Haiti, pt. 2: Chita!

I stood with a bowl of cookies on my head surrounded by hungry Haitian children pulling at my shorts, tugging on my shirt and slapping my stomach. The torn paper plates had been abandoned for withered hands, palms up. They begged and shoved, all vying for one more cookie. They promised to be my best friend. Zanmi mwen they said, while grunting and huffing out other words in Creole.

The thing is, I had the cookies. After giving them all the allotted two, we had nearly half a bowl left. And this was a big bowl. A quick guesstimate ensured that I had enough for at least one more per child. But in the mele there was no way to know who had gotten the extra one and who had not. Flashes of white eyes, crooked teeth and clawing hands dissolved into a sea of ebony. Some smiled and asked sweetly, some pounded my body with tiny fists to get their story told. Sometimes they all seemed to form one huge organism with one hundred hands reaching out for a Tempo coconut flavored cookie.

In the madness, Kyle came up to me with a handful of cookies, followed by a mob trying to pry them from his hands. "This is crazy, we gotta get out," he said.* Partly brokenhearted and partly relived that he too thought it had gotten out of control, I nodded. He dropped the loot in the bowl upon my head and we made our way out of the church, children following behind. The older boys called out to me as I left. Either laughing at my failure to deliver a simple snack or possibly pleading for another cookie themselves.

It had started innocently enough, after snack time the 5 or 6 kids nearest to me asked for more. Their little paper plates were creased and crumpled and I knew they probably hadn't eaten since VBS the day before. I could not look at them and then look at all the cookies and say no. Asking another inexperienced friend, we agreed that this was a good plan to quietly, systematically give out some more.

I erred on many accounts:

1) That I could explain they get one more each, and that would be it (but I dont speak Creole)

2) That I could reason with them if they still wanted more (but they were ages 4-10 mostly)

3) That they would assemble and politely take one more each (but...yea. nope.)

So after handing out a few precious cakes of flour and sugar, eyes began to dart to the corner of the room where I was standing. Things grew exponentially more chaotic, like when the critical Jenga piece is pulled from the tower. It was soon clear there would be no rules, no instructions and no rationale. It killed me that I could not continue to give. It was hard to know how much to endure before withdrawing mercy.

My heart longed to give them what they needed, to give out all the cookies in the world to them. The children made it impossible to love them fully. I wanted to make sure everyone got more, but I had no way to do so without multiple people stepping on others and squeezing out the less capable. At some point, we had to shut down the operation.

I wonder if God views us in this way sometimes...wanting to give out mercy and grace in abundance but in some spiritual fashion, similar or not, we make it so difficult for that to happen.

*In order to not taint Kyle's good name, I wanted to clarify that he is a broguy with much more toughness and steadfastness than I. He would be the last one in the world to retreat in a situaion like that. Those that know Kyle can appreciate just how out-of-control it must have been for him to think it was crazy. This is why I was somewhat relieved when he admitted the level of insanity...just so I knew I wasnt overreacting to the chaos. Kyle, love you bud.

Haiti, pt. 1: Dont blink...

Haiti hits you like a wave, baptizing you in a world far removed from what is normal. The sliding glass doors of the airport open to unleash hundreds of locals bustling about like fireants once thier hill is disrupted. They are calling, pointing, running, grabbing, motioning, and desperate for your attention.

Haiti smells like burning. Port Au Prince is saturated in smoke and dust. It is hard to distinguish garbage from belongings. Honestly, it just looks like a war zone. Everything is dirt and rocks and yelling. There is a fire somewhere, I cant see it but it must be all around me. Trucks not fit for American junkyards motor by, often with Haitians standing in the bed pointing and yelling in Creole.

My 97 pounds of luggage is not moving easily over the Haitian terrain, it is used to paved walkways and bellhops with a gentle touch. As a man in white maneuvers us around vehicles and honking horns, I notice one of my comrades is lagging behind. We trade bags since at least mine has wheels, and then its back to the comotion. Everything is frantic, every moment crucial.

Seeing Jeremy and Kyle's faces amongst the crowd was a most welcome sight, but there was no time for reunions. A quick fist bump with Jeremy, hand one bag over to Kyle and keep moving. Thirty-something people had to be herded to safety so their eyes remained locked past me to the group members in tow.

Finally we were congregated at an old school bus, hugs were accepted and arms rested on shoulders. Money was doled out to the man in white who valiantly stopped traffic for us. His chivalry gone, he now demanded more money. Jeremy stood his ground though, and he got no more than the predetermined amount. This would be a characteristic very important in Haiti: firmness.

As the bus pulled off into the haze, Haitians were running alongside asking for something, anything. We drove by makeshift street vendors, abandoned buildings, and one giant sculpture of the world with Haiti at its center. Jeremy stood up and welcomed us to Haiti, his voice tired and shaky from sickness and 3 months of living in this madness.

In the peace after we left Port Au Prince, mountains rose up against a quickly darkening sky as the old bus motor droned along. Fires sprinked the countryside, glowing with warning and Jeremy's words echoed in my head: Haiti is crazy. Haiti is unpredictable. Haiti is crunpredictable.

Creole for dummies...

Im going to Haiti in December.

This excites me to no end. In three weeks I will need to get some shots, get a case of Malarone, and more importantly, prepare my heart to be taken away. To be attached to a great sail caught by a wind of compassion and carried to some far off place. A place where my desires and my goals are put to death and all control is sacrificed on the great stone table.

Control.

I have come to realize that control is the greatest hinderance to my ability to do the things i feel in my heart. Things I think I want to do...

I have long been in favor of going overseas, for a long period of time, removing my comfortable upper middle class cushions, and helping the least of these. Like, actually living in a place...not just a trip.

I am not scared about sleeping in uncomfortable spots (Ive slept on couches for months at a time), I am not afraid of being dirty or not having regular hygiene luxuries (I shower once a day, but its more to wake up than to get clean), I am slightly fearful of violence...however that is minor (I could be assaulted in my neighborhood on any given night).

My biggest fear is losing control of my own life. Control to have a good job. Control to find a wife. Control to make and enjoy friends. Control of my future.

How will I meet my dream girl if I just move to Haiti? What kind of job will be available if/when I ever come back? What if I dont like the people I am bunking with? How can I find a good organization, with "cool" people I will enjoy? These are all the areas of control I fear losing.

The funny thing is, I do not have any control now. Ive never had control, but I do enjoy a nice little illusion of control. So essentially, I am fearful of giving up my illusion of control in life. That is the biggest hurdle for me to chase my passions. Pretty ridiculous huh?

Back to Haiti.

I have been reading the blogs of my friends, who are in Haiti. The people already living there and the group I will be going with is truly a collection of bright and beautiful people whom I love. I have daydreamed about going down there and staying there. I probably wont do that.

However, my heart is certainly in a transitional place right now. I pray that my eyes would be wide open and willing to see what God sees. Willing to see the broken places and that my soul would burn for love of the people I see there. And I would feel a need to act on my emotions and feelings while I am there.

Who knows what coals and embers this upcoming trip will stir up in my heart? But my main desire is that I will not let my desires and my plans come in the way of a call that I may feel.

Because I am a terrible leader for my own life. I shouldnt be in control anyway.

Oh, wait...Im not. I just think I am.

Scribbles and dots...

Art is freedom.

I used to feel that art was constraining.

If I was to draw a picture it had to look like the real thing. If I was to take a photo, it had to be perfectly framed and make sense. This must have stemmed from my elementary art classes where paste had to be conserved and paints should not be mixed.

Someone once told me that if you're going to create art, you cant be afraid to make mistakes.

I love this idea.

Sure, perhaps that picture is fuzzy, but it captures the feel of the moment. That story doesnt come to a conclusion...yes but it may just be a small snapshot of life, and sometimes in life conclusions are not made. It is the ultimate frustration, but oftentimes conclusions are miles and miles away: soaking in some rays on some tropical beach, sipping martinis while we are freezing in the rain, huddled up in some alley.

2009 has been a year where I have felt a bubbling of creativity, spouting up from places I knew it might be residing and from some places I had no idea it was there. There have been some key participants in my life that have seemingly unlocked this discipline in me. And it has been exhilarating.

But the most freeing thing is that I have come to love art and expression as a place with no rules: it can make perfect sense and come together or it can be completely nonsensical and just be.

I am so grateful for an outlet to just create something planned and poignant or perhaps to just throw some abstract concept that may have been floating around in my head down on paper. That is the beauty, it is ultimate freedom to just do. Do something that makes you satisfied.

Create for the sake of creativity.

I just really appreciate that. I love that you don't have to be good or smart or calculated to create something. Just go for it. Don't be afraid to make no sense. Everything can have its place and should be appreciated for what it is. I actually think we go wrong when we actually try hard to make it too good.

When trying too hard comes off in art I think it leaves a bad taste in the observer's mouth. The artist shouldn't have anything to prove to people. Therefore, don't try to. Just go, go, go.

Its as if we need to take off the parking brake and just let our minds roll down the hill, gaining speed and not stopping for anything.

I want to encourage creativity because it has been a huge outlet and a place to enter into worship for me. I am thankful for a creative God who literally speaks and creates. And I am thankful that he allows us to jump in there and make our own creations.

However grand or slight they may be.

A day's prologue...

I love hanging out in the morning.

And I don’t mean getting up and getting dressed and meeting a girl-thats-a-friend-but-maybe-im-interested-in for coffee. I mean groggy, smelly, bed-hair, pajamas hanging out. When the day is just beginning and you and friends just sit around, nod at one another, and wait to peel the layers of sleep off your brain.

There is a feeling of nakedness or vulnerability when one awakes. No one is dressed up, everyone is at their most disheveled. And yet, no one cares. There is just something about the morning that brings calm agreement among friends.

It only happens on rare occasions: a sleepover, a group trip, if all the roommates happen to be home in the morning.

The latter happened today.

This week I’m working an odd 12:30-9pm shift at work, which is somewhat unfortunate, but it affords me that precious morning laziness that I have missed since college. I stumbled down the stairs and made my way haphazardly to the kitchen, pushing the wandering coffee table out of the way and throwing some newspapers on the couch.

As the sunlight snuck in through the window, Robert was his chirpy self already dressed for the day in smooth plaid and pants. He was making coffee and doing dishes. I was thankful for his diligence and productivity at 9am.

I like to ease into my day (except when I go to work) as if I am wading into a cool lake, when you suck in your stomach to brace against the water.

Then Bradley came in, much like a bear emerging from a winter’s hibernation. I was thankful for this too, because it made me feel more comfortable for being a slow mover.

We drank coffee and I made cheese eggs and for twenty minutes we just sat and breathed in the day.

And I realized how thankful I am for so many different people in my life: people that drive me. people that comfort. people that are different. people that are the same. people that challenge. people that calm. people that laugh. people that hug. people that dance. people that color. people that cry. people that make me cry. people that make my stomach jump. people that make my head hurt. people that confound. people that make perfect sense.

I am grateful for all the puzzle pieces that come together to make up my life.

You are loved.

Stopping to smell...

I had the day off today. Random weekdays off are truly a blessing. Weekends are nice, but they are planned…and there’s shows to go to, bars to hop, friends to see. Saturday and Sunday become as jammed or more jammed than even our stress-filled workdays.

But today was just a lazy, no-name, indifferent, Wednesday. I awoke at 10 with no plans and nothing pressing on my docket. It was as relaxed as I have been in a while. I inhaled the first breath of morning and eventually slid off the mattress in no real hurry. After sitting around for a while, the initial order of business was a roommate bike ride to the post office. It was a simple and organic venture: old transportation taking us to an increasingly archaic medium for exchanging ideas.

There is something about walking or biking through a cityscape. It is more real, everything is more defined. You are on the ground floor. You see things at eye level. You are immediately more involved with everything around you.

Whisking around corners, we nodded or smiled at everyone in our vicinity…had we been driving, not so much as eye contact would have been made. Also, on a whim, we stopped at the coffee shoppe and saw a friend who just happened to be working. In a car, I would have driven by, not wanting to find a parking spot, turn off the car and all that.

We then helped a man push his car out of an intersection so he could get a jump. I felt the compulsion to help because I was in the city. I was on the same playing field as this guy, who was clearly in a bind. Had I been in a car, I may have felt bad, but hey whatta my gonna do? Green light: time to move on. With the soles of my shoe wet with the leftovernight’s rain and the sticky sweat on my back, I was in this situation with him. There was nothing else to do but offer a simple push.

Then, at 11:40, Robert suggested we go to mid-day prayer at church. This is something I had wanted to do for a while, but of course, I’m never off on Wednesdays. So we hopped on our bikes and headed home to trade in two wheels for four, since highway travel was imminent.

The sanctuary was virtually deserted, but we were early, and by 12:15 maybe about 12 people were spread out among the first 4 rows. There was no band, no pomp and circumstance, just a dozen bodies there to think about our Creator. It was so intimate and so real. There were no motives for anyone to be there other than meditation and prayer. No cool clothes to impress that girl in row seven, no plans to see who is eating where after the service…just people there because it is refreshing to take a respite and be still amidst our hectic lives.

The service was so quiet and beautiful. Only a few scriptures were read and a brief homily was given. My favorite parts were silent confession and then a sharing of the peace. And for once, I was not nervous or afraid to turn around and shake hands and say “peace be with you, brother/sister.”

Now, I am typically an outgoing person, and I like meeting people. But for some reason the sharing of the peace always makes me nervous. I don’t know why, maybe I feel I have to strike up a conversation or I’m nervous about getting the “dead fish” handshake. But today was something different entirely. We had all just confessed our unholiness through prayer silently and then in unison. And, in the light of the forgiveness already bestowed on us, we shared the good news of peace with one another. It was a lovely, holy time between just a small number of people. But we all knew why we were there. I sensed a feeling of unity in that moment that is lost in big groups. It was pure and it was safe.

It gave me the feeling that we were in an ancient monastery and were all family and had been family for ages. That we all knew and loved one another fully. Each embrace and handshake was warm and fulfilling. I could almost smell the spirit of God in that place.

I would love to take that 30 minutes every Wednesday, or every day for that matter, and share that time with other Lovers. It was an oasis. Alas, life is sure to get in the way…probably in the form of my boss never giving me another Wednesday off.

But I had a taste of simplicity and a feeling of home that I haven’t felt in a long time.

It makes me long for my original home.

come quickly.

Let's roast some corn...

There are some things that are just inexplicable. One is why someone would try to open a bathroom door, find it locked, then knock. You already know it's locked… how is that knock going to change anything? I refuse to acknowledge the knock, they know I'm in there.

Change is also something that is often unexplainable. It just creeps in like a kitten and before you know it a tiger is curled up on your couch.

Why do we hear a song for months and almost always hit “repeat” once…or twice? Then one day, the hooks aren’t as catchy, the lyrics seem stale, and its about one minute, twelve seconds too long. It happens. But why? Is it so we can store up a new favourite song somewhere in our temporal lobe? It is just because the synapses got tired of reacting the same way over and over and over again? Or is there just no reason at all. It just is.

The seasons change, although we typically see it coming, and can prepare for it. But honestly…why do they have to change? Why can’t it just be 78 and sunny with a light cloud cover and a sweet breeze all the time? Ok, we can even allow a soft shower at 4:24pm every day for the plants. But no…that’s not how it happens here. Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter come and go, always changing. Apparently, as my roommate pointed out, Autumn is upon us, as recently as yesterday. This means change is nigh.

Trade in the flip flops I have gotten accustomed to for closed shoes.

Substitute airy tee shirts for scratchy cardigans.

But what if I chose to embrace the crisp air, the burnt leaves, and the smell of cider? Instead of looking back and missing summer, I can venture out into the unknown of fall. Maybe grow a beard to shield the winds or sharpen my pumpkin carving skills.

Change does not have to be bad, it just must be accepted. All we can do as this wild world rushes by is be still and enjoy where we are, even if its in a completely new environment than we were in yesterday.

There is no sense in worrying about why things are not as they were, or what they will be like tomorrow. For now, Im going to whip out my pocket knife, pick up a knotty branch, sit in a rocking chair and whittle for a little bit.

It seems like the best way to enjoy this fresh, unfamiliar season I find myself in.

When the bulb dims...

What happens in the time between when an idea is thought up and that idea is put into action... rather, not put into action.

Why is there such a tendency to not move? Moving requires energy. Therefore, I suppose it is easier to not move. By moving I mean acting, in any way. Changing. Loving. Anything more than just being.

I have a terrible habit of merely existing. The worst part of that is that time continues to go along- cells replicate, atoms crash into one another- and I slowly depreciate. The present me is still the past me that I thought would, by now, be the future me. Aspirations are still aspirations, not reality.

I let ideas marinate until they are a smelly, foul mess that never happened. Why am I so content with what I currently have? Im alright, Im good as is. Sure, I have all these ideas that I think I can impress people with, win people over with. I can sound so progressive and smart if I want to.

And perhaps sometimes, I can trick people into thinking Im very cool. However, at the end of it all... it seems that I just speak well. I can sound like I am going somewhere, but Ill prolly just end up staying right where I am. I didnt even want to use the energy to type out probably.

Back to my original thought: What happens to potential? When an idea is formed it has potential energy [eat your heart out DarDrone, if you're reading]. The potential to improve or destroy. The potential to explode, to heal, to change. That idea can do so many things. Yet what makes it fizzle out before it ever does anything?

I want to write a book with 3 of my best friends.

I want to go places.

I want to desire Christ like I say I want to.

I want to blog (ok, I finally did this; only took a year)

I want to be artistic.

I want to think of myself last in all situations.

I want to explore.

I want to be more gentle.

I want to ride my bike more.

I want to make a video.

I want to pursure relationships with those around me.

I want to read about 64 books (and that is just the current list).

But I will probably just end up hanging out here for a while longer. Hopefully until all those things dont feel quite as pressing or important. Then I will be free of my convictions and just being here will be enough.

Some people I know might think it's an asset to be relaxed and easy going. And, frankly, people who seem discontent and always striving for more annoy me.

Its like what is the big deal?

But I see why it's a big deal to do things. It is a very big deal to overcome that time in between. It is a tremendous accomplishment, and it requires energy, planning, and effort. A perfect example occurs nearly every weekday in my life:

1. I want to make the sandwich to eat for lunch so i dont have to eat (and spend money) in the cafeteria. I will do this in the morning.
The idea is hatched, the possibilities endless! The potential of turkey, ham, roast beef! Mayonaise, lettuce... oh the joy!

2. I go to sleep
The idea could grow into reality... or will it die? This is the hard part.

3. I wake up, I need to shower, get dressed, find matching socks... now that sandwich doesnt seem so important. Swiping my badge and getting a "hot entree" doesnt seem so bad. I can not smell the smoked turkey anymore, or feel the soft wheat bread I once was excited about. The door slams, the lunch meat is still in the refrigerator and I clip my badge to my pants.
What happend!??!?! Wait! No! Really? You couldnt just put in a little more effort to make. a. sandwich? Are you that lazy? Taking the easy way out? Sad.

The consequences of a sandwich/not sandwich are only about $0.35. But this phenomenon infects many other places. And consequences in those areas are far more devastating.

And now I have learned this about myself. I want to change it. I dont want to only muse about things, but I want to be a doer. a seeker. a changer.

The idea is hatched...