Kirk and I were sitting on the couch talking one evening, and he told me, "Chris, I want to move to Haiti". He had mentioned this before, and in fact, we had talked with Children of the Promise staff and knew we would be a welcomed addition to the team on the ground. When he would ask what I thought, I mostly tried to placate him with a casual, "okay, I'll think about it," but on this night I could tell from his steady gaze, he was becoming more intent on making this a reality. He had begun talking this over with friends and family, and finally that night on the couch, I just blurt out, "No! I don't want to go to Haiti. I am not saying never, but not now. Please don't keep bringing it up!" I didn't really even want to think about it. I wanted safety. I wanted security. I wanted normalcy. And Haiti represented none of those things to me.
It seems there are moments in marriage where the road splits, where your hearts and dreams are no longer unified. It's a really uncomfortable place. Unity seems threatened and you wonder in a scared corner of your heart if this is where divorce starts. What will it take to remain one.
Kirk was hurt. He felt I had been stringing his dream along. I felt relieved to be from under the pressure of a plan I secretly wanted very little to do with. And so we were at an impasse. But we did continue to talk. We began thinking about other options for our lives, other paths we might take. And Kirk began to pray. He prayed God would turn around the hearts of his wife and kids, and that He would plant desire and joy in our hearts for Haiti. And I prayed that God would heal my family and lead where He wanted us to be.
The time of day I most love is late in the evening when the house is quiet and I have space to myself. Quite often I spend time checking e-mail, playing games, reading news, and following interesting ideas and stories. One night in January, I found myself randomly searching for pictures of Haiti, looking for Creole language sites, and researching the flora and fauna of the island. (Yes, I'm that dorky.) And in the days to come I began to feel drawn to Haiti. I started reading books about Haiti, began practicing phrases, following bloggers of other humanitarian missionaries in Haiti, and talking more about Haiti in my day to day. Slowly I recognized a hunger, a desire for Haiti growing inside of me. I began to mention "what if" scenarios such as "I wonder if we could build a mosquito net frame out of bamboo for above our bed, if we lived in Haiti?" or "What if we could grow apple trees on the compound if we lived in Haiti?" (And no you can't. The U of MN extension office teaches apple trees need dormancy, in case you're curious.)
The idea of home has special significance in my mind. I feel most grounded with a sense of place that "home" seems to conjure. Maybe not so unlike many women, my nest is my safe place where I nurture and care for my family. I like to put everything in it's place and leave it there. Forever. I have always had a hard time moving, so even though I love adventure, the idea of not having a place to return to is very unsettling. But somehow in these days of realization, I started to feel like it would be okay to let go of my house. I started envisioning what "home" would look like in Haiti, and how I might make that space warm and inviting for my family and guests.
So there it was. I wanted to move. I wanted to be in Haiti and there was a joy and excitement in my heart that was propelling me forward, calling me like home. And I knew it was not myself, but God moving my heart toward the center of His will, knitting my husband's and my will into His greater plan and giving us immense satisfaction in Him.
I am going to miss apples. I'm going to feel humbled by my kid's behavior with the whole compound hearing our "business". I'm going to get sick and hate mosquitoes. I'm going get tired, and probably crabby at times. I'm going to want a mug of green tea with my Mom. I'm going to get scared, and maybe hurt. I'm going to want to go "home". But I trust that the God who moved the mountains in my stubborn and selfish heart will be enough, and will teach me, and hold me, and show me joy, and be my home.
Lord you have been our dwelling place throughout all generations. Before the mountains were born or you brought forth the earth and the world, from everlasting to everlasting you are God. Psalm 90 1,2
He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High will rest in the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of the Lord, "He is my refuge and my fortress, my God, in whom I trust." Psalm 91:1
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| La Citadel, in Haiti |
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