Just, sometimes.

In Haiti, I'm learning the merit of just.

Of just being.

Of just waiting.

Of just seeing.

Sometimes, when the sun dips behind the trees, and the air quiets.

Sometimes, when the voices are a calm swarm, and the crickets a soothing lull.

Sometimes, when the clouds are still bright with the departing rays, an ebullient and heaven-filled white,

I close my eyes, and feel the air on my face.

I stand and I brace myself on the balcony railing. 

I take it all in.

I give everything,

And I give nothing.

I just try to be.

And sometimes,

Well, sometimes, it's alright. 

Dear Maw Maw

Well Maw-maw, 

You've been gone a whole year. And while much has changed, a whole lot has stayed the same. Your three boys got together in March, and as you can imagine, they romped around the river like teenagers. Throwing rocks and sticks. Hiding from each other and swinging on vines. Tripping eachother and imitating the way the dog walks. Threatening to push each other in the river and actually falling in. Their three beautiful wives did what they are wont to do. They cooked wonderful meals and shared endless cups of coffee together. They laughed and they prayed, and while I'm never privy to all their conversations, I imagine they talked about their children. Their accomplishments and concerns. 

A lot of landmarks. 

Landree and Jude aren't babies anymore and Blake isn't a boy. Jared can't stop getting promoted and Jillian is winning awards in her school band. Brie's baseball team is practicing on a field owned by the Nationals, and Rachel switched careers all together. 

You might ask how I know all of that, being in Haiti.

And I'll tell you. 

It's because of you. 

That we talk all the time.

That we love each other so.

That we are, as you would say, one big happy family. 

As my mother would say, 

The very best best of friends. 

Thank you for that Mawmaw. 

Thank you for everything. 

As much as I miss you, 

I love you even more. 

Easter

In my twenty-seventh year on this earth, this is the first Easter I've been away from home.

And I'll tell you what.

It makes me think. It gives me one more chance to say,

Lord, thank you for all that I am. And all that I have. 

And all that you've done. 

Through me

Watch him with his naked feet. Watch him with his cracked and scaly toes. His calloused heels. Watch him slap the ground with the balls of his feet. Making contact with the tiles, rolling his feet to the rhythm of the drums, heel to toes. Rocking. Swaying. A sway that started in his ankles and shudders through his clavicles. His shoulders slump and flex. He throws back his head to the ceiling.

Palm trees and pines and the bluest Caribbean breeze. Smoke and pain in the air. And he sings. Oh he sings. He throws back his head, his throat taut and sweating. Beads glistening on the veins in his forehead. Sweat dripping down his neck past the dirty collar of a worn and faded tangerine collared cotton v neck. Watch him. Living the resurrection. Breathing in the word of Christ. He sings. He screams in my heart. Lord, I am yours. 

God, thank you for Michael.

Grace

Given everything.

Every opportunity, and abundance.

Blessings, and strengths.

(Circumstance.)

And that Jesus was crucified and died on a cross

(Today.)

Where is my grace?

(For me)

Tou jou

Hopping in the back of a crowded pick up truck.
Wedging myself between two begrudging, stone thighs.
Holding the bound up stack of news papers and bananas for an older woman as she too
clambers into the bed, though I think the person before me took the last arguable 'plas'

Walking through patchy strips of lights and nightlife.

Rubble and grime.

Listening to the bass notes kick and the packs of dogs skirmish.
Listening to the jump rope games of little girls.
Hands clapping. Exhaling satisfaction. Giddy into the night.

Listening to the beers crack open and swish down sandy throats.
Dirty fingernails.
Red clay stained ankles.

Listening to the dominoes slam and the soccer game blare, all fuzzy like.

This is Haiti.

Don't walk in the dark, he says to me.

There's thieves over there.

Here, walk this way.
Always walk in the light.

Stuff

There is a monster in me that consumes. 

I don't mean to sound overly dramatic.

I don't want to shed all my earthly possessions.

I want to buy a new dress for a date, or new shoes for a trip.

I love fashion. I love beautiful things. 

I love fancy restaurants, and in fact, I've been inviting my parents out to dinner for my birthday since I was 6 years, to restaurants with white table clothes, of course. 

This monster I speak of. It isn't that.

It isn't pretty clothes or beautiful vacations. It's not a glass or two of wine out with girlfriends or an overly priced concert ticket.

It is my inability, or even refusal, for moderation.

It's buying a new lotion when I have half a bottle in my bathroom.

It's the 4 Burt's bees chapsticks I found on this trip to Haiti.

It's something in me that isn't full.

Here in Haiti,

Having stuffed as much of this 'fullness' into two bags and a back pack, paid an overweight baggage fee for one bag, and suffered through a layover, customs, and immigration with these so called material necessities, I have to ask myself.

What are they really.

A burden.

To need things, it's a burden.

Not to want them. To want an Easter dress. To enjoy a new pair of jeans. To be really happy wearing some new earrings to match a new hairstyle. 

That's some of the joy of life. And especially of being a 27 year old woman.

But to need them. To feel a sense of urgency. Of demand.

To be in Haiti, with all these things that I need.

And to realize, once more,

That those things aren't what I needed,

And I am not full because I've brought two overpacked suitcases here. 

I think to myself, I'm glad I'm not full of those things.

Because then there wouldn't be room for the stuff I really need.

Rainy season

During the rainy season, it's warm in the morning. The humidity builds, and the clouds break. The sun assaults my skin, searing. As if to say, you weren't made for this place. The evenings are balmy, the air is thick and glazed. The sun falls down after the moon has long since made his appearance, and just after that, a cool breeze rushes in, serenading. It says to me, ahhh, relief.

You made it through another day.

And late in the night, the thunder cracks and rolls, the sky opens, and the water rushes out, an uproar. Sheets and pillars of water. 

And Haiti sings. That rhythmic pulse of every drop of water that splashes, and every surface that is soaked.

The calm comes after the storm.

And I hope.

But because my hope falls short,

I pray.

That there will be a calm after the storm in me. 

But what

What is it to be poor? I don't know.

Living your life confined to a chair, never seeing anything but a broken house in Fermathe?

I don't know.

And what is it to be lonely.

To be alone.

And what is wealth? Well, I don't know.

Is it to sit on a cracked and damp patio. 

To stare out at the wild and naked, broken terrain.

To feel the warmth of the sun on the back of your eyelids.

Is it to know God?

I don't know. 

And if that is so.

If any or all is true

Then what if we get to experience God?

Like the trees and the rocks feel the sun.

Like we do?

I don't know.