Seeing

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I'll admit that I sometimes yearn to be a recluse.  I cherish the idea of becoming a mountain-climbing, nature-exploring hermit. Honestly, my first response in recent years to heavy burdens and heart-breaking pain is to find the nearest mountain and get lost in the woods for a while. I talk to God when I walk, sometimes audibly, which I'm sure only adds to the crazy-backwoods-lady persona. 

This first week back in New Hampshire has been spent walking. Sometimes along the ridges of mountains in the rain and sometimes along the beach in the sunshine.  Sometimes through laughter as I remember this summer and sometimes through tears as I mourn the separation. Somehow my heart and mind really believe that this wandering will lead me to a resolution, that the thoughts and feelings that are all jumbled up inside will become untangled through the process of hiking and walking and meandering through the countryside. Well, in some ways this has been true. Many times I've been struck by God's character as I've walked along through His creation.  I've opened His word on the top of a rocky mountain or next to crashing waves, and I've been struck, in a unique way, by the truths He has left for us to discover and live by.  




On Sunday, my brother-in-law preached from Psalm 19, which was so clearly Providential.  It was a soothing reminder of God's revelation for my weary, conflicted, and wandering heart...

The heavens declare the glory of God, 

and the sky above proclaims his handiwork.

Day to day pours out speech, 

and night to night reveals knowledge.

There is no speech, nor are there words,

whose voice is not heard.

Their voice goes out through all the earth,

and their words to the end of the world.

In them he has set a tent for the sun,

which comes out like a bridegroom leaving his chamber,

and, like a strong man, runs its course with joy.

Its rising is from the end of the heavens, 

and its circuit to the end of them,

and there is nothing hidden from its heat.

The law of the Lord is perfect,

reviving the soul;

the testimony of the Lord is sure,

making wise the simple;

the precepts of the Lord are right,

rejoicing the heart;

the commandment of the Lord is pure,

enlightening the eyes;

the fear of the Lord is clean, 

enduring forever;

the rules of the Lord are true,

and righteous altogether.

More to be desired are they than gold,

even much fine gold;

sweeter also than honey

and drippings of the honeycomb.

Moreover, by them is your servant warned;

in keeping them there is great reward.

Who can discern his errors?

Declare me innocent from hidden faults.

Keep back your servant also from presumptuous sins;

let them not have dominion over me!

Then I shall be blameless,

and innocent of great transgression.

Let the words of my mouth, and the meditation of my heart

be acceptable in your sight,

O Lord, my rock and my redeemer.

It's in His creation, in His Word, and in His grace that God shows us Himself.  That's what the sermon was all about, and it's exactly what I needed to be reminded of. I've been slowly edging my way back into the routines of life in New Hampshire. Spending time of quiet and retreat in the woods and by the seaside, and enjoying sweet moments with family.  I'm thankful for these days of transition because every time I come back from Haiti I go through a strange kind of seasonal depression, only it's more like a culture-shock kind of depression.  


When I come back to New Hampshire, I can't help but be struck by the inconsistencies between life here and life in Haiti.  I can so quickly recite truths I know about God:  His goodness, His faithfulness, His provision, His promises to sustain and protect and defend.  And yet, when I'm faced with the realities of life in these two different places, I find myself with blurry vision when it comes to seeing God. How often do I measure His goodness based on my own circumstances?  I praise Him for His goodness when I'm happy, healthy, and all my proverbial ducks are in a row.  

My view of God has been so deeply impacted by my cultural understanding of the "American dream."  God is good when "life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness" are present realities. But what if they aren't?  What happens when life is fragile?  I got an email this morning from a familiar orphanage in Haiti letting us know that a three-year old passed away.  She got sick and they did the best that they could to care for her, but she didn't survive.  What happens to my view of God when life is fragile?  What if liberty is corrupted? One of my Haitian friends is a police officer and when I was asking him what I could pray for, he asked for prayers for the ongoing elections in Haiti.  After this past Sunday's elections, I read the news about violence and corruption and the broken government system in Haiti. What happens to my view of God when liberty is corrupted? What if happiness seems to be an unreachable dream?  I'm haunted by the eyes of a 23-month old orphan who is so weak she can't lift her head.  It took so much time just to convince her to look me in the eyes.  It took so much more effort and time to persuade her to experience enough happiness to smile. And now I'm left thinking about those beautiful and deeply sad little eyes and what more hurt and neglect and suffering she will experience in this life.  What happens to my view of God when happiness seems to be an unreachable dream?

I'm seeing during this fifth transition back to life in New Hampshire that the conflict and struggle within is actually a simple vision problem.  God hasn't changed.  I know this. Of course He is still the same, perfect and holy, constant and faithful to the end. It's my eyes that need adjusting.  After the service on Sunday I was talking to a few friends at church and one of them asked if some of the conflict that I was feeling was guilt over the abundance we experience here.  I quickly responded that guilt is the wrong feeling for the struggle.  I know I've never done anything to deserve the blessings of clean drinking water and safe shelter and nourishing food and comfort and convenience and peaceful relationships and a (relatively) well functioning governing system and a supportive family and quality education and an encouraging church community and easy access to God's Word and the million other blessings I experience in my life.  But the more I've thought about that question, the more I think there is guilt.



I'm guilty of not being faithful with these gifts, of taking them for granted, and even worse, of turning them into the object of my affection.  Instead of using these gifts to fulfill a greater purpose, I have turned them into my goal.  I have, in so many little and practical ways, chosen to worship and serve the creation rather than the Creator.  I'm so quick to live for this moment, to be driven by my own desires, that I forget I was made for a greater purpose.  I was given gifts not to hoard them, but to give them.  I was blessed with abundance not so I would find my fulfillment in this abundance, but so that I could be a vessel poured-out, one that points to the Creator and Redeemer.  

So now I'm praying and studying, and welcoming your prayers and words of wisdom and insight, to know how to do this... How do I live this life for God?  How do I find contentment in abundance or poverty, in rejoicing or sorrow? How do I remain faithful to Him in whatever may come?  How do I walk by faith in my day to day life?  How do I know what decisions to make and what paths to take?  How can I be used to further His kingdom? In what ways does He want me to serve and love those around me? How can I be guided by His loving hand rather than my own fears or insecurities or selfishness? How can this little life declare daily, through even the smallest things, that I am not my own, that I have been bought with the precious blood of Jesus Christ?  How can I live this life for Him?


My time in Haiti has provided me with so many gifts and blessings. I have been continually reminded of God's character and His truths, which help my eyes to see once again His ultimate goal in redemption. His goal is not for me to have every little desire of my broken, sin-marred, and painfully short-sighted heart, but rather, to live in the abundance of His grace and lavish love for all of eternity. He has saved me to bring Him honor and glory in this life and then forevermore.  I was reminded of a familiar confession of faith this summer which summarizes what I need to see most, the truth that I'm praying to see more clearly each moment of the day. If I see this one thing more clearly, then wherever He leads me, whether it be living life here in New Hampshire or in Haiti, teaching children in rural New Hampshire public school or in the inner city of Port au Prince, living in close community or walking alone in the deepest wilderness, it will all be for Him... 

What is the chief end of man?  

Man's chief end is to glorify God and to enjoy Him forever.

With much love in Him,

 Jessie

Longing

It's my last night in Haiti.  I'm trying to savor every moment, soak up every experience, and store in my heart and mind all of my life in this place.  It will likely be a year before I'm here again, before I see these friends, before I see these sights and hear these sounds.  I'm sitting out on the balcony and the small tent neighborhood across the street is full of the sounds of the all-night church getting under way.  Some of the older boys are walking across the yard with their old dinner dishes to drop them off in the outdoor kitchen.  They throw a rock ahead of themselves to scare away any rodents that might have settled in there for the night, then someone flips off the light and they shout out in surprise.  The man who sits by the gate to provide the appearance of security is making his rounds.  If any prospective intruder knew just how kind and gentle this man was, and how tender he is with the little boys, they would never be deterred from sinister plans.  The chickens are quietly clucking around the yard and one rogue bunny is hopping as surreptitiously as possible because at dusk it won itself a night of freedom from its cage by evading capture by the laughing, chaotic crowd of little boys.  The city power is out and only a handful of homes in the city have lights glowing, indicating solar panels, inverters, and generators at work.  Up in the mountains lights flicker where wealthier neighborhoods are provided with more regular electricity.  Down here in the heart of the city where tents and tin homes are standard, the darkness of the night rules.  When the singing of the all-night churches near and far pause, you can hear voices from all around shouting and conversing.  There's little privacy when your home has no solid walls and you live only a stone's throw away from the neighbor.  The ocean breezes blow softly and cool off the city that was melting just a few hours ago under the heat of the Caribbean sun.  

Earlier this evening I sat with some of the little boys up on the top of a wall looking out over the neighborhood.  We pointed out different tropical trees and talked about the fruit they grow.  We looked up at the clouds and hoped in vain for rain-filled clouds to come our way.  Two of the boys sitting with me just said goodbye to their brother this morning as he headed off to college.  He was in the first class to graduate from the school, a class of four uniquely gifted boys who miraculously all got scholarships and visas to go to college in the States.  As we sat this afternoon looking up at the sky, the boys talked about what they would do "one day."  "One day, I'll go zoom!"  Gevenson exclaimed as he shot his hand up into the air like a jet taking off.  As the boys talked about their futures and their imaginations ran wild (just as the dreams of young children should) you could almost taste the longing.  With their eyes pointed upward, they were envisioning futures that in many ways are so far beyond what is reasonable or realistic.  In thinking about it now, it is that same longing that has been resonating in my heart this summer.  After five summers spent here, I'm afraid that the poverty and brokenness is becoming less and less shocking.  It makes me nervous that I'm feeling even a little bit desensitized to the pain and desperation I see around me.  But then I also think that I'm beginning to see into that longing more than I ever have before.  

This summer I've been struck by longings all around me... Malnourished children who are longing for a meal that satiates their hunger, orphans who are longing for a stable home and parents to love them, improvised parents who are longing for someone to show mercy and provide for the urgent needs of their children, aid workers and missionaries who are longing for a glimpse of fruit in the midst of their tiring labor, amazing young single teachers longing for marriage and family but needing a better income to take these steps, individuals who have been wronged and abused and mistreated longing for justice in the midst of corruption and apathy, and a whole country on the brink of elections that is longing for peace in the transition and a way out of a seemingly impossible cycle of poverty, dependence, and instability.  I've felt these longings as I've walked alongside my friends and family in Haiti.  Their longings have become my own in so many ways.  It wasn't a hard step because these longings feel common to humanity.  I look into the eyes of a friend here and listen to their voice as their hearts pour out longing.  My heart echoes the same longings and I nod my head in understanding.  

But this can't be where it ends.  We can't just keep walking along the road together dragged down by our longings or share meals together knowing that our hunger will return, or put temporary fixes on insatiable desires.  No, instead I'm recognizing that we need to lean deeper into the longings.  We need to recognize that, as one of my Haitian teacher friends said this summer, Christ is the "hub" of the wheel of our lives.  When I let any other longing be central to my fulfillment and happiness and contentment, I'm left with a void, a crooked wheel that can't turn, a bottomless pit of longing that will never be truly satisfied.  It's only when we give Him the center place that all these other desires are put in proper perspective.  I'm not sure exactly what this looks like in all circumstances, but I know what it means for my heart and my life.  It means that tomorrow morning when I wake up and say goodbye and go through the motions of leaving, I'll lean into that loss.  I'll mourn the brokenness of goodbyes of this life.  I'll recognize and then put aside fear for my friends here and what life will bring them in the coming year.  I'll dig deep into truths of Christ that I've been told for so long... He is faithful.  He is present.  He didn't leave us alone; He sent us a Helper.  He is the redeemer.  He is busy making all things new.  I'll pray for faith to keep my eyes fixed on Him, and then, I'm praying, that my vision for the longings of this life will be clearer.  It won't erase all the needs I've seen here, but it will put them into a larger context where hope and true redemption reign because Christ is supreme.  And then, by God's grace, He will allow us to continue to walk together this life of faith, finding Him at the depths of our longings.  Through whatever may come down the road, I'm blessed to know that we will be encouraging each other to find completeness in Him.  I'm so looking forward to continuing on this journey of faith with you!  

With much love and thankfulness in Christ, Jessie

Go to the Limits of Your Longing

by Rainer Maria Rilke

God speaks to each of us as he makes us,

then walks with us silently out of the night.

These are the words we dimly hear:

You, sent out beyond your recall,

go to the limits of your longing.

Embody me.

Flare up like a flame

and make big shadows I can move in.

Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror.

Just keep going. No feeling is final.

Don’t let yourself lose me.

Nearby is the country they call life.

You will know it by its seriousness.

Give me your hand.

Food

This summer I've been able to spend so many precious moments together with dear friends and sweet children, sharing food.  In a place where fresh water and life-sustaining food are hard to come by, I am much more keenly aware of these blessings in my daily life! I love the picture of our need for physical sustenance and how it reveals a greater truth about our need for community and spiritual nourishment as well.  Here are just a few snapshots of life shared through food together this summer in Haiti...

Saturday brunch with the girls from the children's home (and a few little boys eating leftovers!)

Friday night movie nights with popcorn.

Gifts of fresh fruits from thoughtful teenage girls.

The best cup of coffee I've ever had, along with beloved little early-morning friends to greet me.

 

I'm looking forward to sharing life (and food) again with you all soon!  With much love in Christ, Jessie

Beauty

I've been thinking a lot over the past few days...  about the upcoming transition back to life in N.H., about the great disparities between life here and there, and then about how when you dig a little below the surface, things are really the same no matter where we go.  There is joy and rejoicing and hurt  and loss all around us.  There is sacrificial service and honesty which builds up cultures and deceit and greed which corrupt cultures.  There are individuals who bravely face days of hardship and need without knowing how their needs will be met or when their burdens will be lifted.  The feelings of excitement, happiness, anticipation, confusion, fear, anxiety, and anger are common to all of humanity.  Over the last few days I've had conversations with friends here in Haiti who shared great concerns over their future, their families, their cities, their country.  Then I have had emails and conversations with friends from home who share similar burdens.  It is my natural inclination to take on all of this and walk around with an ugly burden that I was never meant to carry.  As if me holding onto the hurts and questions of those I love will in any way make those hurts and questions any smaller!  My eyes see ugliness and brokenness and doubt and confusion and these all threaten to consume.



Last night I had a hard time sleeping.  Faces kept flooding to my mind.  Faces of dear sweet children who are growing up as orphans in an ever-shifting life where stability seems always out of reach.  Faces of Haitian friends who are battling with brokenness that seems unable to be mended.  Faces of missionaries who are struggling physically, financially, emotionally, spiritually... 

I prayed.  I cried out to God.  And then I tried again to rest.  I turned on a song that a dear friend gave to me recently.  It's written by a father who has experienced great loss.  Instead of dwelling on the circumstances, he sees through them to the greater story that our Heavenly Father is writing... A story of redemption and hope and joy and peace and beauty.  How I long to live a life that is focused on Christ and remember the beauty of His Story for us. As my eyes are fixed on Him, I can see the beauty in the story of today and I can remember that one day we will experience a life where:

All the cancer is gone

Every mouth is fed

And there's no one left in the orphans' bed

Every lonely heart finds their one true love

And there's no more goodbye

And no more not enough

And there's no more enemy

No more

Many thanks for following along with me and for being patient with me as I process!  I am keenly aware that grace is abundantly poured out on me in Christ and in the friends and family whom He has given to walk alongside me!  With much love in Christ, Jessie

Visitors

As a part of the summer teacher's institute, we have been sending small groups of the teaching staff from Christian Light School to go visit "the Ravine" where most of the students live.  I was surprised to learn that only a handful of the teachers had actually visited this area that the students and their families call home.  We discussed how being aware of where our students are coming from will better equip us to teach and care for them.  



Christian Light School was originally established with the goal of providing an opportunity for schooling to a group of children who would never be able to afford education otherwise.  Their families live in homes built out of tin and tarps which sprawl out from the slow-moving waters and garbage that fill the ravine below.  




I was able to go yesterday with a small group of teachers for a visit to the ravine.  We tagged along with the "baby-feeders" who are the kitchen staff responsible each day for preparing and delivering food and medicine to the children from the ravine who are too young for school (from birth to age 3).  Once the children in the ravine reach age 3, they are enrolled in the school and receive two meals each day.  




Yesterday's trip with the teachers was one of the sweetest and most heart-breaking parts of the summer.  As we were walking, one of the teachers recognized that this was the kind of neighborhood that they wouldn't have been allowed to visit as a child; it is the kind of place where poverty, brokenness, and violence run rampant.

As we walked along the ravine and stopped periodically along the way, we saw young moms carrying their little ones to the baby feeders to get their daily food: a scoop of a protein/baby formula mix, a hard-boiled egg, a slice of mango, and a small piece of bread with peanut butter on it.  The infants were brought to get vitamin drops while the toddlers happily held out plates or bowls or whatever containers they could find to collect their food.  

The teachers responded differently to the experience.  Some were very engaged, talking with the children and families as they went, while others were very quiet and reflective.  


I'm so blessed to know these teachers and to have had this time to hear their hearts for their children.  Their task is not an easy one, but their drive and purpose is great... They recognize now more than ever what challenges their students are facing.  These teachers are determined to provide their students with a Christ-centered education that will bring hope not only to the children, but to their whole families...  Hope for a brighter future with possibilities that only education can bring, as well as hope for an eternity with Christ that only the faithful teaching of the gospel can bring to those who have never heard and never believed.  What an exciting thing to witness the passion and commitment these Christian educators have for the task at hand!  How great will their impact be on the lives of these children and their futures, as well as the eternal impact their work is having on the Kingdom!

I'm thankful that you are able to join along with me on this visit to the Ravine.  I'm thankful also to know that you'll be faithful to join with me in praying for these teachers to be given strength and wisdom and grace and an abundance of love for their students in the coming school year.

 Many thanks for following along with me!

With much love in Christ, Jessie

Holes

It is ten years today that my Dad died.  I think about him a lot when I'm in Haiti.  I see a wobbly structure and I think about how his skilled hands, the hands of a carpenter, would have knowledgeably straightened it.  I think about him when I see boys growing up just like he did, without a dad to love and care for them.  I think about him when I look into the eyes of a Haitian who has struggled with sin and addiction and fights now to hold onto the grace of Christ.  I think about him when I meet some of the older Americans who come to serve in Haiti, to build and fix and mend; sometimes they're a little rough around the edges, but they are always full of a desire to pour out the love of Christ on others in practical ways, just like my Dad.  I think about him when I am asked to do something that he taught me, like drive a manual truck full of people through the streets of Haiti, or troubleshoot plumbing problems when there is no running water, or find a way to trust God in situations that seem hard and uncomfortable and far beyond my own abilities.  It has been ten years since my Dad died and I'm thinking about him a lot.

Yesterday we went to the ocean.  It was meant to be a sweet time of fellowship for the ladies who have been here this summer.  It was also a time to look out over the ocean and remember.  Remember loss and pain, my own and that of so many others here in Haiti and at home.  Loss of parents, friends, children... Loss of dreams, homes, jobs, health, hope... But more than that, it was a time to remember the God who takes all of those things and redeems them. 

Last Sunday, the pastor here spoke about being complete in Christ. He described the love of God as being like the ocean.  It is great and vast and consuming.  He went on to talk about the pain and sorrows we feel like holes dug deep into the shores of our lives. The ocean doesn't erase these holes in the sand, but rather, it fills them up.  And so as I think about ten years without my Dad, I'm thinking about the God who has filled that hole up.  It's still there, the hurt and loss and sorrow, but it has made room for a deeper knowledge of God's love and care.  Even as I know that there may well come more loss and pain and holes in this life, I look forward to seeing how God's love will continue to transform and redeem and fill these holes up.  

With much love in Christ, Jessie

Sounds

Last night while visiting with the boys, I was struck by all the sounds. Honestly, I haven't experienced many quiet moments since coming to Haiti.  Especially when I'm home with the boys, things are always loud.  Dogs are barking, roosters crowing, little boys are making all kinds of noises, and then there are the near and far sounds of the city which seems to be always awake.  I was joking that we should take a synthesizer and record all of the sounds of this place and make it into music.  This arrangement would have to include some pretty strange noises and would likely not draw a great following, with the exception of all the friends of this place who feel homesick for their Haiti home when they are away.  These are the sounds that you miss when you leave this place...

The smacking of lips as the kernels pop on the stove top followed by lots of crunching and giggling during Friday night movie nights with the boys.

The early morning hours filled with crowing roosters and the soft squeak of swings full of sleepy-eyed little boys.

Guard dogs (and puppies) barking as feisty little boys tease and play with them.

Splashing water during bath time and laundry time.

The crashing metal spoons on metal bowls during meal time.

Whispered schemes during creative planning sessions when the boys have found a new form of entertainment.  Followed by shouts of delight or disappointment when their plans succeed, or fail.

The constant whisper of the not-too-distant ocean breezes through the bright blue skies bringing a bit of relief from the tropical heat.

Each summer when I leave Haiti, my heart breaks a little at the loss.  For now, I'm praying for ears to listen more closely and savor each sound... to store these sounds in my mind and play them over and over again as the soundtrack to a very different life from my own, but a life where God's truth is still heard by those who will listen.

Many thanks for the words you have spoken into my life and the ways you are supporting and following along on this summer's adventures in Haiti! 

With much love in Christ, Jessie