stuck on the beauty, post-Haiti reflection

I’ve been back from Haiti for three days now, three nights’ worth of sleep in my own bed, three days’ worth of making meals for the boys, cleaning up toys, reading and hugging and laughing with the two children that belong to me.

Haiti’s images wash over me, waves of sounds and colors, when I least expect.

It happens while I’m folding laundry, holding up the boxers that belong to Carter and I see him, the orphaned one whose name I never learned, running past me, rubble flying up, skinny, ashy legs, bottom covered only by boxers because no one cares about the delineation of certain clothes for certain purposes–it’s all function, down there, no luxury of what’s proper and what’s not.

It happens when Walker cries because his bottom is covered in red rash and I grab the ointment and a fresh diaper and I wonder–what do the mommas do when their babies cry? Why am I the one allowed the privilege of meeting every need of my child, never having to soothe only with my arms, with my prayers and my songs, never having to plead for his physical healing because a prayer is all I have? What would my motherhood look like with no doctor, no hospital for emergencies, no ointment for red bottoms?

It happens when I wake and I sense the physical distance we’ve created from each other here in this culture and my house, my neighborhood, is quiet. Too quiet. I long for the sounds of life, for the immediate sense of community, for the sounds of the roosters and the children getting ready for school, for the songs of the kitchen cooks, rising up to greet us, even for the honks of the tap-taps letting us know that another day begins, and will we rise to it?

There was beauty in Haiti and it belonged to no possession. We would not be permitted, for even a moment, to attach value and awe to anything brought forth by the brawn and pride of man. The only influence of a grand Architect was displayed in the mountains that surrounded us, early morning mist and sun rays highlighting their structure, their strength, the ingenuity of their design. The women adorned themselves with quiet strength, with stories untold of heartache and hope, arms strengthened not by the resistance of weights at a gym, but by the carrying of children, of burdens, of bags, with little complaint. The way they balanced heavy loads on their heads, traipsing over rock and rubble, rhythm of step unhindered, I’ll never know. In their shadow, I just felt weak.

The worshipers, the ones who gathered to lift high the name of Jesus, their spirits were aflame with glory. Their hearts weren’t tethered to temporary things, symbols of status that fill our souls, that satiate our appetites and produce within us lethargic, apathetic pursuits of God. There was a boldness, a desperation there, and they were saturated in it, spilling over, splashing us. We were like locusts in their sights, these giants of faith.

And the children.

We were sorry for them, we were burdened for their state, otherwise we would not have come, we would not have invested in their care, in this project. We were moved for their plight before our plane even landed. And we thought we had hope to offer them.

What we didn’t know to expect was the profound depth of love they would offer to us.

We couldn’t imagine they would ask us the names of our family members, these orphans with no mother or father, with a hundred brothers and sisters and none of them biological, and then turn around and tell us how much Jesus loved our families. We couldn’t know how deeply their touch, their embraces would reach, way down into the ugly places of the soul, those recesses we think even Jesus can’t love. We wouldn’t expect them to remember our names, one blanc after the other, passing through their homes, their lives, weekend after missionary-weekend, and yet, they would. And they would call those names with such love, with such ownership. We would hear of their respective stories, one raped and pregnant by 12, one beaten by his father, one {many} whose parents died in that terrible quake two years ago, left abandoned to the streets. And then we’d place each story to the faces of the ones we held, scrimmaged with on the soccer field, let braid our mangy hair, let stroke our pale skin. And it would break us, this love offered up freely, all over again.

There was beauty in Haiti. And I’m stuck on it. May it linger long, long after the routines return, after transition to American culture transpires.

And, as with any good gift from the Father, may it resonate in me, through me, taking on ramifications that extend from now through eternity.