I Am Not a Burrito

Edit: I wrote this a long time ago (like three or four-ish years ago) when I was still in college, but I just found it and started cracking up, so I’m sharing it with you. I remember this day clearly because Mary sang that song about being a burrito all day, and when we got burritos for supper that night, we had a long discussion about whether or not we were cannibals. (We decided we were.)

I am not a morning person.

I don’t speak in the morning until I’ve had at least one cup of coffee. Even with that, my brain doesn’t actually turn on until 8 or 9. I’m grumpy, mean, and vaguely homicidal every morning. My family avoids me and warns everyone to never talk to me. It’s bad.

Usually, when I sleep, I find a comfortable position and lay there like a dead person all night. When I was young, Lady Lifegiver would come in to check on me, and she always had to feel to see if I was still breathing because I was so motionless.

Now (when I’m home), if she feels the need to check on me, she pops her head in my room, sees me in bed, and leaves. She told me once that she figures, if I’m dead, she’ll smell me in the morning and everything will be just peachy.

Strangely enough, I also have a problem with falling out of bed. Like, a very serious, I-can’t-sleep-on-the-top-bunk, I-can’t-have-tables-with-sharp-corners-by-my-bed, it’s-normal-to-wake-up-in-the-floor problem.

I have no clue how both of those things go together. I guess, when I do move, I do it violently.

All of this has a point. You need to understand this about me to know why some of the events of this particular morning didn’t surprise me at all and some did.

Ahem. Story.

I woke up feeling the terror of a new day and a gross morning. I kept my eyes closed, basked in the glory of my warm cocoon of blankets and made a decision. I had read somewhere that, if you leap out of bed and make some sort of happy noise and manufacture a happy face, somehow, it will improve your day.

I had tried this before last semester, and it failed horribly. I had been studying the night before and left my book beside my bed. When I leaped out of bed, my foot caught on the book, and I plowed into the floor.

A bruised face does not make for a good day.

But!

It was a new, disgusting morning, I hadn’t been studying in bed the night before, and I decided to try again. So, I gathered myself, tried to force a smile, and leaped out of bed.

Except I didn’t make it very far.

I couldn’t move.

I opened my eyes to find myself in my floor, next to my bed, completely wrapped up in all of my blankets, all of my pillows, and both my top and bottom sheet.

Apparently, I had a rough night.

“Wrapped” was also probably the wrong word to put there. It doesn’t adequately describe the knots I had somehow made in my sheets and the way my fitted sheet had wrapped its way around my head like a giant turban and the tight hold my blankets had on my legs, rendering them immovable.

It was bad.

So, I did the only thing I knew to do – I tried to get out.

I was flopping wildly on the floor, grumbling to myself, and trying to get at a knot behind my left shoulder blade that seemed to be holding it all together, when I heard the tale-tell thud of Twin getting out of bed.

“Great,” I grumbled again. “Now I’ve even awakened The Kraken, and she doesn’t have to get up for another hour or so.”

Bracing myself for her terrible visage and suddenly glad I had all the padding my blankets afforded, I watched Twin climb the stairs to my room.

When she saw me she stared, rubbed her eyes with her fists, stared some more, and finally asked, “What are you doing? Why are you a burrito?”

Realizing she was too sleepy to be mean, I decided to make the most of her presence. “There’s a knot under my left shoulder. Help me get it.”

She stared at me for a second more, said, “Okay,” then turned around and walked back downstairs.

“No, Mary,” I called. “I need you! Come help me!”

She didn’t reply.

But, a few minutes later, I heard her coming back up the stairs, humming to herself (which, if you know her, you know is a bad thing).

Finally. Help. I would be able to get a shower before class.

She stood at the top of the steps until I looked at her. Strangely enough, I noticed she had her blanket.

I could only stare as she looked me square in the face and said, “If you’re a burrito, I’m a burrito.”

Then she laid down beside me and wrapped herself up.

“No! Help me with this knot! I need to get it untied so I can get out. I need a shower, and I can’t be late for class!”

She calmly flipped over in her burrito, looked me in the eyes and said, “Mary’s not here right now. I’m a burrito, and burritos don’t have hands.” Then she flipped back over and refused to speak to me.

Finally, I got the knot out on my own, got my shower, and made it to class on time.

When I left, Mary was still in my floor. I think I also heard her singing something about being a burrito and that being okay as I shut the door behind me.

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.