broken places

I said, "less words".

Laying on a rooftop in St Louis, watching a lightening storm illuminate the mountains on the horizon, the stars above my head too numerous to count... He chose less words too.

I'm still here.


When I was in Africa last year, and in the months prior and following, I was completely wrecked.  Broken.  Shattered.  God used Ethiopia to begin to put me back together.  To catapult me into the ghetto.  Into purpose and boldness.  But from the beginning, I never expected the same experience out of Haiti.

I didn't expect anything out of Haiti.

I was just going.  Because I wasn't going somewhere else.  Because it didn't take as long to get there as it does Africa.  Because it was supposed to be cheaper.  Because I needed to get the hell out of America.

So the time to leave came.  And I just woke up, put my bags in the car, and left.  Like it was no big deal. Like I wasn't leaving for a third world country.  Without malaria meds, without the pre-travel anxiety, without expectations.

When I walked into my bakery that morning, however, I saw the foreshadowings of a divine plan unfold.  I saw a hint of a sweet serendipity that I hadn't seen in months.  And I had a fleeting thought.  An elusive moment of consideration.  Maybe this would be more.  Maybe...

Ethiopia was about understanding what I could do, through Christ.  Overcoming worthlessness and fear, operating in weakness, in strength.  I was broken.  But not useless.

And then here was Haiti.  Cradled on the broken place.

I heard, repeatedly throughout the week, Him say very simply "I am not trying to break you in the same place twice".  Like a broken bone, healed and stronger for the breaking.  I was repaired in that place where Haiti was resting on me.

And so riding through the unpaved streets of St Louis on the back of a rickety old Toyota pick up, dirty feet and sweaty brow and skirt wrapped around my legs, I tested the strength of the scar tissue.

And found capability.

A part of myself I had set aside.  Had bound up.  Pushed down.

Africa was an experience.  A display of the very nature of God, His bigness and His voice.

But I did not touch Africa.  I experienced Africa, the way one might watch a movie.  Or listen to a song. Effected.  Impacted.  But I did not bend low and scoop Africa up in my arms.  Africa did not fall asleep on my chest.  Africa's voice did not whisper in my ear, words strangely familiar but not understood.

Then there I was.  Dark from dirt.  Body tired, smile big.

I didn't even pray while I was there.  Not in the way the others did.  Not in my normal way.  I didn't write words down.  I didn't stop, intentionally, and say a word to Him.  Partially out of spite.  If You're going to be quiet, I'm going to be quiet too.  Partially because I know that sometimes we talk so much He can't get a word in edgewise.

I was sent with the words, "remember, you were made for this".  I asked for a reminder, because frankly, I keep forgetting.  I forget that my heart belongs in the ghetto.  I forget that my heart belongs in simplicity.  I forget that the deep ache in my arms is from being empty too long.  That there's a sweet place between my shoulders where a child's head rests when he sleeps.

Go where I send you.  He said, simply, with a white dove flying outside the Port au Prince airport.

People are the same everywhere.  They need the same things... the things I've taught you.  He began to show me why I have endured the things I have.  What skills I've acquired, which are finally proving useful.

But while He was doing this, I was completely unaware.  Ignoring Him, almost.  For crying out loud, I was tired of trying to figure it out.  I am tired of trying to figure it out.

Less words.

New eyes.

Stronger for the breaking.