to click my seatbelt when I slide into the driver’s
seat. Driving in the rain through deserted streets. Putting on my signal early
and preparing to stop at the end of the road. Remembering, “Oh, yes, this is
unnecessary.”
Hugging my co-teacher in church, rocking together as she
prays in her mother-tongue while I wait for my voice to return to pray in mine.
Heart so full it’s fit to bursting, so the only words I can say to her is the
simple truth, “Kè m’ kontan. My heart is happy.” She repeats them back to me
with a wide smile. Thinking, “Oh, yes, this is right.”
Singing with our housemates at evening service in the salon.
Raising my voice in confidence over unfamiliar words, their profundity ringing
in my soul and smile uncontrollable on my lips as I sing with the others, those
who know the song, who live it. Praying with our voices overlapping, murmured
and entreated, grateful and raw with need. Supplicating again for security, for
provision, for diversion of this hurricane. Thinking, “Oh, yes, I’ve needed
this.”
Lying back under the stars, concrete beneath and Milky Way
above. Heart so full all I can do is sing, letting melody put words to the
longing in my soul. Longing to speak to the God who sees, the God who knows,
the God who yearns to hear from us and do good for us. The God whom I’m not
worthy to address. Thinking, “I never want to stop singing or focus on anything
else. None but my God.”
Lying back under the twilight sky and waiting for the stars.
Marveling as one by one or two by four or three by five they appear, piercing
through the murky mauve and dusky yellow-blue, that they have been there all
along, these shining lights. Yet it’s only when the sun recedes that they are
visible. It’s only when the distraction is taken away they are noticed.
Thinking, “This is Jesus in us—He is there but only when I recede can He shine
forth. Oh, Shine, Jesus, Shine.”
Washing my clothes by hand in the shower, lathering each
piece, rinsing and soaking them. Bringing them rooftop to dry under the
Caribbean sky. Collecting them hours later and putting them away. Now waiting
for others, caught in rain after rain, towels still spread on the concrete and
clothes still draped over low-slung line. Dependant on a dry spell and my own
remembering to dry and be put away once more. Hearing the rain start once more
after a dry spell and shrugging. Thinking, “Oh, well. They’ll dry eventually.”
Throwing up my arms wide and high and grinning like a fool,
like a blessing, scampering to Mama Jameson and hugging her tight. Cupping her face
and asking her how she is. Then turning to Jameson and picking him up,
squeezing him to me. Thinking, “He’s too light.” But also, “Oh, yes, I’ve been
waiting for this.”
Picking up Ruth in her fluffy pink dress, folding her to me
as her head sets down on my shoulder. Swaying back and forth to our own music.
Picking up Jachdiel, wet with sweat and eyes wide with
sorrow at our departure, rocking him as his head sets down on my shoulder.
Thinking, “How could anything else matter?”
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