Climbing above it all...

Wednesday, May 20^th, 2015

     Today as I sit by my bedroom window, gazing out at the dreary, weeping skies, I feel just a slight longing for the blazing sun of the Caribbean.  And my frigid fingers quite agree with me.  It is May, for goodness’ sake!  Where are the fresh spring breezes and puffy white clouds?  These gray skies, drizzly rains, and should-be-February winds are pushing my mind back to Haiti, back to a morning from a few weeks ago…

      It was barely dawn when my eyes opened, and for some reason I was fully awake.  It had been a long week: sick children, early morning prayer meetings in our yard, less helpers than usual at Kids Club, dealings with difficult people, equipment breaking at the worst possible moments, and the heat and humidity of the rainy season slowly growing more and more intense each day.  I was exhausted and hadn’t slept well.  It wasn’t yet 6:30 a.m., and the air around me was already sticky and hot.  I rolled my eyes and flopped out of bed.

      Then I remembered…I’d been wanting to spend one of my quiet times on the roof before I left.  What a perfect opportunity!  I grabbed my ipod and hurried outside, eager to reach my retreat before anyone saw me and tried to interfere.  “Thank you, Lord!”  I thought, seeing the ladder still there, leaning against the house, left from last month’s solar panel installation.  That was probably the fastest I’ve ever climbed a ladder in my life (I’m pretty scared of heights, but life in Haiti has been working to cure me of that).

       Reaching the top, I breathed a sigh of relief.  I’d made it this far with no interruptions.  Shifting my feet to stay balanced on the slanted cement, I remained standing for a bit, taking in the view.  In one direction I could watch from above as the ladies in the yard swept and prepared the charcoal fire to begin breakfast.  Before me was the beach, the crashing waves as the tide came in, and the glassy-silver expanse of a sea that had not yet been touched by the light of morning.  To the left of that was the wharf, already bustling with merchants disembarking the speedboat that had just carried them over from the small island across the bay.

       But then I turned around, and found my gaze lifted up, up: past the wall surrounding our compound, past the main road, past the rooftops of the village, to the very peaks of the mountains. Suddenly my heart was at peace.  I tiptoed around the solar panels, found an open spot, and, putting my earbuds in, turning on my worship music, I sat down and watched the sun make its leisurely appearance.

       As music praising the Creator wove its way through my being and the first rays of light peered between the mountains and lit the tips of the palm fronds, all of the tenseness and worry of the previous days melted away.  Not that I forgot all that had happened; it just didn’t matter so much anymore.  Because all the sickness and heartache and mechanical problems and division were not what it’s all about.  This.  This beauty.  This daily renewal.  And the Creator of it all.  That’s what it’s all about.

      Sometimes in life it’s like our feet are stuck in the mud.  And every time we get one foot out the other one sinks farther in.  When there’s mud all around us it’s really hard to lift our chins and look up.  We want to focus on getting out of the mud, and how can we do that unless we’re looking down at it?  I mean, that makes the most sense, doesn’t it?

        But if the mud just keeps getting deeper, and thicker, and heavier, maybe it’s time to stop struggling and turn our faces heavenward.  Maybe it’s time to be still and just wait, wait for the sun to come out and dry up the pathway.

        That’s what I found out that day.  That day I climbed above my circumstances and got a fresh perspective.  That day I remembered Who it’s really all about.

"Be strong, and let your heart take courage, all you who wait for the Lord!"

Psalm 31:24

Sunday School in Haiti

Wednesday, April 1, 2015

 

       People often ask me what Haiti is like.  The first summer I came back and heard that question the questioners were often met with a blank stare.  How on earth could I answer that in the short time they were willing to listen?  I quickly learned that I had to come up with a brief yet informative answer to satisfy them.  After all, most of the time they legitimately wanted to know.  Each passing year that I spend in Haiti, however, my “brief” answer grew longer and longer.  Soon the query, “What’s Haiti like?” was once again met with silence.  I felt bad, but I could not, for the life of me, think of a single word or even phrase to tell them that would truthfully and completely describe my Haiti.  I felt that unless I could do that I was not doing it justice. 

 

        If you, dear reader, are one of those who have been rudely answered, or not answered, by a blank stare, or by stammering words that don’t really say anything, please accept this as my apology.  I’m working on another “pat” answer for those who are genuinely wanting to know, but the more time I spend in Haiti the more difficult it is for me to answer such a question.  I find myself turning to this blog to let my fingers do the speaking, the answering.  Though it is next to impossible to answer such a loaded question with one short reply, here I can do my best to describe the more specific versions of this inquiry.  Today I would like to answer such a one.  This is for those who have wondered, “What’s it like, teaching Sunday School in Haiti?”

 

         The quick, eye-opening answer I usually give to those who ask this question is:

“Well, imagine taking thirty kids from East St. Louis, or the south side of Chicago; kids ranging from two years old to thirteen or fourteen, and put them together at about 8:00 a.m. on a Sunday morning in an open-air building, with two or three wooden benches and a flannelgraph board, and that’s my Sunday School in Haiti, more or less.” 

 

          Reading back through what I just typed makes me chuckle.  It sounds terrifying.  Or at least it would have terrified me five years ago.  Most of the time, however, though it is tiring and hard work, the children only bring me blessings and joy.  Even on the mornings when I would much rather stay in bed than make myself rise before the sun, prepare the lesson, get dressed, and join the other passengers in the vehicle that is leaving for church, as soon as I arrive and see the smiles on the faces of the tiny ones, the hidden eagerness of the older kids, I remember that it is all worth it.  And when a six year old little boy whose language would have shamed a sailor begins to stop and think before he lets the curse words fly; when one of the quietest girls in my class shyly turns to me in the morning service and asks to borrow my song book, or my Bible; when half of the class runs to greet me and each of them grabs a bag, book, or other piece of my arm load of supplies, so ready to help lighten my load, God gently tells me that even though the tasks He may ask of us are not easy, they are always full of priceless treasures.  We just have to open our eyes to see them along the way.

 

              Of course, on some days these treasures are harder to find than on others.  And that brings me back to my first description of Sunday School in Haiti.  A couple of stories in particular are what led me to use such terms in answering inquiring individuals.  Like the time I walked into our “classroom” to find two small boys in the beginnings of a scrap with each other, each holding a stick whittled to a dangerous point.  It didn’t look too serious; they were still giggling when I broke it up, but I wasn’t taking any chances.  Holding out my hand to receive the makeshift daggers, I suddenly found a razor blade in my palm!  I’m sure my horror was quite evident, for the little culprit began to hide his face behind his friend’s back in impish shame.  Only once I was in possession of said razor blade (which I’m sure was the means by which they sharpened the sticks, but as far as I was concerned anything that could be used as a weapon later if the fight picked up again, was not going home with any of my Sunday school students) and both sticks, and had made both boys empty their pockets in front of me (fortunately displaying no more life-threatening objects), could I be at ease to begin my lesson.  Even then I made sure to keep my eyes open for anything suspicious.  What kind of world was I in where eight-year-olds carry open razor blades in their pockets to Sunday School?!

 

          On another morning I arrived after most of the children were already sitting in their places, and began my normal routine of setting out my Bible and curriculum, then sent for the keys so I could open the room where the flannelgraph board and easel were kept.  While we waited for the keys I led them in a prayer and a song, and everything seemed fine, though they did seem a little bit more on edge than usual.  Or was it just me?  When the keys arrived, I unlocked the door and entered the next room to retrieve the board, and suddenly found the door closing behind me! 

 

           Okay, in order to put you in my shoes and not seem like a total wimp, let me explain: the storage room I had just entered was almost pitch black, having only a few tiny slits in the concrete to serve as window, and more than once had I been surprised by an enormous spider sitting expectantly on said board, almost as though it knew I would be coming in there that morning.  Most creepy crawlies are not really that creepy to me; I can usually handle them, but spiders are a whole different story.  I don’t even want to be in the same county as them, let alone a darkened room, and especially not the enormous kind Haiti harbors.  Even as I’m typing this I’m getting a chill up my spine and am tempted to check the wall behind me for lurking arachnids. 

 

           Now that you understand a little better, let’s return to the story: I was in the room, suddenly realizing that the door I’d just come through was quickly being closed.  I dropped the board (fortunately spider-less that morning) and jumped to the door, sticking my foot in the narrowing slit just in time.  I heard laughter and scuffling as the little rascals hurried back to the benches.  My fear getting the better of me, and my embarrassment at having such childish fears of dark and spiders, I exited the room with crossed arms and a glare that cowed even the ring leaders of the group. 

 

            I was sure I knew who had convinced the class that locking the teacher in the storage depot would be a good idea, so I, still frowning, icily informed him that he would be the one now entering the room to get the board and easel.  He hesitated, and I reassured him that I was quite serious.  I saw him gulp, then slowly he stood, shuffled his feet to the doorway, and with a glance at me that tried to be defiant, he entered.  One of his cronies whispered to me, “Let’s shut him in there now!” “My, how quickly our friends can turn on us,” I thought wryly, and shook my head firmly at him, but his friend had heard him and jumped back to the door, still held open by me.  I told him no one was going to shut him inside, that God wants us to do good to those who hurt us, and I was doing my best to follow that command.  He finally found both items, and brought them out to me.  I quickly locked the door again, put the keys in my bag, and silently and methodically went about my business preparing the flannelgraph for our story.

 

         But before I could begin the lesson I had planned, I felt the need to expand a little on the topic I had just opened: about treating others as we want to be treated, whether they deserve it or not.  My lecture lasted a little longer than I’d intended, so our actual lesson had to be cut short, and I’m sure by the end of it, the guilty parties were pretty sorry they’d attempted any such thing, just so they could have been spared such a monologue.  But at least nothing like that ever happened again.  And I was grateful that they didn’t actually succeed in their scheme.

 

          In the moment, of course, each of these situations seemed dreadful, and it took me all morning and a few hours with a book on the beach to get over it, but now that I am looking back on them all I can do is laugh.  Today in school I was helping Alexandra with her English reading, and were talking about the five senses.  She was supposed to fill in the blank of “The nerves in our skin give us the sense of _____________” with “touch”, and Josiah, overhearing, blurted out, “Humor!”  We all had an appropriate laugh over that one.  I’m so glad that is the first “sense” he thinks of.  After all, in this life, what would we do without our sense of humor?  Teaching Sunday School in Haiti, I have definitely been grateful for it.

More lessons...

Saturday, February 07, 2015

 

       The sun has just slipped behind the island, the hush of dusk falls over the beach.  We move our chairs to sit around the pool (really just an empty basin – a very deep swimming pool that has been out of service since the former owner left), taking advantage of the last few minutes of light and silence.  We watch the sky as it turns all hues of rosy-pinks, golden, and silvery-blues.  The first star appears overhead and an even deeper quiet ensues.  When the kids finally realize we are too enrapt in the moment to answer their never-ending questions they climb on the trampoline and jump.  Soon it is too dark to see; so dark we can hardly remember how bright the sun had been shining only a short while before.

 

         Just when the silence becomes more unnerving than peaceful we hear the creak and slam of metal.  The door swings open; we cannot see it, but we know from the sound.  Pastor Kiki is home!  We listen intently as his sandaled feet cross the rocky yard.  Even the children are quiet now and have ceased their jumping.  The silence grows more intense, impatience causing the wait to feel like an eternity.  Then, suddenly, the roar of a motor cuts the silence like the last stroke of an axe felling a tree.  Every wall echoes with the sound.  Over that we hear, “Way, yay! Way, yay! Way, yay!”  The children are back up, jumping with all their might, shouting with glee.  And then…light.  Fans.  Computers.  Electricity.  The generator is on.

 

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            The above account is (or was) our nightly ritual.  The kids know what it means for the generator to be on.  Computers, movie time, ice from the freezer, and more.  So every time they hear the generator the chant begins: “Way, yay! Way, yay! Way, yay!”  Over and over.  Every night, without fail.

             What’s so funny is that, with the help of some of our partners, we now have an inverter and solar panels, which means we don’t have to turn on the generator as often.  So on most nights, now we are able to simply flip a switch and the lights go on.  Of course, when the solar panels don’t give enough charge to the batteries, or if we have to run more things than the inverter can hold, on goes the generator.  But even if the lights are already lit, phones and computers already charging, as soon as the sound of that generator hits their ears, the children start their shouting chant, “Way, yay! Way, yay! Way, yay!”  Even with more reliable electricity, they still don’t take it for granted.

              I’ve learned a lot of things, living in Haiti.  One of the most important lessons, though, is not to take blessings for granted.  Or even, to open my eyes to understand what truly is a blessing.  Growing up in the United States, I never would have considered electricity to be a blessing; it was a fact of life.  Same with air conditioning, cold drinks, having gas in the tank, finding gas to put in the tank, hot water for showers, etc.  I never even thought about it.  But since moving to Haiti I’ve been learning the meaning of the cliché phrase: “You never know what you had it ‘til it’s gone.”  And learning to appreciate it when I do have it, whatever it is.  Especially electricity.  Sometimes I’m even tempted to join in the chant: “Way, yay! Way, yay! Way, yay!”

Loved

Sunday, February 1, 2015

       Well, it is now time to wrap up this “series” on my lessons about believing that “I Am Who God Says I Am.”  I have learned and am, in fact, still learning that as a child of God I am BLESSED, CHOSEN, ADOPTED, ACCEPTED, REDEEMED, and FORGIVEN.  I pray that those of you who have been following along have also been blessed by these lessons.  They are not only mine, after all…God has not been teaching me so that I could keep it all to myself.  They are His words, His lessons.  Meant to be shared. 

         But one final truth remains to be imparted.  Not one of the former lessons mean anything without it.  I believe it can pretty much be wrapped up in the following passages:

 

“If I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, but do not have love,

I have become a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal.

If I have the gift of prophecy, and know all mysteries and all knowledge;

And if I have all faith, so as to remove mountains,

but do not have love, I am nothing.

And if I give all my possession to feed the poor, and if I surrender my body

to be burned, but do not have love, it profits me nothing.”

 

“But now faith, hope, love, abide these three; but the greatest of these is love.”

 

1 Corinthians 13:1-3,13

             In other words, nothing is anything without love.  All the blessings and redemptions and forgiveness in the world are nothing if love was not the motivation behind them.  Being chosen, being adopted, being accepted…what would those be if the incentive was not love? 

              And how amazing that the One who blesses, chooses, adopts, accepts, redeems, and forgives us is the very One who created love.  He is Love, Himself.  This means that we can know, believe, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that we are not only BLESSED, CHOSEN, ADOPTED, ACCEPTED, REDEEMED, and FORGIVEN, we are LOVED.  How can we be sure?

 “But God demonstrates His own love towards us, in that while

we were yet sinners, Christ died for us.”

Romans 5:8

Forgiven

Friday, January 23, 2015

 

       It took living in a third world country for me to learn what true forgiveness looks like.  Not because I’d never had anything or anyone to forgive, but because what I’d had to forgive in the past was not difficult.  Not because I am a saint, by any means, but because the affronts were quickly forgotten.  They were not worth dwelling on or ruining a relationship over, and they were not so extreme or awful as to cause lasting hurt to me.

         I love Haiti.  I love the people of Haiti.  I would not live here if that fact was not true.  But I soon learned that calling Haiti the “Land of Contrast” isn’t just describing its outward appearance and situation.  Haiti’s contrasts extend to the attitudes of its people and even to the emotions it elicits in those who are trying to help it. 

         In Haiti I soon learned what it was like to be betrayed by those whom you thought you could really trust.  I learned that someone could hate you just because.  No reason.  At least no logically explainable reason.  I learned how rumors and gossip can cause damage to reputations to a near-irreparable point.  I learned how those in power could use fear to control those under them and claim they were just doing their job.  I learned how fear can hold someone in a grip so tight they simply cannot get loose without help.

          When each of these things and more hit me personally it was one thing, but when they affected those I loved, cared for, and strove to help I nearly buckled under the weight of the unforgiving spirit I began to harbor.  I could not stand seeing my loved ones being treated in such a way.  It was the first time I had ever had to fight against bitterness and hate.  It scared me.  I didn’t know I had such things in myself.  But I also believed that my feelings were justified.  These offenses were against God’s anointed!  Surely such acts were unforgivable from a human standpoint!

            Slowly and painfully I learned my lesson.  God showed me that He was the only One in whom such feelings were justified.  By hating and judging fellow sinners I was taking His job upon myself and uprooting His authority in my life and in the offenders’ lives.  God, faultless, sinless, perfect, is the only truly just Judge.  The sins, the offenses, were not against people.  They were committed against God Himself.

             And yet…God forgives.  God forgave.  Already knowing everything that would be said against Him, every hateful act that would be done against Him and His annointed, every evil deed that would be done in His name to ruin His reputation, He forgave.

             Learning how to forgive gave me a new perspective on God’s forgiveness.  I only had to forgive the offenses that were done against me and my loved ones.  God had the sins of the entire world, and His grace was sufficient.  His mercy was abundant. 

              What is forgiveness, anyway?  Does it mean we forget an offense and never remember it again?  Does it mean we excuse it as if it didn’t even happen?  Those misconceptions were what made it so difficult for me to forgive in the beginning, because I couldn’t forget it and I couldn’t excuse it.  It was not humanly possible.  It wasn’t until I read this description that I was able to put it into words in my mind:

 

“When we forgive a debt or an offense or an injury, we don’t require

a payment for settlement.  That would be the opposite of forgiveness.

If repayment is made to us for what we lost, there is no need

for forgiveness.  We have our due.

Forgiveness assumes grace.  If I am injured by you, grace lets it go.

I don’t sue you.  I forgive you.  Grace gives what someone doesn’t deserve.

That’s why forgiveness has the word give in it.  Forgiveness is not “getting” even. 

It is giving away the right to get even.

Forgiveness costs us nothing.  All our costly obedience is the fruit, not the root,

of being forgiven.  That’s why we call it grace.  But it cost Jesus His life.

That is why we call it just.  Oh, how precious is the news that God does not

hold our sins against us!  And how beautiful is Christ, whose blood made it

right for God to do this.”

(50 Reasons Why Jesus Came to Die – John Piper)

 

         Forgiveness.  I am forgiven.  Forgiven and free.  Free to forgive.  All glory to Him.

Redeemed

Sunday, November 23^rd, 2014

       Lash! Lash! Lash!  Torn skin.  Throbbing back.  Cruel voices screaming.  “You’re worthless!  Worthless!  Nothing!  Worthless, I say!”  Lash, after terrible lash of the whip.  Pain. So much pain even the tears cannot come.  But worse than the pain is the shame.  Over and over the words come:  Worthless.  Worthless.  Worthless.... 

        Forcing her mind to work and her eyes open, the young slave girl woke herself out of her vivid nightmare.  It was enough that she had to endure such abuse during her waking hours; must she live through it again each night?  She lay quietly on the straw-covered floor serving as a bed, staring into the nothingness, willing her eyes to stay open.  Better a sleepless night than another foul dream, reminding her of her worthlessness. 

         “Where is she?”  

         The words spoken so softly caught the girl’s attention faster than the usual harsh tones ever had.  It came from outside her cabin.  She wondered if perhaps she had fallen asleep and was dreaming again.  Never had she heard such a gentle voice.  Suddenly she heard footsteps just outside.  She quickly stood to her feet and brushed away pieces of straw that insisted on clinging to her woolen skirt. 

          The door opened and light streamed in.  The girl bit her lip.  Surely she had slept far too late and was about to be punished.  Two men entered.  She shivered when she saw the outline of the first man against the doorway…a figure she knew all too well.  Her master.  Without even bothering to glance at the second figure she dropped to her knees and bent her chin to the ground. 

           “Do as you will,” she said through gritted teeth, “I have no excuse for my slothfulness.” 

           A mocking laugh followed her comment, and then with a sneer, “See what you are getting?  A worthless nothing…can’t even make herself get out of bed in the morning.”  

            It was her master who spoke.  But what could he mean? 

            She lowered her head, expecting a blow, but instead she felt someone kneel in the hay before her and take her hand.  The figure stood and pulled her to her feet, refusing to let go his firm but gentle grip on her hand.  When, in confusion, her eyes remained fixed to the floor, she felt his other hand lightly touch her chin and raise her head.  Her frightened eyes met eyes so filled with love and kindness they brought tears to her own. 

              Paying no attention to her leering master this man spoke directly to her.  “I have paid the required price, my child.  You are Mine once again.” 

              “Again, sir?  I have been a worthless slave here all my life…,” the girl replied.

                “Again, my worthy child.  You were mine from the beginning.  This man has no claim on you.  Come.  Come with me.  With me you will find rest.  My yoke is easy and my burden is light.” 

                 Every second she was under this man’s gaze the girl felt more and more wonderful.  She felt special.  She felt loved.  But as soon as these feelings began to surface, doubts arose.  She was not special.  She was not loved.  She was worthless.  Nothing.  This man was confused.  He must mean someone else.  The feelings of shame and insignificance returned in a flood.  The girl could not turn her head or pull her hand away, so she lowered her eyes.  She could no longer endure such a tender gaze. 

                   “My child – do you not see?  I have paid the required price.  You are worthy, to me.  That is all that matters.  You are what matters.  Come unlearn the lies with which this false master has filled your heart.  Come hear the truth.  Know that you are loved.  You have been redeemed.” 

                    Suddenly she understood.  Her eyes met His again, this time with confidence.  She was His.  She was loved.  She was redeemed.

 

_________________________________________________

 

Exodus 15:13

In your unfailing love you will lead the people you have redeemed.

In your strength you will guide them to your holy dwelling.

 

                     Though not an exact metaphor, the above story is what came to me as I meditated on the truth that Jesus has redeemed us.  Jesus has redeemed me.  Lost, worthless, undeserving, He chose to come to this imperfect world and give His very own life for me.  He accepts me as I am, yes, but He doesn’t just accept me.  He bought me with His own blood.  He loves me too much to leave me the way He found me.  He picked me up out of the mud, cleansed me, and gave me a reason to hope.  Each new day He gives me a reason not to return to the mud.  If that is not enough motivation to praise Him, what is?

 

 Every day I wrestle with the voices
That keep telling me I’m not right
But that’s alright…

‘Cause I hear a voice and He calls me redeemed
When others say I’ll never be enough…

Bring your doubts
Bring your fears
Bring your hurt Bring your tears

There’ll be no condemnation here
You are holy, righteous and redeemed.

 “Greater” – Mercy Me

Accepted

Monday, October 20^th, 2014

         I stalled and stalled before writing this one.  This is a lesson I am definitely still learning, and not too keen on sharing…not yet.  You see, there’s something in me that longs to feel accepted, but there’s something else in me that is constantly fighting against that longing…something that doesn’t want to be accepted.  Something that cringes at the very thought.  Sounds crazy, huh?  After all, what sane person would not want to be accepted? 

          Well (though I’m sure my sanity could be a matter of debate), I finally admitted to myself what is causing this battle and, unfortunately, found that I am the problem.  You see, I have a very difficult time accepting myself.  In case you are wondering why, let me explain.  For starters, I have a few pretty quirky habits, most of which can chalked up to a slight obsessive-compulsive tendency.  Like when I walk into a room and immediately notice every slightly opened drawer, door, cupboard, and container – even when it’s not my own house.  And then I sit there, fingers twitching, until everyone is out of the room and I can go shut them all. 

           Once I told Kelsey, in trying to explain the meaning of “O.C.D.” that if anyone ever moved something that I had put on my desk or dresser – even if it was only a few inches from its original position – it was the first thing I would notice when I walked into the room.  Well, of course, curious seven-year-old that she was at the time, she couldn’t resist testing out this theory.  Though she did wait a few weeks, to be sure I’d forgotten our conversation.  And, as I’d promised, to my shame, the book she’d moved was the very first thing I saw when I entered the room.

            Those are just a couple of examples to add to my list of my more serious issues, like saying the wrong thing at the wrong time – way too often, not saying anything when I should have spoken up, never seeming to learn my lessons the first time, and I could go on.  But I won’t.  I have a hard enough time accepting myself…I don’t want to convince all of my readers in that direction as well!  J

             Also, this blog entry isn’t about me.  It’s about how, no matter how difficult it is for me to accept myself, no matter who else accepts or doesn’t accept me, no matter who I am or what I do or don’t do, my God accepts me.  He accepts me, not in spite of, but along with all of my quirky habits and faults and even outright sins.  You see, that’s why I didn’t want to write this entry.  That’s why I stalled and stalled.  Now the truth is out.  If my God, the Creator of the universe and Savior of the world, accepts me for who I am, who am I to stand against Him?  Who do I think I am, not accepting myself?  I have no reason, no right, to not accept a person God sees as Blessed, Chosen, Adopted, and Accepted.  And so...since now all of you share in this knowledge, too…I can’t really keep up the fight anymore…I guess this is one lesson I must, finally, after the hundred and third class, learn.