Do I miss Haiti? Yes.
Do I dream every night intense, colorful, restless dreams
about my people there? Yes.
Do I squeal at the kids’ photos and sigh when I consider our
absence? Absolutely.
Is it uncomfortably cold here in New Hampshire? Um, yes. Yes
it is.
Am I pleased to be here? Yes. Yes I am.
I am very grateful to be here in this fantastical frozen North:
this place of glittering, glimmering, ice-coated branches twinkling in sunshine
and moonshine. This place where red berries cluster in audaciously brilliant
color against the uniform gray and white, where sunshine through snow-laden
limbs creates the exquisite composition of blue and yellow pastels shading and
highlighting the snow, where the most breathtaking magic of moonlight on snow
forbids the reign of darkness despite solstice-short days.
I’m relishing the feast of sweets, treats, cheese, meat,
vegetables, fruits....and all manner of foods unavailable in Ti Goave, Haiti. I’m
reveling in my cozy blue bedroom, made a proper hotbox with closed shutters and
chimney wall, bed well-layered with covers. I’m rejoicing in the walking,
skiing, jogging, fast and free outside in bracing clear air: air as clear of
humidity and charcoal smog as it is of peevish shouts of “blan” and stares.
From the land of closeness—heavy jungle air and constant crowds—I’ve
landed here in the fresh and hard-kept isolation of small town New England.
It’s refreshing. It’s relieving. It’s relaxing.
It is needed.
Oh, Dear Friends, sometimes being a missionary is just
impossible (see previous post), and if you want to continue the impossible, you
must refresh. Well, I needed refreshment.
Seems for three years straight Jesus served, healed, taught,
walked and talked, slept and ate among the demanding populace. He had no proper
place to lay his head, no weekends away, no room of his own. Jesus had no more
furlough than some pre-dawn prayer sessions with his Father. And that 40 days
of isolated fasting in the wilderness.
I don’t think any of us first-worlders would classify these
as vacations.
Well, thank you, God, that I am not Jesus.
Four months of service and I was beat.
When you’re beat you’re not much use to anyone. So,
blessedly, the time came to rest, to get on a plane and head North, where
several layers of clothing are required before you step outside, the sun goes
down by 4 PM, and there’s a Dunkin Donuts on every corner.
In my parents’ house and childhood home, my continual “permanent
address,” the electricity is constant, the potable water comes with OPTIONS of
hot or cold, the floors are hardwood, and the sentinel pine trees shroud the
house from passersby. My bedside is perpetually stacked with books, the easel
sits before the window with a painting project ready, the WiFi is strong, and a
kitchen well-stocked awaits visitation.
There’s no shouting, no blaring music, no goats, cows,
donkeys, pigs, roosters, or motos. There are no mosquitoes, geckos, oversized
spiders, or worms in the shower. Along the street there are no piles of burning
trash, no sewage draining in the culvert, no razor wire, and no open urination.
(All things I can easily do without.)
Instead of coconut palms there are white pines. Instead of
mangoes there are apples. Instead of the surf washing the sand there is the
wind rustling bare branches.
It’s peaceful. It’s temporary.
I will go back.
Back to the chaos, the disorganization, the island time, and
interpretive scheduling. Back to the shouting, squealing, barking, bleating,
crowing, crying, laughing, revving. Back to the amplified music, spotty WiFi,
and rare electricity. Back to the sweat, heat, charcoal fumes, questionable
plumbing, insect repellant, cold showers, and pre-dawn chill. Back to our
rooftop from which we trace the Milky Way, count shooting stars, admire dusky
bands of golden sun breaking into dark jungle foliage and brilliant pink and
orange bleeding daylight from the sky. Back to our overcrowded, understaffed
school with 145 delightful faces and 290 eager hands reaching for love. Back to
movement among strangers, neighbors, friends, ignorant and learned, ill-intentioned
and harmless calling “blan” and asking for money or favors. Back to late
nights, early mornings, power naps, hand-washing clothes, and spaghetti for
breakfast. Back to a world a million miles yet only 5 hours flight time away,
where all day long we speak, preach, praise, and plead the name of Jesus and
are never reprimanded for offense.
It’s a hard place. A place of disease, malnutrition, washed
out roads, broken glass, ceaseless hardship. A place without public education,
healthcare, or road maintenance. A place where despair can choke you out fast
when you get tired, when you are beat…when you need some time away.
Yet it’s home. Although I do enjoy hot showers, washing
machines, pants, Walmart, communing with lifetime friends (person and tree
alike), I will readily return to Ti Goave for the hundreds of beautiful people
who await me there. I will return refreshed, eager again to serve and love, to
be blessed and be loved, by God’s people, my Family, there.
Am I happy to be here? Yes.
Am I enjoying the holidays? Yes.
Am I ready to go back? Not yet.
But, in God’s good time, I will be.
