I’m Coming Home

My time here is coming to a close, and I don’t know what to do. I’ve been here for two months, and I’ve been here for a lifetime. I’ve grown and changed and found healing and seen pain and heard stories and cried and laughed and made friends and found family. I’ve eaten popcorn, watched movies, pushed swings, rocked screaming babies to sleep, walked up and down mountains, run in circles, and changed so many diapers.

Friends and family back home, forgive me.

Forgive me if I’m quiet when you find me, if I don’t talk about Haiti much, if I get overwhelmed and hide, if I’m short-tempered and tired, if I’m loud and obnoxious, or if I talk about Haiti all the time.

I have stories I don’t know how to tell. I have words and emotions and faces welling up inside me, and I don’t know how to share that with you.

I have tiny hands wrapped around my heart. I feel the weight of small heads on my chest when I go to sleep. I know their names. I know their individual cries. I know their stories.

I want to share them with you, and I want to keep them so close.

I know you love me, and I know you’ve been praying for me and supporting me on this whole journey, and I can’t tell you how much that means to me. So, ask about my stories anyway. Ask me about the babies. Ask me what I’ve learned and how I’ve grown.

Let me tell you about Haitian thunderstorms and the day the clouds hid the mountains. Let me describe the baby that wouldn’t stop breathing, the girl that wouldn’t stop fighting, and the boy that never smiled. Let me tell you about the cockroaches and cold showers. Let me share stories of redemption and families and healing and hope. Let me cry about orphans and hunger and restaveks and mosquitoes.

Let me tell you the stories, but please be understanding when I cry, when none of my words make sense, and when I ramble and can only say things like “crazy,” “tiny,” and “awesome” over and over.

If I don’t know how to tell you anything that day, if the weight of Haiti is sitting on my chest and snuffing out my words, ask me again the next day. Or even the next hour. I’ll be better then.

If I cry, give me a hug, and when I’m done, I’ll tell you about the precious smiles and screaming laughter and tears and anger and beauty and brokenness.

If I hide for a while, let me go.

I need to think and pray and learn and hope. I’m going to need time to adjust to air conditioning and midnight runs to Taco Bell and wal-mart five minutes away and long showers. I’m going to need to process Haiti so it doesn’t become “just a trip”. I’m going to need to pray and cry and miss people and babies and Haitian words and Haitian food and crazy drivers and that stupid bird that never shuts up.

Please be gentle with me.

My heart is bruised and longing for a place and people that were home for a while. It’s yours to take if you want it. You can hold it and look at it and see the tiny, Haitian fingerprints and note the ridges that look an awful lot like Haitian mountains and feel the cracks and scars, but please be gentle. It’s been broken by a medium-sized island packed full of people, and I need it to keep beating while I figure it all out.

I love you all, and I can’t wait to see you soon.

Family and friends in Haiti, thank you.

Thank you for making Haiti home, for becoming family, for sharing stories and books and movies and life. Thank you for understanding my pre-coffee glares, for never taking me seriously, for teasing me, and for late-night talks. Thank you for letting me hide when I needed to and gently reminding me to do more when I needed that too.

Thank you for sharing your lives with me. Thank you for welcoming me into them for a short time. Thank you for being my friend, even when I was being obnoxious. Thank you for putting up with me. Thank you for teaching me how to build connections. Thank you for teaching me that it’s okay to take care of yourself.

I will never listen to Taylor Swift, Twenty-One Pilots, or Mat Kearney/Macaroni without thinking of you. I will laugh every time I eat Smarties. I will remember popcorn spilled out on a table and Molly’s constant popcorn failures every time I eat a handful. Every time I bake, I will remember a cranky oven that never really cared what temperature you tried to set it to. I will never hear rain without thinking “La ple! La ple!” I will never ride in a car without wishing I was on top of the cage truck. I will never play with a baby without singing, “Oh, baby, baby!” If I ever forget someone’s name, I will call them Kimberly. I will remember that prayer works miracles.

I will spend more time sitting around a table talking to friends. You taught me the value of that. I will remember that water makes everything better and calmer. I will walk up more mountains. I’ll do it for my butt. I will remember where my belly is and every time someone leaves, I will wonder if they ale peepee. I will remember that sometimes you just need a doughnut joke. I will remember that looking at things positively often makes them better. I will remember that there is good in everyone.

I will be generous with my story. I will remember that healing always follows pain, and we serve a very good God who never leaves us hanging. I will remember the message of grace, hope, and love that I found here. I will remember the joy we have in Christ and the power of blood. I will remember that God is not cruel, and He doesn’t hurt us, but He seeks to make us more like Him, and sometimes that is painful. I will remember to let go.

Family and friends in Haiti, you’ve made me better, and I don’t know how I can thank you enough for how kind you’ve been the last two months. I will always remember the summer you welcomed me in.

Haiti has buried itself in my heart, so I’ll be back if God calls me, but I’ll miss you until then. Or until I see you in the States. Never forget how incredible you are and that you make a difference in people’s lives.

I’m coming home tomorrow. I’m leaving home tomorrow. I’m a mess today.