Let's take a walk...

Monday, December 12^th, 2011

          Follow me as I take a walk through the village of Carries.  Stroll up the rocky path, past fences of pencil cactus, homes of rusted tin and crumbling concrete.  Children shouting and waving at us as we pass their yard.  We reach the gate of the mission compound and, before mounting the hill, we turn to smile at the passel of noisy children that has gathered behind us.  When they see we’ve noticed them, a few shriek and run away playfully, but they don’t go far, because as soon as we continue our ascent they file right back in with the rest of the group, “sneaking” about fifty feet behind us. 

           By the time we reach the inner gate of our mission yard about thirty filthy, half-naked children are in a crowd following us.  We turn just before entering the yard, and I shout, “Hurry! Go clean up and get dressed! We have practice this afternoon!” Pageant practice was supposed to begin at 3:00…it’s 3:30 now…by the time the kids return it will be 3:45.  Don’t worry, though…no one here has a schedule of things to accomplish before the day is through, so there’s really no such thing as “late” in Haiti.

            Around 4:00 the singing begins. Ten or so kids have arrived, clean as a whistle, hair done and clothes changed, and their voices soon alert the rest of the neighborhood that rehearsal has officially begun. Christmas melodies sung in Creole, French and English soon fill the air, smiles on every face as the children strain to hear the words and learn each tune. Dee and I take turns leading them in repeating the verses over and over until they sound confident in each song.  You are surprised at how quickly they memorize them? With good reason, for we are used to pages, screens, and projectors. No need to memorize – the words are there in front of you every time. But these children, from the moment they were born, have learned everything they know by memorization. School is mostly oral repetition, stories are passed from generation to generation by word of mouth, very few people own books or hymnals. Only a percentage of the population can read or write. All prayers and Scripture passages are quoted from memory, as are all songs. It’s all they know.

              And so the most difficult task while practicing for the program is not teaching them the songs, or even their lines to recite, but in actuality, just keeping them still and quiet is the real challenge. See? There’s one now – giving the kid next to him a smack on the leg. Now they’re both fighting…hold on a second while I take care of this. Here; he’s gonna come sit with us now. So, most of them come from homes where their parents (if both parents even live with them) are rarely home because they spend all day at work or trying to sell food at the marketplace so they can bring enough money home to feed their family for the day. No guidance (not to mention no food or basic necessities) all day means when the parents are home the only way they know to control their unruly children is with a belt or a switch. This is the only discipline most of them know. Run wild during the day, whipping from the mama at night. Have you heard the phrase, “Haitians don’t hear with their ears, they heard with their backside,”? Well, that’s the reason for it.

               However, Dee and I have a different format. The children know that if they don’t sit still, listen, and do their best, they’re out, just like that. And no one wants that to happen. They’re too curious to know what this whole “Christmas program” thing is all about.

               Watch: today is the first time I’m showing them some of the costumes. Here’s one of the shepherds’…and the angels’…see their reactions? I love this part. Doesn’t it make it all worthwhile? And just wait…next week when we come the kids will be waiting for us. Now that we’ve given them a little taste they wouldn’t miss it for the world.

                 Well, it’s starting to get dark. Time to let the kids go. Though it was like pulling teeth to get them to come, now they don’t want to leave. Every one of them has to touch each of our hands, grab onto our arms as we walk down the church steps, help us carry our bags and papers out to the truck. Finally the last of them skips down the path and stands at the gate until we drive past, waving as we turn the corner. We smile and wave back, calling “Good night!” What do you think? Will you join me again next week? I thought so.

The Little Things

Monday, September 19^th, 2011 8:53p.m.

I am one of those people who tends to focus on the big parts of life. Mountains are some of my favorite portions of God’s creation. I could spend hours just gazing out over the wide expanse of ocean, listening to the crashing waves. I love thunderstorms, while just a light rain is apt to simply annoy me. In another aspect, I never feel as though I accomplished anything for the day unless there is a visible, obvious change in my surroundings; whether it’s a clean room, organized papers, or a to-do list with boxes checked off. One positive way this affects me is that I rarely have trouble seeing the big picture. While others are fretting and griping about details I can usually turn my focus towards what is really happening in the larger scheme of things, and
find encouragement in that.

However, such an inclination to see only the big things often causes me to miss out on many wonderful little blessings God sends my way each day. Now that I am back in Haiti, where such modern conveniences as running water, electricity, and vehicles at my disposal (things I normally wouldn’t think twice about) are a rarity, if found at all, I am finding it is much easier to notice and be grateful for the so-called “little things.”

When a long, 105°F day passes and no one is selling ice, then evening comes and few little blocks are found and bought, cold water running down my throat is sweeter than the richest beverage.
When living in a country where the fight for survival causes most people to think only of themselves, and while visiting at a neighbor’s house everyone jumps out of their chairs to offer me a place to sit, the kind act is more cherished than if a king had offered me his throne. When the air is hot and humid, the sun is broiling hot, and you can’t even find cool water to pour over your head a small rain can offer more relief than the most modern AC unit. When a whole day passes and not one storage room is organized, not one paper is filed, but a little boy has been tickled and made to laugh as he hasn’t maybe in weeks, and a little girl has been cuddled and told she is loved, the day is worth more to me than a thousand when every checklist is completed.

And suddenly, as I am made aware of each of these little blessings, my perspective changes. A beautiful flower placed near my pillow to greet my eyes as I awaken, a smile across the yard from a friend, a tiny hummingbird lighting on a tree just above my head, a melted piece of candy
brought especially for me, held tightly in a child’s hand so as not to be lost…and my eyes are opened. All of a sudden these things are not so little any more They have become to me the grandest, most wonderful occurrences of my days, and I am learning to savor each one.

After all, when Elijah was downtrodden, questioning his faith, and longing for a word from his God, any word, God was not in the windstorm. He was not in the earthquake. He was not in the fire. He was in the gentle whisper. Sometimes we are so bent on finding God in the big things that we miss Him along the way in all the “little” blessings He daily puts before our eyes. So often we feel as though God is not answering us, not even hearing us, when really He is right there, waiting for us to stop straining our necks to search for Him in the thunder and lightning and notice His presence in the drop of rain on our face.

Missionary Musings...

I remember when I was little, sitting in church listening to the missionary speakers and always getting that rush of sympathy for all those adorable, starving, half-naked children. That desire to help. That awe for the person who had given up everything to live among them and share God's love. I was never bored when missionaries spoke. I loved hearing the stories, seeing the photos on their slide shows, fingering the foreign objects on their display tables.

But when the service was over and the missionary left, my family would return home, and all such sentimental musings (for that is all they were then) would exit my mind as quickly as they had filled it. Sometimes my friends would tell me how they had spoken with the missionary and heard even more stories. They would say how neat they thought it was to find out that missionaries are real too, normal people just like us. Of course I knew they were real, but normal? Just like us? No way. They were specially chosen by God, and they had faith I'd never before seen in normal people.

Even last summer during my own speaking engagements at camps and churches, I hesitated to use the term "missionary" to describe myself. After all, I was not qualified to be an actual missionary. But the more people I met during my travels, and the more conversations I had, the more time I spent with the Dorce' family, the more I learned how completely wrong my perception was. I realized that not only are missionaries normal people, missionaries have normal feelings, likes and dislikes, just like us. Missionaries need help, missionaries need encouragement, missionaries need affirmation, missionaries need friends, just like us. Just like me.

Suddenly all the memories came rushing back. Missionary speakers. Missions conventions. Missionaries spending the night at our house. Meeting missionary kids and playing with them at Vacation Bible School. All those opportunities I had missed to be a friend, an encouragement, to someone who needed those things just as much as I did, if not more.

Unfortunately, it took me a time of walking in their shoes to realize that fact. Until I experienced it for myself, I never knew what I was missing out on. What I had caused those others to miss out on. And so I'd like to take this opportunity, on behalf of all of us missionaries, to thank those of you who have treated us just like real, normal people. Thank you for housing us, for encouraging us through letters, e-mails, or spoken words. Thank you for heart felt prayers said in our absence, and for sincere, spur-of-the-moment prayers said with and for us. Thank you for filling up our gas tanks, for taking us out to lunch, for kindness to our children. Thank you for everything I haven't mentioned. We could never tell you exactly how much you mean to us.

A New Dawn...

Monday, May 30, 2011

We were finally in Haiti. Or were we? The blazing sun, people walking everywhere carrying enormous bundles on their heads, the smiles and pointing fingers as little children shouted “Blan!” (white person)…all of this was the same, but as we drove through the city of Port-au-Prince we all noticed that some things had changed…drastically. Haitians wearing medical masks as protection from the dust were lined up along the streets with brooms, cleaning not only the sidewalks, but also the cement drainage ditches which are usually overflowing with trash. We saw more than one dumpster – full – and every drainage ditch we passed had only water inside. I sniffed the air in amazement. Even that smelled cleaner! Where were we?

Our vehicle turned out of the city and onto National Route #1 (the only national route in the country), and we gazed out over the once-open-land now peppered with thousands of tarps and make-shift tents. This was one thing that hadn’t changed. The innumerable tent cities filled with people displaced after the earthquake. Yet as we continued down the road we noticed another difference…the road itself. No longer did we need a sentinel posted near the front of the truck to yell “Bump!” every time we approached a large dip in the half-gravel, half-paved highway…there weren’t any such craters! The entire road, from Port-au-Prince to St. Marc, was covered in flat, smooth asphalt.

Though I had noticed some of these changes developing back in January, Crash remained completely astounded, and asked some of our people why they such drastic differences were occurring, seemingly all of a sudden. They replied that the people were actually excited about the new president, and were working to clean up the country to impress him. This was another thing that caught us off guard. It has been ages since the Haitian people have cared enough about their leadership to actually take some pride in keeping their country looking decent.

Wednesday, May 18^th was Haiti’s flag day. I was so excited to be attending the celebration that I amused more than a few Haitians by proudly wearing Haiti’s colors of red and blue and even donning my “kikit talon” (high heeled shoes). We walked among crowds of people waving flags and wearing red and blue bandannas and T-shirts supporting the new president, weaving our way around carts selling flavored ice treats and cold drinks, until finally reaching the edge of a gated courtyard facing a podium where the president stood making a speech. We were able to hear the last few minutes and when he concluded, immediately music began blaring and the mass of people pressing around us began swaying with the beat, until it was all we could do to remain on our feet! We all swayed along and laughed at the pandemonium that was stirring. As we made our way out of the crowd Dee commented, “I have not seen these people this excited in a very long time.”

These obvious, physical changes are very heartening…many people have been praying for the people of Haiti to begin taking pride in themselves and their nation once again. But even though we are encouraged by the new sights and attitudes, the changes that bring the most hope are those happening within the hearts of the Haitian people. Marc told us that our congregation in downtown Port-au-Prince is growing…growing beyond the edges of the stick and tarp structure put up after the church was damaged in the quake. The church at Kamicho (along the road where the accident happened last May) is flourishing, and the people are eager for us to begin a school there as well. Over fifty people from our congregations have been baptized since the earthquake, and Taz Kafe Cho (the 4am prayer service at Carries, led by Bioude) has more regular attendees than our morning church service! When the Dorcés first came to Carries the loud boom of drums and voodoo chanting filled the air most nights. Now the village people hear beautiful voices raised in worship of our Savior every single morning before the dawn.

The accident and all the tragedies that hit our mission in its wake, though I’m sure were meant by the devil to create division and opposition among us, have instead been turned around by God to produce more loyalty in many of the Haitians who work for us, and many people in our congregations have turned to God and had their faith strengthened when they heard the stories of how He is working to bring everything together for good. A new light is dawning, not only for our mission, but for the entire nation of Haiti. This passage continues to be my prayer for them: “The people walking in darkness have seen a great light; on those living in the land of the shadow of death a light has dawned.” Isaiah 9:2

Two Stories...

Friday, February 25^th, 2011

It is moments before dawn. A few stars cling to the fading darkness, fighting to be the last in the sky before the sun’s brilliance overpowers them all. A young boy stirs on his pallet on the ground. He rolls over and finally opens his eyes. He sits up and stretches. His mother is already gone, trekking the long path down the mountain with their one basket of mangoes to be sold in the marketplace. She won’t return until long after dark.

As the first dim light peeks through the cracks in their mud-thatched hut, the boy rouses his five sisters. He sends two of them to fetch water with their only five-gallon bucket and one-gallon plastic jug. The nearest water source is three miles away. When they return, an hour later, they take turns bathing behind their house, then each don their one outfit. The boy removes his red and white checkered school uniform from the cactus fence surrounding their yard. He had hung it there to dry after washing it the afternoon before. After examining it for spots and wrinkles and finding none, he searches the house for any food his mother may have left them. He spots two sweet potatoes on the tiny shelf and quickly divides them amongst his sisters. Today is feeding day at school, so he will wait to eat there at noon.

He gathers his tattered books, a broken pencil with no eraser, and a pen with no lid, makes sure his sisters have everything they need for the day, and starts on his own journey down the mountain. He doesn’t like leaving five girls alone at the house all day, but his mother can only afford to send one of the children to school, and being the only boy, she chose him. He knows how lucky he is to be receiving an education, and he plans to use it to help his family when he is older.

It’s one-o-clock, and school is out. The boy journeys home, rice saved from his once-a-week school meal stuffed in his uniform pockets. Two hours later he reaches their hut, and his youngest sister, only two years old, toddles up to greet him. He smiles at her, but the smile quickly fades when he notices a crusty white substance caked around the outside of her mouth. He knows she has been consuming dirt patties again. He sighs and pulls her up onto his lap, reaching into his pocket for a handful of leftover rice. She eats as if she’ll never get enough.

Soon the sun is sinking low in the sky and the boy knows it will only be a few more hours until their mother arrives home. He gathers his sisters inside and they play finger games while he does his homework until it grows too dark to see. Then they spread out their worn blankets on the dirt floor, stretch out and slowly fall asleep. The boy’s uniform is once again washed and hung up to dry so it will be ready for another day. The boy falls asleep, trying to ignore his rumbling stomach, just before his mother walks in the hut. She sighs and sets down her basket, still full of mangoes. She only sold three. Just enough to buy two packages of crackers for the children to share tomorrow. She curls up in a corner to catch a few hours of sleep before starting the day over.

You may think this seems incredibly hopeless. You may be right. But let me paint another, slightly different, picture for you:

It is hours before sunrise, and a recording on a loudspeaker rings clearly through the early morning air. “Ole, ole, ole!” The people aren’t even sure what it means, but as soon as they hear it they rise from their beds, put on jackets and hats against the cool air, and stroll up the path, through our gate, and to our church. Six days a week, at four-o-clock in the morning, our church hosts Tas Kafe Cho, a prayer meeting/praise service.

A little girl, perhaps seven or eight, follows one of her caretakers out of our yard and into the church. She rubs sleep out of her eyes and seats herself on a bench next to one of her friends from the village. Though tired, when the service begins she is soon dancing and singing at the top of her lungs with the rest of them. The singing and praying lasts two hours, until a hazy yellow dawn illuminates the village and it is time for everyone to start their day. The church empties and the little girl runs back into our yard, barefoot. After being scolded for the hundredth time for not wearing her shoes, she returns from her cement house dressed in a perfectly starched green and white checkered uniform, shiny black shoes, and frilly white socks. She is carrying a comb and a bag of barrettes. When she finds someone who has an extra moment she plops herself on a stool in front of them and sits as still as she can while deft fingers work to separate and braid her coarse, dark hair. She used to cry every time they did this because for over a year hear body was covered with open, oozing sores – a common skin fungus among the children that comes of sleeping and playing in the dirt. But now her head is healed, along with the rest of her skin, and she has grown much tougher in the past few months.

Soon she is ready for school, and after eating the bowl of noodles given her for breakfast, she strides back out into the yard and up the steps into the church, which has since been transformed into the school. She finds a seat on the bench, squished between thirty of her classmates. Everyone is reciting, teaching, talking at the same time in the same open building, but no one seems to notice how chaotic it appears. And somehow the students manage to learn their lessons.

Around noon the youngest students are let out, and the little girl runs to play with her friends before they have to head home. She changes out of her uniform into her play clothes and sits with her many surrogate family members as they gather around the outdoor kitchen, preparing lunch for all the mission people. She clutches a baby doll that was recently given to her and pretends to feed, change, and wash it. After another meal of beans and rice she and her three-year-old half sister and their four-year-old friend hike uphill with the other to the upper property, where they gather during the hottest part of the day to watch movies on an 8x11 in. DVD player. The national movies are very poorly made, but for them any entertainment is golden. The little girls’ laughter resonates across the yard.

Before dark the girls follow the group back downhill for the mid-week church service. They know every song by heart and show no hesitancy about worshipping their Savior with their whole being. The girls are only following the examples they have been shown daily by many around them. Real joy is evident on every face. Yes life is hard, but they know Who they are putting their hope in.

The sun has set, the first stars are twinkling in the night sky. The little girl has bid her friends goodnight, munched on a snack of crackers and juice, placed her doll in a makeshift bed beside her own, and is more than ready for bed herself. She snuggles up under a clean sheet on a mattress inside the cement house, still holding in warmth from the day’s heat, and closes her eyes. With a full, satisfied tummy, warm covers, and people to care for her, nothing prevents her from quickly falling asleep, soon to awake and begin another day.

Though the first story is fictional, it is an accurate portrayal of the lives of many Haitian children. But it is stories like the second one, which is true, that brings reason to hope in the midst of apparent despair. That little girl is one of many who have been given the chance at a better life because the Dorcés were willing and able to provide it for her. There is so much more to her story, so many more examples of God’s provision and love, but just comparing this portion to the standard is enough to bring me hope. I can hardly wait to return and not only watch more of her story unfold, but also be a part of it.

Torn

Thursday, February 24th, 2011

I miss waking before the sun to the sound of the call to early morning prayer meeting.

I miss feeling the rush of warm wind whip my bandanna against my neck while trying not to lose my footing in the back of the truck.

I miss the sound of my piccolo wind chime as a sea breeze stirs its tiny pipes.

I miss sitting at the foot of our mountain gazing across the horizon while the sun dips behind the island in the distance.

I miss children shouting and waving as we pass through their villages in our “machin.”

I miss the heart-wrenching melody of desperate, broken voices raised in true worship of their Savior.

I miss having my sleep disturbed by rowdy puppies and inconsiderate guinea hens.

I miss waiting in line for three hours outside the bank just to cash a check.

I miss the devastation and despair of the circumstances contrasted so drastically against the real joy and hope reflected in the faces of the people.

I miss holding hungry babies, hugging little girls starved for affection, and laughing with young boys as we chase a ratty soccer ball across the thorn-ridden dirt.

I miss my Chaco tan.

I miss the unknown we faced every day.

I miss being called “Docteur Shaina” just because I always had Tylenol, Band-aids, and Peroxide on hand.

I miss the excitement of opening and MRE and finding M&Ms inside.

I miss eating rice and beans every day for every meal.

I miss struggling to find just a moment to myself.

I miss hearing my name called across the yard for no real reason…they just wanted to smile at me, and for me to smile back.

I miss running last minute errands to purchase construction materials.

I miss feeling the sunshine on my skin.

I miss the incredible warmth and excitement felt when a breakthrough is finally made in a growing relationship.

I miss the countless opportunities to love the unlovely.

Yet…

I am learning to capture and cherish every precious moment with family and friends.

I am learning that a missionary does not cease being a missionary when they are away from the field.

I am learning that people are not as forgetful as I would assume.

I am learning to be still and know that He is God.

I am learning that as I wait, more is happening in the spiritual realm than I may ever know or understand.

I am learning that God is God no matter the circumstances.

I am learning that faith in God must not diminish just because it is “easier” here to do things for ourselves.

I am learning to laugh again.

I am learning that it is okay to take time to rest, to heal.

I am learning again what it’s really all about. And there is no “I” in that at all.

Our God is Greater...

It was just another Sunday morning…except that it was my first Sunday back in Haiti since eight months ago. I was more excited about going to church than I had been in quite a while. When we arrived downhill they singing had already begun. I was prepared with my Chants D’esperance (songbook) that Marc had given me just before my departure in May. Very few others own these books, however, so most of the people memorize every song. I asked one of the boys to find the songs for me so I could sing along using the correct words, for the first time. After a much longer song time than we are used to in the States (I love it), there is a sharing time. It is typical, after an absence, for the missionaries to address the congregation. Last time, knowing very little Creole, I was exempt, but this time not only did I know it would be expected, I wanted to speak. I wanted to tell the people how much my heart had broken with theirs during all of the tragedies they’d endured since May, even though I wasn’t there with them. I was thrilled when instead of laughing at my mistakes they applauded my effort, and more than grateful God had granted me the chance and ability to tell everyone how much I cared about them.

The entire service was a blessing in so many ways. Dee and I watched as four of the eight young people who were baptized in May performed a special. I was overjoyed to see Viege, our washer lady, whose daughter is the voodoo authority in Carries, in church that morning. I’d never seen her set foot in our church before. And even greater was our joy when we saw Pierre also at the service. Pierre and Simon, and their family, have lived next door to the church since the Dorcés moved to Carries. They are the first people to stand up for Pastor Kiki and Mdme. Kiki when anyone says anything against them, but they were strongly steeped in voodoo practices and beliefs, and they never came to church. When Dee saw Pierre in church, she and Wilckly invited him to have lunch with us and then we asked to go visit his wife, who was in Montrois, a town about twenty minutes away. While there we heard their story.

Simon told us that in July, when her four year old daughter, Cathleen (who attended our school) died of malaria, she nearly lost her mind. She was so sick with grief that she nearly died, herself. They visited the witch doctor countless times, spending all of their money, until she was ready to sell their house. But when none of these visits made her better she lost all hope. Finally she was ready to turn to God. She called Bioulde and said that she and Pierre were ready to make the decision to follow Christ. Bioulde visited them with the ever-growing group from our 4:00a.m. prayer and praise meeting, Taz Kafe Cho (“Hot Cup of Coffee”) and prayed with them and for them. Then people came to remove all of the voodoo objects that filled their house, even buried in the floor. They left with two large sacks full of things. Since then Simon has been staying with another believer in Montrois who is daily pouring over her in prayer, encouraging and strengthening her in her new life. She gave the credit to Jesus over and over as she related her tale to us, saying “I have completely kicked the devil out of my life! Thank you, Jesus! Thank you!” Dee said she’d never before heard those words come from Simon’s mouth.

I left that yard with a full heart and tears in my eyes. After May; the accident and all that occurred after, I focused on a verse from Scripture that was more difficult to believe at some times than others. But I always knew it was true:

“I am still confident of this: I will see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living.

Wait for the Lord, be strong and take heart and wait for the Lord.”

Psalm 27:13-14

That Sunday I was personally witnessing some of that goodness. Proof that God does bring about good from tragedy. That day He blew me away.

You Know You're In Haiti When...

You know you're in northern Missouri when you have to leave the night before your flight to make it through the white-out to the airport that's two hours away.

You know you’re in Kansas City when a caravan of fifty snowplows rolls past the terminal window, blades up, because there’s no point in plowing when the snow’s still falling!

You know you’re in Chicago when Shaina’s aunt and uncle pick you up at the airport and take you to the best Italian beef restaurant in the US.

You know you’re in Fort Lauderdale when you walk through the exit doors and a friendly voice from above tells you “You’re beautiful. Have a great day.”

You know you’re finally back in Haiti when you start sweating before you even step outside the airport.

You know you’re in Haiti when your heart finally feels like it’s home.

You know you’re in Haiti when being bumped and thrown around, while squished in the front of the truck with three other people, is the most wonderful ride you’ve had in months.

You know you’re in Haiti when you daily receive the most delightful hugs from the most beautiful little girls.

You know you’re in Haiti when you feel accomplished for the day after killing a spider the size of your fist.

You know you’re in Haiti when you get to wake up with the sun, the view when you walk outside is an island in the Caribbean Ocean, and every night the sky sparkles with millions of stars.

You know you’re in Haiti when the most exciting event of the week is not losing a single pen.

You know you’re in Haiti when the warmth of the sun on your skin thrills you so much that you forget to put on any sunscreen, and your long-awaited “tan” is soon peeling off.

You know you’re in Haiti when you make a child’s day by giving them a pair of new shoes.

You know you’re in Haiti when the day’s trip is canceled because two semis have been turned horizontally across the road to block it, and the people who took the keys from the drivers are MIA.

You know you’re in Haiti when you have to leave at five a.m. to beat the road block so you can get to the airport on time.

You know you’re back in Fort Lauderdale when you miss your flight while you’re sitting right at the gate. Don’t ask.

You know you’re back in Kansas City when donning layer upon layer of clothing doesn’t even keep the cold out.

You know you belong in Haiti when you miss it before you’ve even left.

More Than Overcomers

I would like to apologize for my severe case of writer’s block during the last half of the past year. Slowly but surely, I believe I am being cured of it.

Since my last entry so much has happened and so much has changed that I am not sure I will be able to catch you up on everything, so I will focus on a few of the ways God has been working, both inwardly and visibly.

Those of us who were in the accident in May will never know just how many people, across the country and across the world, were lifting us up in prayer, but we do know the aftermath of that outpouring. All of the American team members were healed so swiftly that even the doctors were stunned. What a glorious witness to God’s amazing power. Everyone is back to life as usual, and though many still have emotional and physical scars as reminders, God's love has been our healing balm for those as well. In Haiti things were not so quick, but what else is new? The last Haitian was not sent home from the hospital until September, but all of them are also healing well. The two boys whose lower legs were amputated are being fitted for prosthetic limbs, and Marc’s arms now have neither rods nor casts on them. He was told that his right arm may never have the same mobility as before, but we continue to praise God that He provided a way for Marc to keep both arms as he requested. By all human standards he should have lost them. God knew better.

When the malaria epidemic broke out, more desperate petitions were made to the throne of grace. God saw fit to heal all, seven by restored health here on this earth, two by taking them home to be with Him: twenty-year-old Yoka, and Monique’s unborn child. We will never know why, in His sovereignty, God chose this method of healing for those two, but we continue to believe Him, though sometimes with a faith blinded by tears. Our future hope is the confidence that keeps our legs from buckling underneath us.

Since then an explosion of tropical storms, cholera outbreak, and political upheaval have overtaken the country of Haiti. Dee and I have been here in the States, Dee with her children and her mom, who went through and is now healing from open heart surgery, I back and forth between the Dorcé family and my family, helping with stateside Blessing Heart International correspondence and paperwork. Too many things to recount occurred, and made Dee, Wilckly and I realize God was telling us it was time to be still and let Him be God. And so Dee and I stayed, and Wilckly has been back and forth between the States and Haiti since September. It has been the most difficult wait I have ever endured, staying here and not returning to Haiti.

While we have been here, God has been working. He knows our needs so much better than we do, and He has provided BHI with two school buses to fill with more supplies and ship to Haiti, and a Backhoe loader and Rhino that are already there in Haiti working to build up the mission compound. He raised up countless supporters who have caught the excitement about what He is doing through the Dorcés and are helping in huge ways, financially, giving of their time and energy, and with prayer and emotional support.

This week Wilckly is returning to Haiti after spending the holidays in the States with his family, and God has opened the doors for Dee and I to accompany him for a week. At this point my excitement far outweighs my hesitancy, but I know that I will have hundreds of emotions and memories to deal with, even in the short space of a week. My goal is to be an encouragement to the Haitians who have been serving in our absence and working to keep the mission running, and to Wilckly before we leave him there again. God’s presence and involvement in our efforts have been very evident, and we are confident in Him. Though at times it may seem that oppression from the enemy is more than we can bear, we know our God is stronger. And in Him we are already more than overcomers. “If God is for us, who can be against us?”