I’ve been having a different kind of adventure than usual these past couple weeks. I’ve been temporarily filling in some of the morning duties at Fleri bakery restaurant, while the manager is on leave in the states. It has been wonderful to get to know the staff a little better and they have been very patient with me and my limited Kreyol. They see beyond my nodding to my blank stare and are quick to help me understand. This time is also forcing me to use the vocabulary that I do know and my buddy, Google Translate, in a context where I have no fallback. 

Job creation is a large part of what Healing Haiti does in Haiti, and the bakery and restaurant is such a fun way to watch that work in action. The staff works with heart and pride. And the crowd of bread resellers constantly at the door means the bakery will not run out of work to do and bread to bake anytime soon. And to be honest, I’ve quickly grown accustomed to having access to my own chef anytime I want a delicious plate of spicy spaghetti or some fried bread (donuts, basically). Yes, I’m still a paying customer, but the convenience of a kitchen just outside the office is dangerous for me! 

My days have been busy, but my favorite part of the day has become my walk down the mountain (or hill, according to those not from Minnesota) from Grace Village to Fleri. Believe me the walk back up in the afternoon sun is significantly less fun, with eyes burning from sweat and lungs and legs burning from out-of-shape exertion. 

But that walk down. As I’m walking down, dozens of children are making their way up the hill to Grace School. I walk past new mothers and tiny babies waiting outside Grace Clinic. I often greet at least one of our elders in that clinic crowd. I exchange pleasantries with the security guards and grounds crew at the gate as staff arrives at Grace Village for the day. And as I focus on my footing in the loose gravel and staying out of the way for motos climbing up and coasting down the hill, I get to say about a hundred “bonjou”s. 

Some of the school children get really excited when they see me now, and that is sweet. And faces I only vaguely recognize call out “Kah-tee!” and occasionally “Kiki!” (a missionary who used to live here), and I love being part of this community. And some of the older students take time out of their commute to heckle me for my size or sneer little comments at me in Kreyol. I understand just enough to make them nervous. Still, most interactions are welcoming, and I no longer feel out of place here. I may be a mismatched part of this community, but I am a part of it.

Ok, unrelated, but also related, I was working my way through a bible study today focusing on the second half of Revelation. The imagery in chapter 14 stood out to me, as it was linked to similar imagery throughout the Bible, where people are sealed with a name on their forehead (the image in Revelation 14 is of the 144,000 faithful redeemed ones with the Lamb and the Father’s name written on their foreheads). 

It got me thinking about identity and belonging. As I seek to always find my identity in Christ, it is nice to also find places of belonging, whether that be friend groups, family, churches, or even a picturesque mountainside community where half the people I interact with make fun of me and ask for things. But there is also a belonging based on identity: like a chef belonging in a restaurant kitchen, a doctor belonging in a clinic, a teacher belonging in a school, a child belonging in a family. 

A lot of those roles come with symbols, some defined others more subtle, a uniform that makes it clear who are and why you are where you are. If teachers wore an apron and chef’s hat to school, they wouldn’t look like they belong. And Christ in my life marks me. It may not be a visible uniform, and you may not see it. That doesn’t make it invisible. In the supernatural, I am marked with an identity that means I belong in the presence of God. How intense is that?

Annnnd… here are a few pictures of my recent adventures: