This morning I had coffee on my neighbor’s porch (which I invited myself to) because my own apartment was beginning to feel like a prison. I’m adjusting to the confines of living in an unfamiliar community with strict but somehow loosely defined guidelines of where I can be and when. I miss my independence, as I’ve only left the compound a few times over the past couple weeks, and even within the compound, I’m daily feeling the struggle of partial- and mis-communications. For someone used to doing what I want when I want, this is an entirely foreign lifestyle.

This newfound captivity was especially felt earlier this week when I experienced my first riot lockdown. There were scheduled protests nearby, and while we thankfully didn’t experience any protests here, precautions were evident everywhere. The school and clinic were shutdown, roads were closed, we were grounded-unable to leave, and armed guards were stationed within our gates.

The pace is different here. Progress is difficult to measure; the polar opposite of my former job, where progress is calculated daily, reports are printed and tasks checked and re-checked off of lists. Here, progress is having the right conversation with the right person who may or may not carry that information onto the person who needs it. Here, progress is thinking through innovative solutions or understanding one more Creole phrase. Here, progress isn’t the most important measure of time.

This morning, frustrated and a little bored, I sat on my neighbor’s porch reading a book and drinking coffee, trusting with all my heart that I am where I am meant to be, even though the feelings don’t always match the conviction. And then things went from 0-60 in the blink of an eye because the pace is different here!

I learned that one of our elders was in the clinic and not doing well. I was rushed to his bedside by Vania, my Haitian coworker, and I held his hand for a few moments, unable to think of anything helpful to say in Creole. He was writhing in pain from an infected catheter. Just as quickly, I was whisked out of the room and informed that Vania would be accompanying him to a doctor in Port-Au-Prince where he would likely need surgery.

While making phonecalls and sending emails, trying to figure out how and if we could access funds for emergency medical procedures, two teams of Americans pulled up the hill into Grace Village, lunch was served and my day was pretty much gone in a blur after that.

I got to jump onto one of the team’s taptaps and go out and visit a few elders with them, my favorite part of being here so far! And I wrapped up the afternoon with delicious fried plantains and pork at Fleri with several of my co-missionaries.

Tomorrow could be a constant running kind of day. Or it might feel like a waste of time. It might be both or neither. Again, progress isn’t the most important measure of time here.

“Listen, my dear brothers and sisters: Has not God chosen those who are poor in the eyes of the world to be rich in faith and to inherit the kingdom he promised those who love him?” James 2:5