Last month, I was finally reunited with my friend Jesselyn in Haiti. We'd both been in and out of Haiti for the past year or so, but we kept missing one another. We decided to fly out together from Port-Au-Prince and ended up even spending the night in a shut-down Miami awaiting our postponed flights.
We chatted at the bistro upstairs of the boarding area, overlooking the little American Airlines terminal. We moved our tickets around to sit next to one another, not being able to stand the excitement of being around one another. "So much to catch up on," I said to her as we boarded the plane.
Wouldn't you know, there's just something about the hum of an airplane that lulls me to sleep? I fought it, but when Jesselyn ended up putting in her headphones, I dozed off. We woke up in Miami and laughed at how little time we'd spent talking.
Granted, airplanes are loud. And, they are these uncomfortable sort of "in between" spaces. I mean, in this case, we are literally in between two countries, high up in the air. But, it has got me thinking about all the discomfort I feel when I experience an "in between" space. And it feels as if my life has been kind of full of them lately.
Battling several different health issues, needing a new place for us to be based out of for the US side of the non-profit, needing to work on some areas of brokenness in both myself and my marriage...I found myself in quite an "in between" space this year. Somehow all the years of being packed solid with activity and adventure came to a screeching hault for me and it was terrible. Who was I if not the adventures I lived? I came to realize that my discomfort with those in between spaces and long, breathy pauses made me want to crawl out of my own skin.
I kept thinking about how many times I am faced with a pause and what I do with that time. Sometimes resting is good. Sleeping in that plane was great. However, more times than not, I find myself being lulled to sleep by the convenience of the world around me and the lack of energy I have to put forth any effort to love or care for people. I check out. I look at my phone, I stare at the tv, I do anything to avoid the discomfort of just being with that strange and taunting in between space.
It's that whole "I can't adult" culture thing that convinces me that I have a right to check out of my own awkwardness. I have somehow, through all of this, actually convinced myself that it is actually better for me if I don't deal with pain or weird uncomfortable stuff or issues that matter. I have actually convinced myself that the condition of my life and heart could be better off if I spent that awkward time watching the MTV hit "Catfish" and stuffing my face with gluten free chocolate chip cookies. Whoof. That's a lie.
While I have been thinking about all of this since my last plane ride home to the US, it took Haiti to show me this again.
We flew down at this particular time to help out our national partners with their summer camp. We have about 130 kids that come daily to our huge pavilion and it just takes a lot to run. Working with kids, it is obviously very important to have structured time. However, there is just no way to keep 130 kids totally occupied from 8-2:30 every single second of the day. So, we were faced with a lot of awkward pauses. It feels weird for me, the person hosting a team, to see these pauses. It reminds me that we are not in control of the schedule or how the kids will respond to something. It makes me feel somehow ill-equipped and like a sham. Who am I to have thought that I could help host this kind of camp?
But then, I see what actually happens while I am attempting to avoid these awkward pauses.
The people dance.
The people talk.
The people play.
The people argue.
The people embrace their time.
Time is a precious commodity all over the world. But, people in Haiti remind me of this. These pauses, in fact, are not weird or awkward or limiting. They are instead sacred. They are full of the life we make. They are full of the trials we face. They are full of raw emotion and beautiful healing and full stories and facing our fears. They are full of embracing identity- who we are is a gift.
Haiti teaches me new things all the time. But, I am so thankful for this lesson: this gift. The gift of a pause. The gift of remembering how out of control our lives actually are. How we can dance through it all and embrace it. And to think, I had started trading that for cheetos and Modern Family.
It was etched into my mind, but it was hard to remember even still. Like a faded memory, or stretching to see the time on my clock in the morning without my glasses on, it was so blurry. The honesty of Haiti hits me like a brick every time I come back home (here). Nothing hides here, at least not in the same way that we hide in the USA.
The heat does not come on gently, but seems to linger both before the sun rises and after it sets. The sun shines so brightly and brashly; the trees break out harshly from the ground. The kids do not make their feelings hidden, rather expressing them loudly for their interested neighbors to hear. The trash burns, reminding the community of their waste. Each night, everyone faces the incredibly honest fact that it is 2017 and many of them do not have access to electricity.
Haiti is brutally honest. It does not hide itself for others, nor does it pretend to be anything other than what it is: take it or leave it. While many see this as a bad thing, I have really started to welcome it. Because it is in Haiti that I myself have learned to be honest.
In the United States, we can hide from one another, from our fears and our opinions. We can hide even when it looks like participating. We share Facebook posts or sit over coffee and discuss ideas. But, we are hidden. Our lives are hidden from one another; our fears are unknown to each other; our abilities can be stretched or elaborated. Reality is a confusing thing to us in the United States at times. We are unsure of what is right and wrong, for some of us. Unsure of how to fight injustices, we either make excuses or talk them into the ground.
In Haiti, these things laid on my heart are put to the test almost instantaneously. I can no longer speak of a life I long to live, but put my faith and actions to work as I am in the middle of an incredibly honest culture.
I look back on my life experiences here and laugh. I think about how one of the first times I ever really heard this honesty was one of my first months in Haiti in which a woman turned to me, after several attempts at saying it in Creole, said in her broken English “Your butt! …its beautiful…and so big!” The honest parts of this culture challenge me in all ways, for sure.
While it can be hard, it is also enlightening. For me here, there is no stretch between what reality is and what my concept is. I see the reality of people I work with and know and love every day. This is their reality. My reality is that I have chosen to be a part of this life with them for some moments, and even in that never fully understand it. Though my perspective is different, reality doesn’t change.
Haiti reminds me of the importance of putting your actions behind your words. How it might be easy for me to hide in a coffee shop or wonder aloud at the injustices in the world, but it really doesn’t change much. In order to change, we have to put in the work. It can be long and painstaking, it can cause us to suffer. But, man, this honesty that I am met with in Haiti is something I need so desperately. I cannot hide. I am who I am here; I am only capable of what I can bring. I have realized rather quickly that if you bring something without love, it is nothing.
So often we feel badly for nations who are unlike our developed countries. We wonder what it must be like to go to sleep without food or lose someone to a disease with a common cure. While these are worthy reflections, I find myself caught between two realities. There is one that says my life is only good if I have access to all of these things, if I can spend money and do things I need to do, if I can put myself first. The other reality is here and it is honest. It tells me that while our needs are important, that nothing can truly replace our character, our honesty, and the amount of love we give away.
Ithad been a long summer. The sun scoured down on all of us, as we worked tirelessly to complete water projects in that beautiful Caribbean island. In our little red truck, nicknamed El Tigre Rojo, we drove from San Pedro in the Dominican Republic to our current place in Port-Au-Prince, Haiti. We'd just spent the last 3 weeks working in a steamy, grimy city and we were ready to head back to our next location.
We'd dropped off a few people at the airport that morning. At that time, we were all trying to spend some time at home over the summer for seasonal work. After that, it was only me, Ryan, and our friends Zach and Philipson. Ryan had procured a broken leg just a few weeks before then and his leg was bound up in a make-shift cast. I laughed as he brushed up against me, all of us trying to squish into the truck out of Port-Au-Prince.
There's this stretch of road as you drive out of Port that is filled with potholes and bumpy video game like stretches. It is full of beauty, though, too. There are little villages scattered about, banana trees, hills of red dirt and people all around. For me, it is like taking a deep breath of fresh(er) air. During this particular drive out, as I was filling up my proverbial lungs with that fresh air, a large thud brought me back to reality. Our truck had stopped. In the middle of the road.
Did I mention my husband was in a leg cast with crutches?
Quickly, the situation was resolved enough to push the truck, with Ryan steering the large truck, close enough to a gas station to coast in there.
Though it would seem like we'd run out of gas, this was not the problem. It was the issue of no water in the radiator! While this is an easy enough fix, I don't think I will ever forget what happened for the next 15 minutes. It went like this: asking where we could park our car and trying to coast there. Being told to move our car. Getting out of the car and looking for water. Finding out there was a well on property. Looking for a bucket. Finding rope to tie to the bucket. Dropping the bucket into the well. Pulling up a very small amount of water. Pouring that into another bucket for someone else to pour into the car. And then repeat.
About 45 minutes later, we were all back in the car, laughing at the what we had to do to fix this problem. We carried on and crossed the border back into the Dominican Republic and the rest is history.
This story is good for me. This season has been one of extreme ups and downs for me- adjusting to life in a new way and feeling like there is supposed to be a "quick fix" button for me to push in order for me to coast my way through these issues. However, it just hasn't been like that. With each obstacle I have faced, there are 100 little nuances that need to be taken care of, as well.
I am the car in this story today. I need some seemingly easy care, but I can't seem to get it together to get up the hill. I need help from my people. I need a quick fix, but what I get is a bucket to drop down into that deep part of myself that I don't want to think about at the moment. For deep healing, though, I've gotta do it. I am wrestling with giving up, attempting to drive my car and keep moving forward without the necessary items I need just so I don't have to deal with digging into that well of mine. That's not going to happen though-- because, you know, the truck is broken down. My heart and my body are screaming out the same thing, too. Take care of me! So, I have been trying to do this. To hone in and focus.
To be honest, I just didn't think it would take so much work.
That's the thing about getting well. We have to want it bad enough to truly seek those deep places that aren't really open in our hearts. We have to be willing to do the difficult work, even though we think there could be an easier way to do these things. Easy and efficent does not always equal whole and healing.
Today, I am in need of a little water. And, for the first time in a while I am willing to do whatever it takes to make sure I get it.
When I went to Tanzania so long ago, I remember logging everything in the journal I had purchased before I went on my 3 month trip. With each entry, I gained perspective and hope. That summer I learned and observed so much, and I was able to process it because of my own dedication to making time to write.
Fast forward to now, the end of the year 2016. Since that summer in Tanzania, so much has changed. I am married to that same adventureous man I made the initial trek with, and together we have been working in Haiti and the Dominican Republic since late 2010. I stopped journaling around 2013.
Things got really hard and messy and complicated. When I went to write, I could no longer eek out what I was witnessing or what I was learning. That stretch lasted until about...oh, November 2016. I am back in the USA for a season and in this time, I have learned a lot about myself and had so much time to think about what I have learned in these years backlogged.
So, I have decided to start a different kind of journal. This one is messy, confusing at times and full of adventure. It is not really chronological, nor is it neat and tidy. This journal will, however, hold the stories so dear to my heart and the lessons I have taken away from them (along with the questions I have from these experiences). Feel free to tag along with me, or not- because these stories are coming out one way or another :).
overthinker and under-planned; development worker, believer, friend, wife, sister, daughter; learning a lot every day.