September 26, 2010. That's today. I cannot believe this year is so close to it's end. I'm not sure really where time went. I guess where it always goes- just gone.
In some ways, I feel like I've been wasting the past several months. I mean- they haven't been a waste, but I'm not sure I've lived them to the fullest. I know I haven't. Because I've been living in limbo. Limbo- an uncertain period of awaiting a decision or resolution; an intermediate state or condition.
I came back to the states on February 12. And ever since that day, I've been waiting for the day I'll return to Haiti. Originally, I thought I would only be in the states for a few weeks. I had a few trips planned, California, Grand Cayman, Indiana, swing by Florida and head back to Haiti sometime in March. That was my plan. I stayed in Florida through mid-June. After a visit to Michigan, I planned a quick trip to Evansville end of June. That's where I've been ever since. My plans to be somewhere for a few weeks always turns into months. And yet, I have not been in one place for more than 4 months for almost a year now (since November of last year when I returned to the states to work the holidays and return to Haiti on Jan. 11).
I am a pretty flexible person. I've had to be. Living in Haiti, I've learned about patience. I've learned about surrendering control. I've learned about trusting God. And I've learned about those things even more-so since the earthquake. A few nights after the quake, I remember talking about that with a few of my friends. How we have absolutely no control over things. We can make all the plans we want-- but ultimately we have no control of making sure they actually happen. There comes a point though, after you've made plans, scratched those plans and made new plans, and have to scratch those and revise yet again, when you just want to put your foot down and yell, "ENOUGH!". I've wanted to yell that a few times. I've wanted to yell, so the whole world could hear and witness my bold statement, "I am making these plans, and this IS how it's going to happen. THIS is when I will return to Haiti, and I will NOT change that date. THIS is where I'm going to live and THIS is how it's going to happen.". Sometimes, I want to yell that. For the world to hear... but I guess really, for God to hear. I want Him to know that I feel I've been patient long enough. I've been flexible long enough. I've given Him control long enough. I know how foolish that is. Why would I want to trade in the plans of One who is all-sufficient, all-knowing and all-powerful for my own fallible ways and plans? I wouldn't. I don't. I just miss Haiti so much. I miss my life there. I don't just miss it, I ache for it. But I will continue to trust Him.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Monday, September 6, 2010
thinking back to that day...
Sometimes as I lay in bed, trying to sleep, thoughts of the earthquake rush back to me. The night of the quake. The 40 seconds the earth shook. The long, sleepless nights following. The crazy weeks after that. The things I saw and experienced. I try to clear my head. I try to stop thinking about it. I try to force myself to sleep. But it doesn't work. Sometimes, I can't stop the memories and thoughts unfolding in my mind.
A few weeks ago, I was thinking about how the earthquake made us all equal. Although we tell ourselves that "everyone is equal"... that's not really the case. Sure, maybe we were created to be equal and we should be equals... but life's not fair. There are rich people in Haiti who have never even looked to see the poverty. Even besides class and social status, there are things that make the people living there different. But not on that night. The earthquake didn't care who you were. Sure, the wealthy might have had an advantage of nicer homes. But even that didn't matter all that much. The Carribean Market collapsed. Hotel Montana fell. The Palace crumbled. That experience made us all the same. At least for a little while. A boujwa (Creole word for the French- bourgeois, to describe the wealthy) was no longer a boujwa. A blan (white person) was no longer a blan. Black people died. White people died. Rich people died. And poor people died. No one was above being affected by the earthquake. We were all the same that night.
A few weeks ago, I was thinking about how the earthquake made us all equal. Although we tell ourselves that "everyone is equal"... that's not really the case. Sure, maybe we were created to be equal and we should be equals... but life's not fair. There are rich people in Haiti who have never even looked to see the poverty. Even besides class and social status, there are things that make the people living there different. But not on that night. The earthquake didn't care who you were. Sure, the wealthy might have had an advantage of nicer homes. But even that didn't matter all that much. The Carribean Market collapsed. Hotel Montana fell. The Palace crumbled. That experience made us all the same. At least for a little while. A boujwa (Creole word for the French- bourgeois, to describe the wealthy) was no longer a boujwa. A blan (white person) was no longer a blan. Black people died. White people died. Rich people died. And poor people died. No one was above being affected by the earthquake. We were all the same that night.
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