There are some days in Haiti where the hours simply fly by. I reach the end of the day, float up the steps, waltz through the door, sink onto the couch, and my heart sighs in contentment as it looks back and smiles at the joy-filled, productive, and victorious moments of the day.
There is the stooped and wizened old man who leads me from the hot, dusty road of Leveque past the cactus fence, through the bent and angled corrugated tin gate into the cool shade of his front yard. His eyes become animated pools of simple joy as he gives me a botany lesson about each vegetable, flower, and herb in his garden, his hands gently informing, telling a story. It is the simplicity of moments and friendships like these that my heart cherishes.
There are the moments when I step on to what feels like thin ice. I sit down next to Lydia or Rosenie in a room thrumming with sewing machines and chatter, take a deep breath, attempt to draw forth the entirety of my Creole knowledge, and talk about the weekend. I listen carefully, brows furrowed, trying to discern the sounds of abbreviated and shortened words and connect what I’m hearing with the vocabulary files that feel like they are at the far, far reaches of my brain. My face relaxes and my mouth tips up into a smile as I start to put the pieces of a story together. Moments with family. Days spent cooking. Hours of laundry. Mornings filled with church. Time spent in prayer. And then it is my turn. My brain scrambles to remember grammar and syntax. Amidst smiles, encouragement, and shared laughter, I haltingly verbalize my weekend. Moments with my own Haiti family. Adventures in Port Au Prince. Sweet mornings worshiping and learning in church. I come to an end of my known Creole vocabulary and my voice trails off. They smile at me and they tell me how well I am doing with my Creole. I grin back and say that I have the best teachers with the utmost patience. We laugh, share a hug, and continue with our work. It is small victories that deeply encourage my heart.
There are moments when the joy that comes from using the gifts God has given completely overtakes my heart. 142 pastors, shepherds, spiritual leaders converge on our pastoral conference center. Framed on one side by the uninterrupted stretch of azure waves and by interminable mountains on the other, they sit, gathered around circular tables ready to learn from God’s Word. The comfortable murmur of chatter rises and falls as I make my way towards a table where chatter does not break the air with vibrations of sound, but instead cuts through physical space with hands that are transformed into tools of communication. Three Deaf pastors are joining the training, and I, along with another interpreter, have the privilege of opening the door to communication access. Old Testament survey. New Testament survey. The authority of Scripture. How to understand the words of God. Questions. Answers. Prayer. Worship. My heart swells with gratitude as I see the light of comprehension on the upturned faces before me, the nods, the knowing smiles. Here are three pastors who will take the light of understanding, the light of truth, the brilliant light of the Messiah to which Scripture points to their churches, to the people of their village. Facilitating understanding for the ultimate end of spreading God’s glorious gospel... this is the best kind of productivity.
But then there are other days, when I reach the end of the day, drag myself up the steps, trudge through the door, collapse onto the couch and my heart laments the frustrations, calamities, and difficulties that have passed.
There is the rough, calloused hand that grabs my own hand, noticeably absent of callouses, and pulls me to a front door that has recently been marred. There is something missing. The lock, meant to keep the safety and comfort of home in and the danger of disorder and peril out, has been destroyed. The door looks vulnerable, bereft of its shield, telling a story of loss. I turn and listen to the story unfolding from the hands of a beautiful, resilient, aged woman with streaks of black peaking through the striking white hair pulled behind her head. There is no vulnerability in that face; only strength and simple peace that echoes the story of trust in God amidst the suffering that her hands so quietly tell me. She drops her hands, her story told, and I smile and thank her for her hospitality. I squeeze her hand, turn to go, and catch her eyes one last time. The question floats between us, unvoiced but looming. Can’t you help me? My heart catches as I feel the weight of being white and hearing come crashing through my equilibrium.
There are other moments when the question is voiced. I sit across from Guy, merriment spilling from eyes where I can see the wheels turning, anticipating the next moment to make me smile with a clever quip. I laugh out loud as he looks at me slyly, his hands unfolding for my eyes a story of exaggerated proportions. He leans back in his chair and grins in satisfaction, and then the amusement is replaced by concern as he tells me about the people in his village, members of the Deaf community. The frustrations and difficulties pour off of his hands. Water. Jobs. Commuting. Safety. Theft. Discrimination. And then his head tips forward, his face even graver than before. What do I think about this? My brain goes silent. And then the call to action. What can I do to solve these problems? And my heart again bows under the expectations that come with the color of my skin and the ability to hear.
There are the moments where grief and sorrow rip through the heart. It’s Friday and I find myself in a church sitting on a bench next to my friend. We are the minority here. Like two small flecks of sugar that accidentally got thrown in with coffee grounds. The pastor’s voice rises, falls, stops, and a young woman in the front rises to her feet. She squares her shoulders, turns, and I look into the broken and wounded eyes of one of our employees and friends. I am at a funeral for her mother. The ache to understand the purpose in the loss of life is almost palpable.
There are such highs and such lows. Extremes on the spectrum of emotions. And as that spectrum starts to tilt and tumble from the heights, I can hear whispers of defeat.
The need is too great and you are too small.
The hurt is too deep and you are not equipped for this ministry.
You are not in the right place. You are not meant to be here.
How easy it is to blindly believe the lies of the enemy. But as I center my heart on the timeless, ancient words of Scripture, I find the lies dissolving in the face of truth. I hear the quiet reassurance of the Spirit.
Friend, I see the great need. Know that I am greater.
Beloved, I am the healer of all hurts and have equipped you for every good work through my Word. My power is perfected in your weakness.
Child, I knew you before the foundations of the world were put in place. I am holding you in the palm of my hand.
The wild worry and ache of my heart calms as I rest in truth. Truth that I am not the healer of broken hearts. But I know One who is. Truth that I cannot heal the hurts of the world. But I know One who can. Truth that my presence cannot bring peace. But I know the Prince of Peace. Truth that I cannot inherently instill hope. But I know One who is hope. Truth that I am powerless to use something evil for good. But I know One whose power is limitless. Truth that I cannot grasp the big picture plan. But I know One whose understanding is infinite. And He is good. He is faithful. His heart is kind.
My heart again sighs with contentment as the frustrations, calamities, and disappointments find their divinely appointed purpose in Christ. The victorious and joy-filled moments are juxtaposed with difficult, painful days. It’s a trade-off. And I find myself thankful for both sides of the trade.