If you pay attention to my Facebook, you may have seen the song “The Story I’ll Tell” by Maverick City Music pass through my feed recently.

It was one of those songs that I heard once, and it immediately became one of my theme songs. Here are the lyrics of the chorus:

Chorus:
Oh Oh Oh My God did not fail
Oh Oh Oh it’s the story I’ll tell
Oh Oh Oh I know it is well
Oh Oh Oh is the story I’ll tell

From my limited personal experiences along the timeline of history, this current time feels dark. Among the jokes and memes of the trauma that has been the year 2020, there is an acceptance that this time is different than what we have collectively seen before.

And I’m living in this time in Haiti now. And pandemic-wise, things are relatively calm here. But it has complicated life. And made it more unpredictable. Made it slightly more dangerous.

And so I sweat through a mask and limit my time in direct contact with our elders and limit how often I’m moving between communities. And I have spent more time in quarantine than serving since being back.

But yesterday was one of the rare days where I was able to traverse the streets in Cite Soleil pretty freely. I visited some elders with the pastors of Hope Church and one of our Haitian directors and one of my unofficial security guards, a young boy who hangs around Hope campus.

And those reunions are incredibly sweet. There are still many elders in our programs that I haven’t seen in months. I’m grateful now for each encounter.

I was invited into the home of one of our married elder couples. I stepped down into puddles of water and trash inside their cement home. The recent tropical storm has exacerbated the flooding problems in Cite Soleil.

The wife has mental health issues along with physical ailments, and had to be calmed down by a neighbor so we could hear the pastors pray. The husband broke down crying saying he hadn’t slept in days and was in too much pain to walk to the clinic.

Among their possessions was a tray of clay cookies, either for selling or eating.

I hesitate to share stories like this because I want to respect their dignity. I want everyone to see their wonderful souls and the resilience of the people in this community. But it’s important to also represent their reality and struggle.

This community has seen months of prolonged gang violence and years of unrest and a lifetime of injustice, instability, and lack. And the people here are suffering. And still God does not fail.

So I will stand ankle deep in trash and worship where God has called me to worship in this moment. And I will worry for my family and my city back in the states and learn to surrender those worries in prayer. And I will do what I can to protect those I serve from the spread of viruses. And I will embrace and enjoy the experiences of days where I have freedom to spend time in community.

A few photo updates in the recent weeks:

Grace Village has been selected again (but for the first time since I’ve lived here) to receive a group of children in an urgent and temporary placement situation.

We don’t know much about our new residents yet, but there has been a scramble of activity in preparation and reception. The morning after the first 16 of them arrived, a rainbow appeared over the village. We are expecting 34 children in total! Please pray for our incredible staff, along with all those kids and teenagers in this time of transition.

I got to play Snow White with a couple of baby birds who fell or were blown out of their nests. No, I didn’t keep either one captive for more than a few overnight hours to protect them from the Grace Village cats, and I can only hope they have survived since.

While I was in the states I was given some cash donations for our elder care program. Our elder care staff in Titanyen told me one pressing need for a few of our elders was mattresses, but budgets are very tight right now.

With those donated funds, they were able to purchase three box springs and three mattresses. In addition, a few elders received new bed sheets.

This girl. I can not write her story here for her protection and privacy. But I pray for her each morning and had not seen her since early March. We were both so happy to see each other!

And since you have read all the way to the end, your reward is the full lyrics of “The Story I’ll Tell” (but do yourself a favor and listen to it on YouTube on repeat for a while…)

Verse 1:
The hour is dark,
And it’s hard to see,
What you are doin’,
Here in the ruins
And where this will lead,

Oh but I know,
That down through the years,
I’ll look on this moment,
See your hand on it
And know you were here

Pre-Chorus:
And I’ll testify of the battles you’ve won
How you were my portion when there wasn’t enough
I’ll sing a song of the seas that we crossed
The waters you parted
The waves that I walked

Chorus:
Oh Oh Oh My God did not fail
Oh Oh Oh it’s the story I’ll tell
Oh Oh Oh I know it is well
Oh Oh Oh is the story I’ll tell

Verse 2:
Believing gets hard
When options are few
When I can’t see how you’re moving
I know that you’re proving
You’re the God that comes through

Oh but I know
That over the years,
I’ll look back on this moment
And see your hand on it
And know You were here

Bridge:
All that is left is highest praises
So sing hallelujah to the Rock of Ages

Song by Maverick City Music Feat. Naomi Raine

Writers: Naomi Raine, Alton Eugene, and Benji Cowart

“What is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.” (2 Corinthians 4:18) This verse keeps reappearing in my daily reading. I’ve probably even blogged about it before.

Over the past months, I think we have all learned a thing or two about the unseen parts of our lives. Most things closed down or were available at a reduced capacity, and people went into their homes and stayed there. We learned more about our families, more about what we do with actual free time, more about finding creative solutions for necessary work, more about loneliness and more about what motivates our daily lives. And it went largely unseen. But it all mattered.

What has been “seen” recently has been difficult to watch. In the States, we have seen political ugliness and brutal racism and protests turned to riots and pandemic outbreaks and closed borders and economic devastation and petty social media disputes. But we hold to the promise that what is seen is temporary.

I am just coming out of two weeks of keeping myself as quarantined as possible since arriving back in Haiti. I am beyond excited to visit the elders and reconnect with friends. It is wonderful to be back in the communities where I feel the Lord has called me to serve.

There is inexplicable joy as people I never expected to love so deeply great me as “Manman Kah-tee!” in the street. And there are medical emergencies and meetings with pastors and playing with kids and new vocabulary to learn and never ending laundry and never ending emails and transportation issues and security concerns and all the random things that make up my days. There is sorrow and frustration and beauty as I adapt back to life here.

In Haiti, we are seeing repeated fuel shortages, devaluation of money and increases in prices, gang activity, and political and economic insecurity, alongside misunderstandings and fears attached to the spread of COVID19. But those things are seen. Those things are temporary.

What is unseen is eternal. Whispered prayers, neighborly kindness, faithful perseverance, shared hope and sacrificial love; these patiently cultivated assets are eternal. I have had the honor of glimpsing some of the unseen moments of other people’s lives in the past couple weeks.

I watched a woman this morning, from the comfort of the inside of our tap tap, wading in up past her knees through water, garbage, and sewage. She carefully balanced a heavy plastic bag, likely filled with drinking water pouches to sell, on her head as she navigated the flooded streets. There was determination and resilience in her cautious steps, and I realized I was probably witnessing one of the unseen moments of her life. Because many times, it’s our struggles that go unseen. For her. For me. For all of us.

So don’t belittle the struggles you are in. Use unseen moments as powerful offerings of worship. Choose forgiveness. Encourage others. And succeed or fail, remember that unseen moments matter.

Insecure. 

I have lived that word for much of my adult life. Not necessarily emotionally. Although, I know a thing or two about emotional insecurity. But how about financial insecurity. Relational insecurity. Housing. Employment. Social Media. There are a lot of things in our everyday lives that are about as secure as cracking ice on a lake.

There are a few things that have always felt secure to me, though, the most significant being my relationship with God. When I have no idea what to do, I turn to Him. I worship and sing and pray, or drive, or sometimes just hide away and cry until I feel His Spirit speaking. And He has never budged an inch no matter what ugly feelings I bring him. He is all the security I require.

A friend once taught me this mantra, “I am a child of God, clothed in Christ. There is nothing inadequate about me.” That was years ago now, but in my moments of insecurity, I have trained that phrase into my psyche so hard that I sometimes even catch myself muttering those words aloud. 

So, why am I divulging such personal information?

Because the world is insecure right now. Not that it ever has been secure, but it can feel secure from time to time. And it doesn’t feel that way now. 

And I thought maybe, we could collectively take a breath, and acknowledge that we are in fact, children of God, clothed in Christ, and we would begin to feel adequate. Through Christ, we are perfectly adequate to face cultural upheavals, equipped to withstand pandemic-sized insecurity, empowered to fight injustice, loved so we can love, forgiven so we can forgive. 

If I can go as far as misquoting Stan Lee… With great security comes great responsibility. Responsibility to stand up for one another, even if it leaves us personally feeling insecure. Responsibility to speak truth, responsibility to encourage rather than drag down, responsibility to set aside our own securities for the sake of others on thinner ice than we are.

As far as a personal update, yes, I am going back to Haiti! Annnnd, no. I still don’t know when, but the airport is tentatively reopening Haiti’s international borders within the week. I’m hoping to be in Haiti sometime mid-late July, but there are still a lot of travel complications to consider. 

For the time being, I have been granted the gift of unexpected time with my family. And I am connecting with Haitian friends and coworkers daily via messages. I am eager to get back, while learning contentment in this season of insecurity.

Matthew 11:28-30

“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.”

Micah 6:8

“He has showed you, O man, what is good. And what does the Lord require of you? To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God.” 

“Lake Street is gone.” 

That is one text message I received this morning that had me pouring over social media posts and news reports of what is and isn’t still standing in Minneapolis and St. Paul. 

It is unreal what we have watched play out in Minnesota over the past week. And while I don’t really have understanding for it, the feelings I keep hearing repeated are “sad” and “heavy”. 

Monday was Memorial Day. I am proud to be an American. I believe that my country represents freedom and diversity and opportunity. And men and women have sacrificed deeply for those things for generations.

Hanging on the wall in the Moose Lake Post Office are the images of Moises Langhorst and Matthew Milczark, two young men who died serving as Marines in 2004. I graduated high school with them in 2003. Memorial Day is an important day to remember individuals who have selflessly walked into war zones on behalf of their country, and we must always remember.

But this year, the word that kept coming to mind on Memorial Day was humility, not a word I normally equate with American pride, but a trait so desperately needed in current times. As we fumble our way through the new social norms of a worldwide pandemic, selflessness and generosity line up beside entitlement and fear, and a growing wall of defensiveness is visible just beyond our PPE. 

Then it happened. George Floyd was held to the ground, held to his death, by police officers. And the video began to circulate social media. And heartbreak and outrage. And alongside the raw grief, that horrific event was manipulated into political speeches. And again, the word humility stirred in me. 

And two major responses seemed to flow out of the next few days. The first stunningly beautiful. Black lives matter. Regardless of your feelings toward the connotations, there is no arguing that truth. People of all races, ages, religions have gathered in protest and support of George Floyd as a human being. He deserved dignity. And life.

There has been a pattern of injustice in my home state that cannot continue. Black voices have been silenced. Black men have been targeted by police over and over again. We scratch the surface of racial prejudice and wrong doing by simply acknowledging it. Humility.

The second response was startling. The looting. The rioting. The ugly devastation. But, those big fires got attention. For days, my local, national, and even international headlines have all revolved around Minneapolis.

And the burned-out cars, the rioting in the streets, the overnight takeovers with no law enforcement is a chaos I’ve never seen this close to home. It is reminiscent of the protest fires in Haiti, and my gut reaction is similar. “Why?” But I have learned that this type of reaction is not a thing I will understand, with my particular background, being white and American. I’ve never been driven to protest by a desperate feeling of being truly voiceless.

Still, as I wonder at the cost of activism and hope that some good will grow from all that’s been destroyed, we learn that people have traveled in to provoke, to destroy, to intentionally cause more division. And the governor has called in the National Guard, and we are praying that tonight will not be more of the same, as businesses and homes are boarded up and debris is swept from the streets.

And the proof is in in reports and images of people coming together. Communities rallying around one another. Bringing in groceries where the stores are closed or looted. Donating. Cleaning. Caring. Loving. Praying. Humbly.

And the news outlets seem to want to make me believe we are heading into a race war. I wouldn’t believe that, but I also wouldn’t believe most things that have happened recently. And instead of anger, we desperately need humility.

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So, I have a few prayers:

Lord, help me to walk in humility, open to the experience of others, the guidance of Your Holy Spirit, and the correction of my misconceptions.

Lord, in my whiteness, may I have the humility to acknowledge my privilege, humility to ask forgiveness, and humility to stand up for any of my brothers and sisters, no matter how different they are from myself.

Lord, may we have humility to love our neighbors.

Lord, may we have humility to rely on our neighbors.

Lord, as believers, may you grant us humility to take the lead in breaking down racial barriers.

Lord, as Americans, may we approach other nations and one another with humility.

Lord, may our leaders have the humility to place the people they serve above their political aspirations.

Lord, grant the hurting humility to heal.

Lord, grant the oppressed humility as well as renewed strength.

When power is abused, humble us.

When evil is glorified, humble us.

When division allures us, humble us.

When we humble ourselves and pray, heal our land.

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2 Corinthians 4

Therefore, since through God’s mercy we have this ministry, we do not lose heart. Rather, we have renounced secret and shameful ways; we do not use deception, nor do we distort the word of God. On the contrary, by setting forth the truth plainly we commend ourselves to everyone’s conscience in the sight of God. And even if our gospel is veiled, it is veiled to those who are perishing. The god of this age has blinded the minds of unbelievers, so that they cannot see the light of the gospel that displays the glory of Christ,who is the image of God. For what we preach is not ourselves, but Jesus Christ as Lord, and ourselves as your servants for Jesus’ sake. For God, who said, “Let light shine out of darkness,” made his light shine in our hearts to give us the light of the knowledge of God’s glory displayed in the face of Christ.

But we have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us. We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed. We always carry around in our body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may also be revealed in our body. For we who are alive are always being given over to death for Jesus’ sake, so that his life may also be revealed in our mortal body. So then, death is at work in us, but life is at work in you.

It is written: “I believed; therefore I have spoken.” Since we have that same spirit of faith, we also believe and therefore speak, because we know that the one who raised the Lord Jesus from the dead will also raise us with Jesus and present us with you to himself. All this is for your benefit, so that the grace that is reaching more and more people may cause thanksgiving to overflow to the glory of God.

Therefore we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day. For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all. So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen, since what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.

Big hope. Little hope. I am so grateful for both.

Let me explain.

When I was in college, one movie trilogy in particular explained hope to me in a way I’d never understood it. (And it wasn’t Star Wars, although for those who know me, that’s a commendable guess.) It was Lord of the Rings.

The speech Sam gives Frodo as they face their likely demise on the side of Mt Doom shook me in a good way. Sam asks Frodo if he remembers the Shire (their home they’d traveled far from) and talks about things they are missing back home, and the one that stuck out to me was strawberries and cream. “Do you remember the taste of strawberries?”, Sam asks. And Frodo doesn’t. Sam has to remind him.

They had traveled so far, and their circumstances and feelings had completely blinded Frodo to everything but the current darkness. And there is Sam, talking about strawberries and cream.

I have found in times of darkness and confusion and anxiety, one of life’s most meaningful gifts is having friends who will remind me of the strawberries.

In this analogy, strawberries represent the little hopes. Little hopes for the future have been of great importance to me, and I think, to most of us recently. A few of my little hopes are for an afternoon at Target Field, a day at the beach, meeting friends at a coffee shop, pretty much anything with family or friends, hugging my Haitian elders, and having the Grace Village kids sneak upstairs to see if there is any candy in my grocery bags.

Your little hopes are probably different than mine. Maybe a concert. A visit with a grandparent. A spa day. A day your children spend at school. A morning at the gym. Getting lost in a crowd. I know I’m not the only one with relatively small fantasies right now. And that’s ok. We have to remember the strawberries. We have to remind each other about strawberries.

Those little hopes help give us the stamina as we focus our gaze on big hope.

You may have experienced moments today that you only dreamt of a few weeks ago. Stores are reopening, people are venturing out to see one another, and our local grocery store is making construction progress on a drive thru Caribou Coffee that I’m wishing will start brewing sweet espresso any day now.

Yes, many of those little wonderful moments we dream about and can almost taste are bound to happen again. They may be sooner than we think. But things might never be the “same” same. 

The reality is that there is no guarantee of tomorrow for any of us. And we might arrive at those anticipated moments without some of the people we had wanted to share them with. That isn’t just because of the current crisis in our world. That is the broken state our world has known since the Garden of Eden.

And that is why I put all my big hope in Jesus. And peace fills my soul. It doesn’t always fill my emotions, and I have to hunt for strawberries. (I think that used to just be called counting your blessings.) But, I do have an inner joy that runs deeper than I can explain because it doesn’t come from me. It is a gift from my Father God.

I’ve been back in the states for eight whole weeks already, and I can’t believe how quickly that time has gone. Every day I get messages from people I love in Haiti and wish I was there. But, I am also grateful to be with my family here, and I know I would be miserable in Haiti, unable to get here. I have to trust the path I’m on and the Lord who lights that path.

Working with elderly people has by default turned my attention to the eternal. Several of the wonderful elders I moved to Haiti to serve have passed away since I first met them, or they have lost spouses or other family members. But I move forward with great big hope that we will be reunited in heaven along with all who have ever believed.

So, fix your heart on big hope and maybe let your eyes adjust to the light of a thousand little tangible hopes for now.

 

“We believe that Jesus died and rose again and so we believe that God will bring with Jesus those who have fallen asleep in him. According to the Lord’s own word, we tell you that we who are still alive, who are left till the coming of the Lord, will certainly not precede those who have fallen asleep. For the Lord himself will come down from heaven, with a loud command, with the voice of the archangel and with the trumpet call of God, and the dead in Christ will rise first. After that, we who are still alive and are left will be caught up together with them in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air. And so we will be with the Lord forever. Therefore encourage each other with these words.”

1 Thessalonaians 4:14-18

 

Do you know how it feels when a song gets stuck in your head out of nowhere, but you only remember part of it, so you end up Googling it because you’ll drive yourself nuts if you don’t think of the whole thing, and the only way to put your mind at ease is to see all the lyrics and play it through on your guitar?

Just me?

Maybe.

Anyway, that happened to me one day last week with the line “You dance over me, when I am unaware…”. It’s an older song. But, here it is if it’s stuck in your head now too: https://youtu.be/D9S86nMqaLg

We will circle back to that in a minute.

One month ago today, I flew away from my home in Haiti, the people I love there, the daily service I feel called to, because I felt that was the best decision for me for this time. I had to make that decision quickly due to closing borders and limited flights, but I prayed a lot first. I asked input from several people I trust and followed their counsel. And I do plan to go back just as soon as borders are open and I can travel without putting anyone at risk.

I still believe that was the best decision I could make for myself and my family in the midst of everything going on in Haiti and in the world. But that decision broke my heart. And, here, four weeks later, my heart is still broken and waiting to return.

I don’t have a good attitude today. I have a barely holding myself together-itude today, so when my brother says, “Earth to Katie!” for the eleventh time in a row because I’m paying attention to the text messages on my phone and not the video game he is playing, my reaction may be lightly tempered by the fruit of the spirit, but it is definitely liberally lathered in impatience.

I don’t like this. There are definite benefits to focusing on the positives, but I am not going to deny that this is hard.

I need to clarify that I am grateful to have this time at home. I am grateful for time with family; puzzles and games and HGTV shows and lots of home-cooked food. I’m enjoying afternoon batting practice with my brother and anytime coffee with my parents.

But this isn’t what I want. This current situation isn’t what anyone wants. (Well, earth to Katie! Matthew thinks this is the best.)

I’m not asking for sympathy. Everyone is struggling right now with different things and I’m not claiming to understand what anyone else is going through. I’m just trying to acknowledge that, yes. This is difficult.

I haven’t seen COVID19 up close, not in the dramatic ways we see in the nightly news briefings. I’m grateful for that. I’ve seen it in in the socially distanced grocery store lines and neighbors in gloves and masks, standing several car-lengths apart. I’ve heard it whispered about as it impacts more and more of my friend’s lives and not just friends of friends. So, I can follow the rules and stay in and do my best to keep my family safe.

I feel the distance. I feel unsettled. I want to take control and go where I want. I know others feel the same.

Just me?

Maybe.

Communication helps. I get text messages and WhatsApp messages and facebook messages from friends in Haiti every day. Pictures and notes and video clips, and I’m still connected. I can still support the ministry happening there and be a part of it, even as I am distanced.

I’ve prayed more lately than usual. And that seems to be a common story from others I’ve talked with. The urgency of global pandemic, especially in regard to Haiti and other vulnerable populations, has led a lot of people to pray.

I like to think that in all the prayers, God is reveling in the closeness with His people.

Prayer bridges the distance we allow between ourselves and God. Between our world and Him. Between our problems and the only one who can solve them.

I said I would circle back to that old song, remember?

Well, I love the imagery of God dancing over us and we don’t even know it, but that imagery is also terribly sad. It is sad that God knows the heart break of distance from us. In the song, we are the ones who are unaware. The distance is not because God is far away. It is because we are unaware.

Let’s be aware.

“Father, I want those you have given me to be with me where I am, and to see my glory, the glory you have given me because you loved me before the creation of the world.” -Jesus in John 17:24

 

I’ve been doing a study on the disciple John, which has suddenly made the timeline of Christ’s last days and death and resurrection and other last days on earth spring to life in vivid new ways for me. Because as I connect with John as a multi-faceted human being, I am able to see the story from his perspective just a little. And that glimpse adds a level of humanity and emotion to the Easter story that brings me comfort right now.

Before you get impressed with me, I want to acknowledge my outright plagiarism. The actual study here was done by Beth Moore, for “Beloved Disciple, The Life and Ministry of John.” What follows is some of what I’m learning and associated ramblings.

John was close to Jesus, arguably, closer than anyone else on earth. He, along with Peter and James, were invited into the most intimate experiences with Jesus. They alone were there when Jesus was transfigured on the mountain (Mark 9), and when Jesus enter the bedroom of a dead girl and raised her back to life (Mark 5), the three were there. John leaned against Jesus at the Last Supper and as Jesus sweat drops of blood in prayer in the Garden of Gethsemane, the three were his sleepy witnesses (Matthew 26).

In John 18, in the story of Peter’s denial, “another disciple” is mentioned who goes into the high priest’s courtyard with Jesus. I am going to assume this is John. John is there. Not hearing the story of what happened to Jesus, but watching him, listening, seeing, feeling.

Throughout the entire story, arrest to crucifixion, John is there. Every accusation, humiliation, and pain inflicted. In John 19:26, Jesus turns to his mother and to John and asks them to care for each other.

John watches his savior die, not understanding what is to come, but faithful to him, nonetheless. And after the Sabbath, when they hear that the body has gone missing, Peter and John sprint to the tomb and find this to be true (John 20). Verses 8-9 say “Finally the other disciple, who had reached the tomb first, also went inside. He saw and believed. (They still did not understand from Scripture that Jesus had to rise from the dead.)”

It was only hours later that evening that they saw him in person for the first time. But, what complex emotions they must have felt in those hours! And that grief-filled Sabbath in between with no explanation! Just sadness. And trust.

Acts 1:3 speaks of a period of 40 days where Jesus appeared to his apostles, and we really don’t know how often or many of the details of that timeframe. There weren’t many flannelgraphs that I remember between resurrection and ascension. There had to have been incredible joy in that time, but also stretches of waiting and uncertainty.

There are elements of my faith I feel connection with right now in this current season that are not necessarily new but being renewed. I am grateful that as I sit in a time of uncertainty and sadness, that God is in control. Even in tragedy, the Lord has plans that are deeper than I can understand right now.

We see miracles and know hope. Jesus can close the door, take a young girl’s cold, dead hand in his and restore life. He still does those things today. I believe that. He can absolutely spare nations from COVID19. I am praying for that! I know many people are. Yet, my reliance on his goodness and his mercy does not depend on the answer to that prayer.

Jesus may ask us to follow Him to dark and deathly places. Or ask us to sit and wait while darkness and uncertainty seem to fill the world around us. I don’t need to be afraid of any of those places, as long as He is with me. I want to stick close, like John. I think if I do that, I will understand later, when I need to.

Virtual church has been a blessing in this time of discontinuity and uncertainty. This morning from my self-quarantine, I was able to join with both Haitian and American churches in worship. And if I wanted to, I could log into churches all day long all over the world.

That increased access is a wonderful thing. Increased access to worship. Increased access to the body of Christ. But, in that time of prayer and worship this morning, my heart was drawn to the pastors I would not see online this week. My Haitian pastors, who are also being asked to respect social distancing and keep their churches closed. Whose congregations do not have smart phones to access church.

Since the time I first moved to Haiti, the pastors at both Grace Church and Hope Church, have been some of the biggest surprises to me personally. They are men I come toe to toe with on occasion and some days have felt incredibly at odds with, culturally. They are also men who pray with fervor and care deeply for their families and communities. They are my dear friends.

I hated telling them that I would be leaving for the states for a time, feeling in myself that I was abandoning a work I had committed to. And without time to plan, I had to do that communication over text message. Each of them responded with kindness and mutual commitments to be in prayer for one another. One of them was still messaging me while I was on the airplane on Wednesday, reminders of how special I was and how much he was going to miss me in my absence.

So, this blog is simply a prayer request. Please pray for our pastors. Pray for Pastor Daniel and Pastor James Felix and their families as they lead Grace Church in Titanyen during this time. And pray for Pastor Dieudonne and Pastor Jocelyn and their families as they cannot even get to Hope Church in Cite Soleil during this time. Pray for their peace as they, like all of us, are having to trust so much to the Lord and to others at this time.

Pray for the lay leadership of the churches who are stepping in to care for one another. Pray for protection for our church members, our pastors and their families, and the communities we represent. Pray that worship would rise up as people gather in their own homes, and that pastoral hearts around the world would be responsive to where the Lord leads.

Remember to reach out to your friends today and remind them they are important and special to you. Maybe reach out to your pastor and remind them too.

 

I’m used to lock downs. Living in Haiti means living in a place that can lock down at any time. So, I know that when I get a chance to go to the grocery store, I might not get that chance again for a couple weeks. The freedom to travel today does not guarantee me the same for tomorrow.

Sometimes, my lockdowns are personal; I have limited access to transportation and a limited schedule of availability for errands. Sometimes, lockdowns are specific, and we are grounded because of local or targeted threats. Sometimes, the entire country essentially goes on lockdown and we don’t know how long it will last.

But, these past few days and weeks, I’ve watched as the world has locked down. And this is new to me. Because in the back of my mind, I always knew I could leave here and go home. And now, home in also on lock down. People in the states who have never not been free to travel and shop and eat out and go to school are being locked down for their own protection. And it hurts. And I don’t like not being there when my people are hurting. But I made my decision over the past week that the best place for me to stay now is here in Haiti.

I’m watching from afar as everyone reacts all over social media, the full spectrum of hilarity and heartache that is the human experience, but I want to take a moment to acknowledge that this is difficult for each person. And it is difficult for each person in different ways and that is ok.

People are grieving the experiences that they expected to have in the next several weeks; graduations, weddings, vacations, parties, school days, and paychecks. People are disappointed. People are stressed. People are afraid. For themselves. And those they love. People are lonely. In-person social circles have suddenly shrunk to the people living in one’s own home, and that can be intimidating. Yes, there are silver linings. Yes, this can be very good. But, yes, this will be difficult.

So, what is my point? In your determination to properly isolate, don’t forget that God doesn’t ask you to keep your dirty hands out of his face. Run to him in this time of disruption from our normal busy schedules and let Him use the stillness to speak to you.

“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.” Matthew 11:28

Also, talk to your friends. We have to physically protect one another for a season, but we still need each other desperately. If you need a friend to message and want someone who’s felt a little locked in before… I know a girl! 😉

There is a verse that has stood out to me in new ways recently. Actually, it has stopped me dead in my tracks. It is a simple verse in the middle of a simple story in the middle of a complex and heart-wrenching time in the life of Christ.

It’s a story you you know. Before Jesus is betrayed by Judas, he is anointed by a woman and her jar of perfume. And she is side-eyed and judged and rebuked. But, I love the simple phrasing the NIV uses, when Jesus literally says of her, “She did what she could.” (Mark 14:8)

And he honors that act of worship.

Yes, I have made mistakes living in Haiti. And I have had to make decisions that were weighty and unfair.

I recently witnessed a man (that we know pretty well in our small community) turned away from our clinic because his needs were beyond our capacity to treat and he didn’t have the money needed to get the treatment at a different hospital. If we had had more money, we could have helped, but we also didn’t have enough. So, I had to say no. And he died.

As a missionary, sometimes it is my place to intervene, and sometimes I have to look away and move on. And it feels harsh and cruel. Haiti is a harsh place.

Other moments are pure magic, and I try to share those when I can. I get the honor of holding a new baby and being asked to be her godmother. (Yes, I know that’s because I’m white and they think I have money, but let me have my moment here, ok!?!)

Walking out onto the school grounds and being greeted by a hundred “Kah-tee”s brings joy to my soul in ways I never expected! Building sweet little friendships with the grandchildren of the elders and the children at Grace Church, these have become my moments of worship. These are the things I can do, somedays the only things I can do. And that is where my responsibility lies, in doing what I can do.

Last weekend, I attended a women’s conference with several of our female Healing Haiti staff. The theme was “Mennen’m”, “Lead Me”. It was an incredible time of worship and teaching, but what I loved most was spending time around these women who inspire me on every single day.

Without divulging too much personal information, I have watched them selflessly give when their own hearts were broken so many times. I’ve witnessed them care for children and elders sacrificially, giving more than they had. I watch them come to work, even when they are scared.

They aren’t new to harsh times in Haiti. They’ve lost family. They’ve worked hard and loved hard and worshiped with all they have. They did what they could. They consistently do what they can.

And they raise their hands and joyfully surrender in the middle of it. Yes, lead me like that too, Lord.

Then there is my sister, who is my encourager, via silly GIFs on WhatsApp mostly. But we share our horror stories too. And last night she sent me this because I was stressed:

“The kingdom is not in trouble and neither and I.” So I will do what I can.