Love

The way I love Steve. The way I miss him from the minute I leave his presence. It's like my dearest dog, Oskar. Or my maw maw. Both dead in the past two years. When I think about going home, there is an ache in my heart where their presence is absent. A longing. To be with them. But more than that, that they knew. And that they still know, from heaven. How much I love them.

I've put my heart in two places. And when I leave these children, this family.

I miss them. My heart aches.

And I hope they know,

How desperately I love them. 

"And he said to me, 'My grace is sufficient for you, for My strength is made perfect in weakness.' Therefore most gladly I will boast in my infirmities, that the power of Christ may rest upon me."

II Corinthians 12:9

Presence

On the other side of the mountain, a half naked baby sits contentedly on a pile of white rubble. Babbling and rummaging in the rocks. Men with shovels and axes hack away at rough terrain, building a wall flush with the mountainside. Sweating and grimacing in the dust and sunshine. Chickens flutter and scurry to get out of the way as a boy hustles down the narrow path with a string of goats.

Little boys throw a tennis ball that I gave them, last November. A soccer game is going on between small rocks for goals. Shoeless or clad in flimsy sandals, they laugh and shriek gleefully, the ground crunching beneath their feet. 

Like those plastic homes for ants, so much life is being lived, on this two-dimensional mountainside. A plane.

And I see it all. 

The mundane and the daily.

The exceptional. 

Work ethic and satisfaction. Contentment and joy.

The daily.

They are not waiting. They are living. 

Now. 

Falling

I sit in the early morning, Friday sunshine.

Drinking coffee, waiting for the world to wake me up.

William falls out of the chair beside me. His body taught, and seizing. 

He convulses and is rigid. The cup shatters as I lunge to catch his head before it hits the tile.

I wake up everyday, 

With blessings I don't even consider.

But I want to. 

Love

Soft voices

Babet, I think you need to change your shorts. They're dirty, the pastor says.

Oh, no. That's just paint. They're not dirty. 

If there's paint on your shorts, they're not clean. Go ahead and change now. 

Oh... 

For the rain

In creole, the word for an umbrella is 'parapli.' Literally translated a 'for the rain.' And in a place with so much cultural ambiguity and chaos, I am thankful for this simple and easily understood translation. In fact, so much of the time. When I am out walking. When I stumble into this conversation or that. When I am left scratching my head, and wondering, no matter how well I can speak this language, how much do I actually understand of this life. 

I walk the same route every day. About an hour and fifteen minutes, the first 45 being entirely up hill, and turning around when I arrive at a small baptist church in a little town up the mountain called Fort Jacque. 

I've made many friends along the way. A tailor who always shouts, is that you, Isabel. To which I reply, no, it's a different one. 

Two litte girls, their mother dead, working with their grandmother, selling bags of pistachios and popcorn. I pick them up at the corner near their house, and they walk the last leg of my journey, to the church, before turning back and cutting across the field to go home. We part ways, and they turn to me expectantly.

Tomorrow if God wills it, Izabel.

Yes, see you tomorrow little ones. 

And I walk home. 

Wondering what God wills. For me. For them. 

And why.

More than anything. 

Why me? And why them. 

90 days

When the time passes slowly. When I am homesick, or when the water I pour over my head is too cold. When I am unsure about the future. Of having divided my heart between countries. When I am reluctant to leave and anxious to be home for the holidays.

I think about Michael. Who has spent ninety days in prison, today. 

The what's next. The fear. No, the terror. The heartbreak. The discomfort and anger. The injustice. The blatant audacity of the entire thing. The laughing matter.

Except this isn't a joke. It's only absurd. 

Hiatus

I haven't been writing as much as I used to. As much as I should. And part of it is simple. That, the day to day ongoings here. The shock of everything. Well, I'm used to it. And part of it is that it's not easy anymore. 

It's not new. I'm not in a constant wonder at my surroundings. The thrills of speaking creole, or the interactions in the market where I successfully buy vegetables.

And yet, while I don't stand in awe.

The sufferering in so many regards is much the same.

And that, I cannot get over.

This is their life.

I watch it.

And I'm a part of it.

But there's no end in sight. There's no arrival at the airport terminal.

Christmas cocktails or hugs from my parents. Kisses from my boyfriend and presents under a tree. 

There's just tomorrow. the ongoing, ever present. Living. 

And sometimes, it's so hard here, I think.

Well, what is left to say?

Dear Dad

I can't believe you're sixty-three today. I suppose it makes sense, since none of us are spring chickens these days. But still, it does seem strange, that my best friend should be approaching his mid sixties. That said, I think you often feel younger than me in spirit. Younger than most people, actually. And I'm so thankful for that. I'm thankful for your energy and your spirit. For your celebratory mindset and your profound ability to not sweat the small stuff. It may be that you're just plain oblivious to it in the first place, but that's one of those Whitmire traits that mom would exclaim is both a blessing and a curse. 

I think about when I was too sick to get off the couch. About those days I was sleeping through almost all the daylight hours and waking up after 16, 17 hours,

In a painful haze. 

I think about going to the state fair during the height of my illness, because you said we could do it. And while it was wholly a miserable experience, and I felt rotten for the entirety of the time we were there, I was so happy. 

That you know me. That you know I hate missing out on anything. And that you weren't going to let me. 

That you fight for me. To be who you know I'm capable of being. That you support me. 

And that you love without reserve. 

Thank you for being you. I'm glad you were born, and gladder still that I was. 

I love you. Happy birthday. 

Black Friday

I have to be honest with you, I've never understood Black Friday. 

I like a good deal as much as the next person. And a new pair of shoes or a new outfit probably a little bit more. 

So that's not it.

I guess you could say I have the desire, but not the energy. 

We've just spent Thursday. Baking. Cooking. Listening to music. Watching football. Playing outside. Taking our dogs to the river. Gathering around a table with family and friends, giving thanks. Celebrating, all the plenty and abundance in our lives. The family. The food. The rich, rich abundance. Our livelihood. Our love. Our happiness.

And it doesn't follow, that the next morning I would race to the store, to buy more things than I had on the day before. When I was abundantly filled and content. 

The one day a year we really celebrate thankfulness. 

For all that we have. That it is enough. That it is too much.

That we don't deserve it.

That we need more on Friday? 

I don't know. 

Thanksgiving

The sun sears my skin as if I walked beneath a microscope's lens. Merciless.

The gravel shifts sandy-like beneath my sandals that pull at my feet. Dust and exhaust fill the air. My eyes dry up and my eyelids flutter. my throat is chalky and gasping. And my thighs. They burn. The mountain roads steep and relentless.

I press my palms against each thigh, rythymic and clomping. I push down and negotiate myself forward.

Stop in the market for a beer. Creole. Horns and shouts. Dehydration. Smile and squint. An achy face and burnt out throat. The throb and pulse of music. Screaming. Goats wailing and children crying. Children laughing. Children arguing. 

The market. Motorcycles and women pushing produce. Wheelbarrows. Sweat stained burlap and creased brows.

Then the corner. Hellos and bonswas. Raging. Tap taps lean around the bends. Grab an elbow to keep from falling.

Little hellos and nods of recognition.

A gravel pathway. The smell of steep ravines and greenery. 

Smiling faces, bound to chairs, peering through wrought iron balconies. 

Bouncing up and down. 

Taking my bag and pulling me by the elbow.

 

Ear splitting grins and detailed descriptions of the day's ongoings.

I am home. 

I am safe.

I am loved.

I am grateful. 

I am thankful. 

And I hope. And I pray, 

That I never forget. 

Seasoning

Tonight I made dinner, just to go through the motions. That feeling just after six, when the last light disappears behind the mountain, but the hum and rumble of the generator is not to be expected until a little past seven. Hungry? Probably. But more than that, something to pass the time in the darkness. In the quiet. 

I made spaghetti with all the vegetables I had bought in the market this week. Mushrooms, onions, garlic, sweet peppers, zucchini, tomatoes, and a little lemon. Casually splattering the sauce with salt, basil, and oregano, I figured, it would all come together. Spaghetti.

And it did. Tangy and salty. If not satisfying, filling, and nutritious. 

But having finished, I felt no different than before I ate.

Hungry. Full. 

Empty. 

There is a difference.

Loneliness is emptying.

And when we are not filling ourselves with distractions, we find it.

The question then comes,

Well. What does it mean.

More than likely, that I have a moderate dose of that seasonal light disorder.

That I am not meant to operate alone. 

And that I am not a chef. 

Filling up the kettle with water, lighting a match and bringing it to the burner, boiling some water for tea. 

I sat down in the darkness, put my hands to my face. 

They smell like garlic. They smell like Steve's hands.

My sweet, garlic handed, handicapped, orphaned Haitian friend. Family. 

I smell my hands and smile. 

There are a lot worse things than cooking dinner for one. 

Morning prayer

God,

Thank you for stillness in the morning. A blue skied and sunny 7 am, after 18 consecutive hours of rain. Thank you for my family, and all the gifts you have given me. Thank you that I am only tasting, what is somebody else's entire existence. Thank you for loving me best, so that I can try to love better. 

Amen. 

Goodnight

I chew on my fingernails and rub my temples. Laying flat on my back, and contemplating the passing of time. How it can be anything, and nothing at all. How it never stops.

About my being here. And how I could be anywhere. About Chris, and about comfort. 

About callings.

I think about Steve in his bed in the other house. The television blaring, his blanket damp. The boys' music jarring and repetitive. 

I think about all of the babies at Mother Theresa's home. Crying. Lonely. Putting themselves to sleep. 

And I have to remember,

My time is a gift. Not a burden 

Morning pray

'Steve, pray for us, please.'

'God, I give you thanks for elizabet. And amen.'

God, I give you thanks for Steve. 

And amen. 

Alone, again.

From the end of the earth I will cry to you. When my heart is overwhelmed, lead me to the rock that is higher than I. 

Psalm 61:2

Pray for prayer

I listen. To the prayers I don't understand. And the ones I'm not saying. The overlap and communion of breath. The clash and skism of all these words being spoken in unity. I sit below the chapel and drink a cup of coffee, not wanting to interfere with these intimate conversations with god. Like walking into a kitchen conversation when a couple has been arguing. They speak gruffly and urgently. They plead and bargain. They give thanks. So much thanks. For what they have and what they don't. What they are and what they are not. What they have done, and what they have not done. 

And I am thankful too. 

I listen to their prayers, and I close my eyes.

For the words I don't have. 

And the heart I can't muster.

Sunday morning

They came early in the morning. In their starchy shirts, and their polished shoes. Their hats laced with tulle and plastic baby's breath. Children clinging to skirts, and bibles in hand. A steady stream of an  older generation. A different time. 

What are they doing here, I asked.

'Who, them?'

Yes. All those church people.

Their church came down in the earthquake. 

Michael gave them the chapel to have their services. 

Like Christ

A deaf man came and sat outside st. Joseph's today. Quietly, patiently, he waited. Hours passed, and he talked softly, to himself, aware that no one understood him. As I walked through the gate and to the car, he grabbed my wrist. Pointing his hand to the car, and then to the sky. He clasped my hands in his, and fell to his knees. Praying. 

On our way to the prison, I asked. 

Who is that man?

That man? 

Yes.

He's just some deaf man.

He comes every Saturday and Michael gives him money to buy food for the week. 

Perspective

'Izabel, do you think they have cars in heaven?'

'Well, I'm not sure Ra, why do you ask?

'Oh, I'd just really like to drive one someday.' 

In a prison, in the third world.

What does faith look like.

I can't see it.

Not gentle breeze on your face

Not a cold bottle on the back of your neck.

Not the ruthless sun.

Salt water on your mouth. 

Somebody squeezing your shoulder.

A lingering look

Or a slap across your face.

It isn't when you drop to your knees

Hair falling into your face

A cold chest. 

Sweat and tears drawing maps on your cheeks.

Look up to the sky.

Try and swallow. 

But maybe,

It is that we can do it again, and again, and again.

For the reasons we are.

The people we love.

And Him. 

The sun rises

What does it take to feel small. 

To know that the moon pulls the water from the sea, and brings it crashing down on sandy beaches. 

And sand.

Those littlest molecules. Those pieces of pieces.

That the sun casts a shadow on the sidewalk.

What of beauty. 

Babies and mommas and thunderstorms. 

And what of God?

To feel just a little bit bigger.

To love and be loved

Building

Why can't I put into words.

How it is more miraculous that a beaver can make a dam.

Than a person can make a sidewalk.

And it doesn't necessarily sound right.

But I think we know.

That it's true.

And that it's a god forsaken shame.

That we're missing it. 

And I know I don't have all the answers.

Or any of them.

But I just want to know,

For what? 

Abilene

I know my grandparent's house. I wake up late, to no one around. As I move into the kitchen, I can hear the pulse and click of bare feet on linoleum. As they press against it and release. How many feet have sounded here, before I imagine. Where many feet learned to step. 

Into the kitchen, I press against the cabinet door, for the catch to release. It springs open. Everything in order. Everything where it has been, since I have known where things have been. 

The kitchen, in unwavering consistency. The arrangements on the cabinets. The cutting board. And when Pepi was alive, even that his breakfast and vitamins. His unboiled egg and pre-toasted toast. In position, in formation. And ready for the morning. 

And so I can barge and amble through this space. Bound from where the coffee is kept and over to the silverware drawer.

The consistency and spartan simplicity. The space, and the quiet.

It takes me aback. Gives me pause.

Have I ever been, this quiet? In my space. In my surroundings.

And surely, I have, when they're found around me.

So to delve deeper.

Have I ever been intentional?

About space. About emptiness.

About necessity.

Or am I just cluttered and burdened and lost. 

Back in the kitchen, working man coffee, in an educated home. Mimi could make money, going grocery shopping. A fighter if ever there was one. This woman waters her lawn in the middle of the night during a drought. Reluctant to miss church on Sunday. She doesn't necessarily like things the way they were, she wants things the way they should be. 

Married at 17, mother to five, and grandmother or great to countless more. Here, at 27, I still receive a Christmas card and a birthday card, both with twenty dollar bills. How she manages this, with more than 25 descendants, having never worked, and now a widow. Well, it's beyond me.

So much of Mimi's story is beyond me. A child of the depression. 

Back across the quiet tiles, a house that my grandfather built. I step outside.

Abilene this morning is cool and clear with a constant breeze. The smells of summer are alive and confused, being this cold in the heart of July. But none the less, sit outside in Texas for more than a minute. Put away your distractions, and your superficial anecdotes. Try and just, be.

And Texas will talk to you.

Out in this yard, where he grew peaches and apples, pecans. Where clothes hang on fishing line between live oaks, and the air smells like red dirt and mesquite.

Like wide green blades of grass, just cut. 

And sun. 

Well

Well, I'm back. And it's easier.

It is, easier.

The coming and the going.

But I don't know.

If it's any better. 

Easier. 

Happier? 

No, just easier. 

And that, in itself, isn't very easy at all. 

Watching

Steve doesn't wonder if I'm ruining my future. He doesn't think about whether I should have a career already, or fret that I haven't married my husband. He just loves me. Without boundaries or restraint. Unconditionally. 

And I often wonder, if God thought we would miss it. 

This sense of humor.

If I am still enough. If I am selfless enough. If I am brave enough.

I can see a glimpse of God behind those eyes. 

Just the smallest taste,

Of being loved for the barest and most broken of reasons.

Just because. 

We are one.

Let's talk about the difficult things. Let's talk about walking blindly in faith. Giving yourself completely to what feels right. About love as the universal language. About learning the ways that we all talk. Joyze's language and Steve's. People who speak English, or creole. People who speak without any words at all. About resting heads on shoulders or hands on chests. About sitting in silence and watching the sunrise. About loving a precious Haitian soul with Down's syndrome. About inside jokes with children you've never heard utter a single word. Let's talk about the kingdom of god. And being a part of it. 

We are marching

Weaving through the market. The rich streets. The heavy air and the scents that burn your nostrils. Everyone is here.

In one turn of a corner, a woman is roasting corn over smoldering charcoals. Beside her a woman sits on an old rusted axle and tugs at a teenager's hair. It's second nature. They engage in a chatty and mildly devilish conversation. Their eyes darting surreptitiously to the left where some men play dominoes and rest their elbows against brick walls, unwavering in their eye contact. The corners of their mouths turn up unnoticeably and their eyes twinkle. 

In a shop to the right there's a barber, and outside his shop stray dogs weave and stumble between legs and machinery. Men are fixing tires. They clang heavy metal batons at the metal centers. Their shoulder blades swell and seize with muscles and sweat pours into their eyes and across their cheekbones. 

Tap taps swerve, and everyone has their own beat, their own rhythm. The street is alive. 

A little further down a man sells newspapers, and beside him are the queen bees. Women in their late sixties, or maybe just their mid forties, because life has been so hard. They sell fruit. They call out to you as you pass. Grabbing the cuff of a pant leg or swatting the behind of a loitering teenager, running and stumbling in between umbrellas, getting in their way, and asking for their attention. The swat is maternal. They are maternal. Everybody is their baby. Everybody is their child. They're squawking and chirping away at eachother and I step inbetween ashy and wrinkled legs. Spread wide, skirts on the pavement, bowls of snapped peas and cabbages in their hands. 

'Bonswa Madame yo'

They break in their debate and chatter for a split second. White hair and squinty eyes. Delicious wrinkled cheeks and toothless smiles.

They make bold eye contact and crack huge grins. Oh, bonswa Cherie. How are you. Not too bad, right? Having a good day? Okay darling, okay, off you go, you're walking, okay, tomorrow if God wills it. 

Real love. True doting. They give themselves freely and genuinely, and just like that, I walk on, and they resume their daily grind. Ever pleasant. Ever comical. Feisty grandmothers and no nonsense saleswomen. 

Wheelbarrows are strewn in a line bearing freshly cut meat, once cool and plump, it  now lays sweating and demoralized, dripping over the sides. Men haggle and large pieces are hacked and carved with grimy machetes. 

A boy walks to the beat of the music playing from his pocketed cell phone. Individually wrapped plastic bags of salt are on his head in a bowl. He doesn't stumble. He doesn't break his stride. His steps are confident and seamless. 

Shoe shiners line up amidst the mechanics and the produce. The ground thick with oil and trash. Streams of soapy water from the man washing a motorcycle just a few feet away. 

And the lotteries. Watching the numbers. Placing their bets. Brightly painted walls and chance. They step out of the barber shop, they crack open sweaty beers with their teeth. They pinch the cheek of a braided-head school girl walking by, or the swaying bottom of a girlfriend demanding to know when they'll be home. 

And it's hot. The sun is ruthless. And it's everywhere. Solace is seldom. I squint as I turn into the sun. The shiny metal parts of the motorcycles. The reflective mirrors on taptaps and chains strung around necks. Everything turns the sun back to me. 

My skin reflects it back to them. 

A single white girl. Hustled through the market. Caught up in a rhythm that isn't of my own device. Walking to a beat I didn't make. 

Hearing the music that I've never heard.

And trying to stay in sync. 

Conversation with a forty-two year old Autistic Haitian.

Hey you, ra. 

Oh, hello Izabel.

What are you doing?

Oh me? I'm here.

But what are you thinking about?

- I don't know. 

What do you mean you don't know, silly, if you're thinking.

But you see, friend.

These thoughts you're talking about are from my head,

And now, my heart is thinking.

You don't know what your heart is thinking?

My head knows the thoughts from the ground. 

But I'm speaking of my heart right now, 

And only God knows what we're talking about. 

Of growing pains

I want to know. Is growth a continuous, and subconscious event? 

Or do we have to strive. 

Discipline, and intention. 

Hardship and joy. 

I want to know,

Am I turning into the person God created me to be.

Have I been her all along?

Or am I coasting on blessings and grace. 

I wonder if they can talk in their dreams. I wonder if their legs work. 

I wonder if they live here. If the children who they pass their lives beside, in beds made of plastic and foam.

I wonder if they see their faces, 

And I wonder what they think. 

I wonder if they know that the Kingdom of heaven is theirs, 

And we won't need legs to stand. 

Little tiger

Titig was found, beat to a pulp, and laying in a gutter. Blood-stained and battered.

He was discovered by a French nun, and brought to Michael.

A nameless child slave, wearing t-shirt with a small tiger on it.

Now, 16 years old. Beautiful, healthy, and thriving at St. Joseph's home for boys.

It begs the question,

What have I overcome.

And why am I still complaining? 

To begin, to understand

How small we are.

And that in this littleness 

Lies strength.

And our identities. That we can try.

That we can start over every day.

God, I give myself up to you.

All that I am. 

And that is all that I have.

Which is enough. 

To my mother

You've never thought that you're very funny. But you make me laugh all the time.

And you don't consider yourself to be a very good friend. But you're my best friend.

You used to tell me, Elizabeth, your word is all you have. 

And I've always been too loose with my words. So I look up to you, as who I am capable of being. 

You're honest. And good. 

In fact, you're a remarkable person. And you inspire me. 

I'm so proud of who you are, and prouder still to be yours. Made and nurtured by you. 

I know you wanted to learn from your mother, and raise us differently in some respects, and I can tell you now, because I know I don't tell you enough. 

That I've never known you to be anything,

but mine.

My confidant and my ally. 

Kind and thoughtful. Considerate. Humble. Intentional. Talented. Faithful. Smart. Diligent. Funny. Loyal. Honest. and above all, full. 

Full of love. 

Happy Mother's Day, to my selfless and dear Momma.

 

Thank you for being you. 

We really are the very very best of friends. 

"You have to keep breaking your heart until it opens"

Eating

Passing the time without consumption.

The restaurants. The grocery stores. The coffee shops. The wine nights. The girls night out. The coffee gatherings. The dinner dates. After work beers. Happy hour. Wednesday night dinner. Cocktail parties. House parties. Dinner parties.

Filling us up.

Passing the time. 

With what? 

Eric

Love in action

I'm living a very solitary life, surrounded by people who love me.

And it's amazing. How actions express more than words.

And even among my friends here who can speak, across a language barrier,

Love still prevails as action.

Waking up, to have my coffee, out in the morning sun. It's six forty five. 

I prop my feet up against the railing and I try and gather myself. 

I feel a hand on my shoulder. Eric has pulled a chair up to sit beside me in silence. 

I reach out to hold his hand. 

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. 

Until

The wind is roaring, and spring is rushing in.

 I think I can feel the earth turn, and through my window, I hear a bird. The first of the season, I think.

I listen to the wind rush and sigh, and rage.

And I ask myself,

How many days has it been since you listened to me? 

Or at least, I thought I asked myself.

Until now.