Haiti #2

Would I come back?
Yes.
Of course yes.
Without a doubt.
I would come back.

How can I explain this when I get back?
I don't even know what to tell my family on skype.
I really haven't told them much.
You'd have to be here to know.
But I sat down to attempt words this evening.
This is what came out:
Amazing.
Mornings crawl sweaty out of bed, dress sloppy and run to roof. Heave up and snap pictures of sunrise and moon--it's only visible in the morning because of the clouds in the evening.
Open Mollie's card, read random Bible passages.
Breakfast --man, these meals are good.
Tennis shoes, fill water bottle, grab bag--gate opens and we step out onto the rocky, muddy road.
"Salu" I greet them.
"Salu"
We pass concrete walls lined with barbed wire and trimmed with wild bush-flowers.
This land is full of paradox.
Gate opens--boys home.
Luc tackle-hugs.
Yvendi smiles.
Wadington sits sad on my lap--won't let go.
Guys kick soccer ball in court yard, girls file in for school and we trek to the back room carrying children. They carry chairs.
Meerton introduces the day and we begin.
They sing in a lower register, but their voices are strong. They sing of heaven, of trust in an awesome God. It almost brings me to tears. Always.
Eventually, our team files out and they start school.
We load into the box truck and bump down the road laughing.
Geoff throws water at Athuila [this time I know how to spell her name] and Megan dumps water on him. "Sorry--such a big bump in the road--it was totally an accident" she laughs.
None of you guys has any concept of a bumpy ride. Haiti riding is airborn-bumpy.
We stop at the main home and hold babies while they load stuff for the new special needs home.
Climb back into the truck and bump through tent city to the new home. Kids move in today.
Touch up murals with a sharpie and chew gum to sooth sore throat. (I'm getting a cold.)
Chris passes out dolls to the new arrivals. Laurie loves her doll. Benita pretends to drink her baby's bottle.
Lunch time we bump back to the main home and then out to the soccer field.
Origami on the picnic table.
Children love the camera, the books, the candy.
I stick close to Marquise (12) and Martine (10)--sweet, sweet sisters.

When I leave them at the orphanage in the evening, I whisper to Marquise, "Love you, girl."
"I love you too, she tells me."
Almighty God loved her enough to shed his blood on her behalf.
It's what I remember when I look into all their eyes, when I hold the urine soaked babies, when I cuddle boy with sad eyes.
Almighty God loved them enough to shed his blood on their behalf.
Marquise and Martine were on the brink of adoption when it fell though. "It was devastating for them." Judy tells me when I ask about them on the ride home.
We bump back to the gate, throw off our tennis shoes and socks and file in for dinner.
I thought I'd starve here, but the food is incredible. I have liked everything I've tried.
After dinner we talk, exchange stories.
I shower--we take military showers here--everything has to be conserved.
Not five minutes later, I'm sweaty again, but hey--Michelle calls it a clean layer of sweat.
I run to the roof for God's evening show--lightning every night while the sun sets. Rain falls.
Hallelujah grace like rain.
Hear stories of kids --tragedy and joy.
The generator kicks in, people skype.
Ten o'clock we head to bed.
When I first got here, I wondered why there were no blankets on the beds. Then I laid down and wondered why they even bothered with sheets. Apparently the weather is a little more bearable during the dry season.
How will I leave this hot, bumpy, inconvenient, unsafe place?
How do I leave the kids?
I think about the Vanberkels and they have to say goodbye to 2 kids who they can't take home till 2014.
How do you do that?
I don't know.

I just know I'm about to leave another piece of heart in Haiti and God is good.