I didn’t know Davy and Natalie. We may have happened upon some of the same places, but not at the same time.

I do know people who at least knew of them or their family or the school director who was also killed that day.

But, feeling some camaraderie toward any missionaries in Haiti, I tuned into part of the live streamed memorial service today.

Her father spoke. His father spoke. And then Davy spoke. They shared video clips of several sermons he had preached over the past few years, and then they shifted to footage of Davy and Natalie praying with children in a worship service in Haiti.

Next was the part that got me – a video of Natalie sitting at a piano, playing and singing. “Jesus is the answer for the world today. Above him there’s no other. Jesus is the way.”

The purity of her rendition of a song written decades before she was born.

The truth that still stands.

That Jesus is the answer.

Young, resolute faith.

A shared hope for the people of Haiti.

A shared hope for us all.

I didn’t know Davy and Natalie. But, we are part of the same family, the same body, the same hope.

I am encouraged by the lives they lived, appalled by how their lives were taken, and grateful for the testimony they shared today.

I hope for a day when Haiti shares her testimony with the world.

I pray for peace and open eyes and ears. To hear the stories of Haiti. The horrific and traumatic lived experiences and the testimonies of deep faith and rich hope.

May we continue to believe Jesus is the answer.

“For this reason, since the day we heard about you, we have not stopped praying for you and asking God to fill you with the knowledge of his will through all spiritual wisdom and understanding.

And we pray this in order that you may live a life worthy of the Lord and may please him in every way; bearing fruit in every good work, growing in the knowledge of God.”
Colossians 1:9-10

I stopped blogging about Haiti when I realized I was consistently being advised to not travel there. I had to let go of the expectation that I could always have my next trip booked and instead would be camped out in this holding pattern, waiting for permission to return.

There is so much to learn and process and educate others about, but I have felt that Haiti’s stories aren’t mine to tell anymore.

The reality is that places you spend your life in become part of who you are. And the relationships made don’t end simply because your location changes.

My time in Haiti opened me up to hundreds of wonderful individuals primarily in two communities, Titanyen and Cite Soleil. And the tragedy, the violence, the utter evil and devastation both of those communities have seen in the past months is inexplicable and heart-wrenching.

That isn’t really where this blog is heading, though. I learned about the recent passing of two more elders yesterday. And that hurts.

Still, I find with news like this, I am struck with enormous gratitude for the opportunity to have loved. To have met and served and been loved by so many people, my heart doesn’t have space for the gratitude.

I look forward to traveling to Haiti again. I miss the people there dearly. I look back at my time living there, and of course, I have my regrets. There are always things I would have done differently in hindsight.

But regret only serves to distract me from the overwhelming gratitude. I am thankful for sacred encounters, several of which I had no idea would be lasts. Friends who lived on dusty streets, now dancing on golden ones.

Please pray for the situation in Haiti. But more than that, pray for real people living there. Pray for their wisdom and knowledge and that their lives would center on loving the Lord.

Until we meet again.

I haven’t blogged in a while and I’ve considered retiring this account. But Haiti is still an enormous part of my life so I may pop on here from time to time.

 

“Well I bet you’re glad you’re not there now, huh?” If I had a dollar for every time I’ve heard this sentiment over the past few months, well… I would have some additional income.

 

I’m not mad when people ask this. I do feel relief on some levels to be honest. Living in Haiti was difficult and circumstances there put you on constant high alert, never knowing when it is “safe” to be out on the roads any given day, always aware that the resources available just aren’t enough for the people who need them. I am glad to be in America. But I’m not glad to be gone from Haiti.

 

My friends are suffering. And I want to be with them. 

 

For those of you who may not know, I don’t live in Haiti anymore. I submitted my resignation last winter already, feeling the promptings of the Holy Spirit and my own heart to be more available to my family back here in the states and to step away from living in Haiti full time. But it took a few months to make the move. Let me throw a quick timeline at you:

 

Fast forward to this past summer…

 

July 3^rd, I got on an airplane and flew back to Minnesota.

 

July 7^th, I woke up to messages from friends in Haiti. The president had been assassinated.

 

July 16^th, I dropped my dad off at the ER, not realizing he was critically ill with Covid and that I would spend the next week delivering things back and forth between my parents’ house and the nurses’ station at the hospital. (He recovered miraculously quickly after returning home btw.) 

 

Every day Haiti was heavy on my heart. Then in August, there was an earthquake. And a hurricane. And the constant stories of insecurity.

 

It was late August before I started feeling comfortable job hunting and reclaiming what I wanted to do with my time.

 

Somewhere in this mess I also bought a bike and started posting a million sunrise photos to facebook. One even got featured on the local news!

 

Within a few weeks and a couple interviews… I decided to the surprise of everyone, including myself, that I would return to my old office, working admin for a financial advisory firm, and having my sister be my supervisor again. The biggest draw (besides the amazing coworkers) was the flexibility to still travel when I wanted and the offer to work remote two days a week.

 

I worked exactly two part-time days, with the promise to return to a full-time work schedule the beginning of October.

 

I booked a ticket and visited Haiti. 

 

It was a quick check in of a trip, and I took as many precautions as I could, spending my entire three and a half days in country either on campus or very close to it. I delivered a few supplies, I hugged a lot of necks, and I was able to establish the best I could that I am invested in the elders, the children, and so many friends I have made there.

 

The stories I heard from my Haitian coworkers made it clear, that although the unrest had been past its boiling point for a while, the kidnapping had escalated dramatically even since July. Everyone seems to know someone or at least knows someone who knows someone who has been taken and held for ransom.

 

And then I came back home and jumped headfirst into that busy American lifestyle of always needing to be more places than I can realistically get to in time. And that is where I currently abide, cautiously unpacking suitcases and visiting all the coffee shops I can. I’m living at my parents’ house half the week and renting a room from a friend in the metro area the other half of the week.

 

And then this past weekend, an entire bus full of my neighbors was kidnapped in Haiti. And I didn’t post to social media about it, originally to try and protect those involved, but as the media has run wild with the story, I still haven’t had any idea what to say.

 

I don’t know anyone in this group personally. I’m sure I’ve interacted with some of them. We eat at the same pizzeria. We lived and work in the same community.

 

The ex-pat community in Haiti is small and closely connected. We are all reeling, we all feel this.

 

And I hate that I had an ugly gut reaction to judge those families who were kidnapped for being somewhere unwise, for being in an unsafe area, for being different from me and making decisions I wouldn’t have made.

 

Because I also tend to put myself at risk for people I love. We all do.

 

I pray for them and their families. I pray for their courage and strength. I feel the fear, I feel the waiting. It could easily have been me or some of my friends.

 

I always hold to the thought that, like Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego, if God leads me to a place of danger, I’m in none. And even if I am, I’m not alone. I pray for my brothers and sisters in captivity in Haiti tonight that they will see that fourth man in the fire with them each moment.

I pray for the gang leaders too. Because the Bible says to love our enemies. But also because when I pray for the gangsters, I feel God’s grace and affection for them. This world is a messed up place, but God’s love for each individual doesn’t falter. And I am eternally grateful for it.

Haiti is not a simple place. Sure evil is visible. And so much falls to gray areas of what people will do out of desperation. We pray for a brighter future for the children watching this all unfold.

 

I don’t think I am wrapping up to a clean point here. No, I don’t feel glad that I’m not in Haiti. But I do feel God has been directing my steps along the way. So, wherever I am and whatever I feel, I am glad, I am joyful because He is with me.

I climb up and down the rocky hillside by my apartment at least once most days. Neither my balance nor my endurance are top notch. I walk slow and stare at my feet a lot. But I don’t fall.

Today as I approached the gate, security stopped me to tell me a woman was waiting outside with her baby, wanting to surrender her to the orphanage. That isn’t how our orphanage operates in general, and I’m not involved with those decisions so I told him who to talk to and kept going on my way.

I couldn’t help myself though, a few steps past her, I turned to get a better look at the sweet baby and her older sister there with the woman. And that is when I felt the rocks shift under me.

The woman, the daughter, and the security guard all gasped as I almost fell, but I recovered in an awkward dance move and a laugh.

I stared at my feet the rest of the way down the hill. 

I feel so often here in Haiti and in life in general that the things around me are too much. I can’t look that pain and desperation in the eyes again. But I can and I do. God gives me grace for it. But it requires me to stop and really take it in. Otherwise, the rocks shift and gravity takes me.

Some days I have to keep moving, and that takes almost a callousness to my surroundings. It requires staring at my feet to stay upright.

Other days I have to stop and look around and take in the chaos. I think Haiti has a way of forcing moments like this.

Both are difficult and both are necessary, the moving forward and the stillness. And I can’t let either distract me from keeping my spiritual gaze on Jesus.

Sometimes I look too much at the situations around me or the rocks shifting under my feet and am reminded of Peter looking at the waves. Anything and everything can overwhelm me, even when I’m in the middle of a step of faith.

Haiti is experiencing another increase in gang violence and other insecurities that are scary, unnerving, frustrating, and it feels like a season of “just keep stepping where you see solid ground”.

And if I successfully climb the next hill or if I land on my butt in front of a waiting audience… I will keep readjusting my gaze and fixing my eyes on Jesus.

I stumbled into a divine moment the other day. I’m always amazed when the Lord chooses to use me, despite my rotten attitude and overt exhaustion.

Don’t get me wrong, I love our Kids Life program with a passion, but I was tired. Too many people had asked me for things, it was about 1,000 degrees with 400% humidity, and I hadn’t had the appropriate amount of coffee yet when I made my way to the church this past Saturday.

I suddenly had a song from my own childhood stuck in my head, “The Joy of the Lord is My Strength”. I realized it  would only take 3 chords and a few moments to jot them down, so unrehearsed, I was called up to lead some songs. I tried to teach it in English, but after singing it through a few times realized that even my translator was struggling with the pronunciation.

So we switched gears real quick and, between the three teachers, they settled on a simple Kreyol translation, “Lajwa senyè a se fós mwen”. And then we sang! On loop. Probably at least 30 times, with kids jumping up for a chance to sing it solo into the microphone and competitions to see if the older or younger kids could sing it louder.

There was joy in that room. Un-fabricated joy. The joy of the Lord. We only had to acknowledge and experience it.

I’ve cautiously and slowly been making public that I have made plans to move back to Minnesota this July. I will still be connected to Healing Haiti as a volunteer and am already trying to figure out dates for my next visit. But a lot is changing. This move is difficult. But the Joy of the Lord is my Strength.

Also I recognize that my photos are random snapshots unrelated to my blog. I’ve fallen behind on updates. Since returning from a trip to the states in early April, it’s been go time – a couple busy and wonderful weeks!

The Bible is wonderful, filled with stories that inspire the imagination! And sometimes I forget that as I glance bleary-eyed at familiar passages to fulfill my daily devotional time.

Witnessing the beginning and growth of this Kids Life club at Grace Church has been a messy, exhausting, wonderful good time.

Some of my own earliest memories were at church. I remember, at maybe three years old, crawling around the floor of a Sunday School classroom acting out all the animals we could think of to fill Noah’s Ark. At that age, it was likely my love for animals more so than the Bible that made the story come alive. But it stuck with me.

Last week, a generous donation arrived with a team of illustrated Children’s Bibles in Haitian Creole. And this week’s Kids Life class had every wiggly child engaged, flipping through the pages, following along with the stories.

One boy kept holding up the David and Goliath page, eyes wide, totally enamored by the illustrations of the giant. The illustrators of this Bible made the giant so big that you have to hold the book up sideways to really take him in. 

And I had to blink back tears. There is something wonderful happening here as children are able to interact with the stories of the Bible.

Some of these kids are the same kids who say rude things to me on the street. Some of them come in freshly bathed and well dressed, while some of them are dirty and their clothes are shredded. Some of them are naughty; they yell at the teachers and they try to steal extra snacks. They are children. And all of them are welcomed here.

These kids live in tricky places, with complicated families, and many without enough food to eat. They know a thing or two about life’s giants. Last week, two of these kids lost their father. But they were still at church. Because they have another Father and they have a small group of volunteers committed to being there for them.

Don’t let small moments cease to amaze you. Remember with wonder that David slew a giant, that Noah filled an ark! And don’t underestimate sharing those stories with the kids (and adults) in your life.

For those of you wondering,

Haiti is in yet another season of unrest, with calls for nationwide protests tomorrow and Monday (February 7th-8th). 

We are on a lockdown of sorts, but also we are doing ok here. Things have been relatively quiet in my immediate neighborhood this week, although there have been daily calls for unrest. We are hoping this next week will also be calmer than anticipated. 

I have food and water and propane and plenty of people around to pass our lockdown time together. Please pray for Haiti, especially the areas that will likely see lots of violence and protests over the next few days.

And please continue to pray for the kids in this community and the churches and people reaching out to them. May their Hope always be in the giant-slaying God and not in the political systems of this world.

2020 might be in hindsight, but it was still a transformational year that will not be forgotten. I was watching an interview with Jimmy Falon, and he was expressing the courage and creativity it had required to continue hosting his show from his house as the world was quickly overtaken by fear and pandemic this past spring. And it got me thinking.

This was a year where so many people found creative and courageous ways to keep each other going. We all know about the many medical heroes and front-line workers who went to work each day, knowing they were putting themselves at risk and showing up anyway. I want to be careful how I word this because I do so appreciate all the men and women who had necessary jobs to do and did them!

But, I think there was a whole other kind of courage displayed among the countless people who became “un-essential” this year. People whose entire lives suddenly focused on their immediate family and their neighborhoods. Individuals who fought their own mental health battles. Individuals who desperately wanted something important to do but instead found themselves unemployed or on unscheduled staycations.

I know I’m rewriting a story we’ve heard a thousand times, but it’s worth reflecting on your own part in it. This year I spent four months in the states, grateful to be with family but feeling a little trapped, unable to travel back to Haiti. Then I spent five months in Haiti, unable to travel home because of the various Covid restrictions and my own family’s preferences for quarantine time.

So when I got to fly home for Christmas, I was so excited and then surprised that I felt bored within the first few days back. Believe me, I can rest and relax with the best of them, but I’m also one of those people who really would choose to do something helpful or productive when that’s an option. And in Haiti, I have that. Honestly, just try sleeping in and doing nothing all day there! People will literally come get you out of your bedroom and hand-deliver requests to occupy your time.

So in that mindset, I had messaged a friend about the timing of booking my return to Haiti and how I was doing nothing while at my parent’s house anyway in the locked down version of the states. And being wiser than I sometimes give her credit for, her response was “being there is not doing nothing”. She continued on, encouraging me that time spent with my family was important and meaningful. She has spent weeks herself nursing both her parents through Covid, and her perspective was enlightening for me.

So I pushed my flight out a week farther than I had intended and am spending unapologetic time being here. And when I return to Haiti, I will do my best to be there.

All that preamble yet again to get to some of my actual life updates. The past few months in Haiti included Thanksgiving with other local missionaries, sweet time learning language and playing with the kids who live at Grace Village, being a part of the children’s ministry in Titanyen, growing relationships with the elders in Titanyen and Cite Soleil, a fun girls’ weekend at a local beach, being godmother in a friends’ wedding, and so much more. I will include a bunch of photos after this blog.

I have come out of the past several months, extremely grateful for the people I get to do life with, whether that’s in Minnesota or in Haiti or wherever I find myself.

I’ve also been looking at wrapping up my time of living full-time in Haiti. No, not immediately! But, I will probably be moving back stateside before the calendar flips again, perhaps over this coming summer/fall. I still have a deep love and connection with the people I’ve gotten to do life alongside in Haiti and I want to keep those intentional connections throughout my whole life and travel there as often as possible.

So, that’s me right now. Fluid plans and an open heart. I hope you also feel encouraged to be where you are and know that it’s not nothing. And have a very happy new year!

I often walk past my local church when there is no scheduled service and hear someone in there, playing the keyboard or drums, a moment of private practice and worship. It reminds me immediately of my childhood.

As a pastor’s kid, my siblings and I spent countless hours at church when no one else was around. Cleaning up after a potluck, practicing music before a special service, decorating for Christmas, printing and folding bulletins, setting up a craft for children’s church, emptying tiny cups of grape juice after communion, strolling around the sanctuary in stocking feet waiting for the adults to finish talking; For a thousand different reasons, I’ve been alone in a church building many times throughout my life.

When there are people at church, the building itself seems to take on life. When no one is there, I have often thought of church as an eerie, spooky place. Still, I always felt a reverence in church, even if it was a reverence that I wanted to sprint up the basement stairs away from.

I’ve been thinking about empty churches. Many congregations around the world have been through and are going through a season of empty buildings.

With services cancelled or moved online, I still doubt the buildings have stayed empty. Pastors’ kids all over the world are wandering the sanctuaries in their socks. Custodians are vacuuming. Administrators are printing newsletters. Pastors are typing and preparing sermons and hosting meetings. Worship teams are standing spaced out on platforms to record a set of songs to be streamed or downloaded. And in many of those buildings, individuals are praying.

I stepped into our church in Cite Soleil one afternoon to let the pastors know that a group had arrived and was asking for them. They were in their office, but out in the sanctuary, on a day without services, three women gathered toward the front, hands lifted, voices lifted. It was a beautiful, holy, intimate moment that I glanced and then tiptoed back out of.

Since that moment, I keep thinking about what a church is with no one in it. Do I think the buildings themselves are sacred? No and yes. There is nothing sacred about the structure or the chairs or the carpet or the concrete. But there is something sacred about a space committed, dedicated to God. There is something holy about a building where people gather to pray and to worship. So even when no one is there, it has been invested in. It has been prayed in. People have met with God there.

I revisit a chapter that has meant a lot to me over the past year, Psalms 77. I read it and remember that God is the one who performs miracles, and I ask Him to perform miracles, and I try and let go of my inability to fix things and hang desperately onto His plan and authority.

Some of my life’s deepest memories of encounters with God have not been during a church service. They have been private moments of recognizing God’s presence in prayer. Sometimes in an empty church. Sometimes in a bedroom or a dorm prayer room or on a swing set or walking along a trail. Anywhere space is dedicated to communion with God is sacred. But there is something special about the spaces dedicated to both that individual holy communion and the relational exercises of Christian community.

An empty church building is nothing to despair. It is space for a miracle-working God to work. His presence makes all your spaces holy spaces. In the same breath, find ways to keep community because we need it. That looks different right now. It’s harder than it’s been before to stay connected, but those efforts are absolutely worth it.

 “Let us hold unswervingly to the hope we profess, for he who promised is faithful. And let us consider how we may spur one another on toward love and good deeds, not giving up meeting together, as some are in the habit of doing, but encouraging one another—and all the more as you see the Day approaching.” Hebrews 10:23-25

“Then I thought, ‘To this I will appeal:
    the years when the Most High stretched out his right hand.
 I will remember the deeds of the Lord;
    yes, I will remember your miracles of long ago.
 I will consider all your works
    and meditate on all your mighty deeds.’

 Your ways, God, are holy.
    What god is as great as our God?
You are the God who performs miracles;
    you display your power among the peoples.
 With your mighty arm you redeemed your people,
    the descendants of Jacob and Joseph” Psalms 77:10-15

Let the children come. The past couple of months at Grace Village have been different than anything I’ve seen here yet.

With two bus deliveries of children from an orphanage that was closed down, our resident children doubled in numbers almost overnight. They are not all permanent residents, but they needed a safe place to stay for now, and Healing Haiti was happy to open our gates and fill that gap.

I like to picture Jesus sitting on a flannelgraph rock, children all around him, two or three in his arms and on his lap. But, I’ve been finding myself identifying with the disciples in the story, ready to shoo away the children for my own comfort and agenda. If you also have 65 lightly supervised next-door neighbor kids and teenagers who are all fascinated by you and what treats you might have hidden in your apartment, you understand!

My patience is thin sometimes, but a moment of sweet conversation or an unexpected hug brings me back to Jesus real quick. I am in absolute wonder of the sacred privilege of getting to play a small role in the lives of the children here. I am struck by the love Jesus truly has for each of them, and I have a desire to portray nothing but that love.

Simultaneously, I have been watching one of the young men at Grace Church, who is still a teenager himself, take on a holy burden for the children in our community outside the gates of Grace Village. He wanted to start a club for them, where they could come for some Christian education, in an effort to keep them off the streets and out of gangs. He said there was a club like this for him as a child, and he wants to provide that for others now.

It’s sobering to think that the sweet children who yell my name in greeting as I walk past their homes have real prospects in gang life in not very many years. Some may already be involved. It is a reality of life here, a bit of security and provision and community standing, bought at an incredible expense.

The kids’ club has met twice now, the first week with a group of about 28 children and the second week with a group of over 35. And as those sweet faces fill up the front of the church to sing and play games, I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that I am witnessing something holy!

In lieu of tangible solutions, I can hand out prayers and a little candy. Because I’m not here to be anyone’s savior. But, I do know Him. And I know that he says, “Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.” -Matthew 19:14.

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: