A Very Staid, Unenthusiastic Report on Dengue Fever (Sort of)

Well, we seem to be through the worst of it. The fire’s smoldering, the jump is landed, the bell has rung, and you can all go home. Which is precisely where we are. Home. Mom. Josh. Kent. Alnetta. Michelle. And all the rest who never went to the hospital in the first place. We’ve all survived, there will be no tolling of the bells or lowering of the great big somber boxes. You’ll have to save your dirt to throw for another day. We are in our perspective houses and are very much inclined never to set foot in a hospital again. Or at least not for a very long time.

But we’ve learned some amazing things. We’ve learned that the mission’s trip doesn’t have to end once you step off the airplane and back onto home turf. We’ve learned that there is power and community in the children of God coming together to pray. In Haiti and in good, old Nebraska. We’ve learned how to serve one another. We’ve learned the importance of bathing in Deet (*note to next year’s trip). I am also proud to say that our group is now able to give a very distinguished, comprehensive lecture on the causes, signs, and effects of dengue fever. We also ought to be able to give a very comprehensive lecture on grace. We’ve seen a lot of it.

Twenty-five healthy, robust (more or less) Americans grabbed our passports and sat down on a plane which was meeting another plane which was meeting another plane which was flying to Haiti. All 25 of us made it back. No broken bones. Ten of us got sick after making it back. All ten had dengue fever. Which is not contagious. Which is mild the first time around and worse the second. Did you know there’s actually four forms of dengue fever, and all ten of us got the weakest form? Did you know none of us had any internal bleeding? And of the random ten chosen, no two were from the same family. We had husbands taking care of their wives, wives taking care of their husbands, and mothers scurrying around everywhere.

Dengue fever isn’t that awful. (Eh-hem. Perhaps you ought to qualify that statement. It is made by a healthy, non-dengue-fever survivor.) But this statement is not qualified: God is gracious. It could have been worse. A lot worse.

But we serve a God who even instructs the feverish, irritating mosquitos which missionary to bite and which one to leave alone. Who says He didn’t know what He was doing? Who says it was just random chance? I know differently. We all do. The way it happened, we get to brag on what God has done. This way we couldn’t forget, even if we wanted to. This way the adventure that we thought was going to last a week got tripled in time. (We get our money’s worth, see?) This way we get cool T-shirts: “We went to Haiti and brought back the FEVER!”

A Present-Day Prayer Request

We were blessed in Haiti. You may have noticed. We can’t seem to stop talking about it. Everything reminds us of something there. We hope we’ll never be the same. I really wish you could see it when our team gets together. It’s like a family reunion. Minus a few members a ways down south. (You know who you are.)

We thought we’d had our adventure and returned to the real world. Time to get serious. We kept saying psychically proper things about readjusting and processing and sharing and all that. The psychologists would have been impressed. We thought we were out of school and into a quiet, meditative evening.

Well, we were wrong.

It started with Kent getting sick. Fever. Hospital. Doctors weren’t quite sure what to call it. Then it was my mom’s turn. Then Alnetta. Then Michelle. Then Larry, Josh, and Brandon. We were dropping like flies. On Sunday, we counted our numbers and asked each other who was going to be next.

We were only half-joking.

Yesterday we got the call from the local clinic, asking us all to please report. They had a state official waiting specially for us. And masks. And a very official sign taped to the door. “If you are coming from Haiti, please put a mask on before entering clinic. Thank you.” In pink. And please don’t use the front door.

We were starting to feel like we’d unwittingly walked into Area 51. Or the Einstein Project. Or something. But we donned our masks like good little children, took a scolding for being too cheerful inside a very soberly-run professional clinic, had our blood drawn, and were let loose and infectious out into the world again. Obviously, whatever we have, they didn’t think it was catching.

The next day (today) three of us checked into the hospital. Three of us that are still there. Low blood platelet count. Which as far as I can tell means that your blood is turning into Gatorade when it ought to be more like clam chowder. But if you want a more professional version, ask my sister. There’s a reason why she holds a stethoscope, and I hold a guitar.

So, my mom and Josh and Alnetta are still in the hospital as of tonight, 10:38 p.m. We had an hour and a half prayer meeting at the church and came away encouraged. But it’s pretty easy to be encouraged when you’re one of the healthy ones. The God who defeated all hell and the grave is the same God who has power over a nasty microscopic virus whizzing around on the wings of an obnoxious mosquito. A mosquito I very much hope has been squashed beneath some colorful Haitian flip-flop.

Our God is a faithful God and a God who is mighty to save. We have prayed, even though we’re not always quite sure precisely what to say. We are asking you to pray too.

Worshiping with the Ants

Written on October 8, in Haiti . . .

This morning I went up on a rooftop to talk with God. It was a Haitian rooftop, complete with drying clothes, coconuts growing next door, and a view of the ocean. And ants. There were a lot of ants. I didn’t actually notice them till I had sung a few songs. Who knew ants liked to go to church?

Although this group did look slightly confused. Like they weren’t actually sure if they’d made it into the church building or not. There they were, skittering around in wavery, disconnected jerks. No one was following anyone else. No one was walking in a straight line. If ever an ant family looked disoriented, this one had it down. Maybe they were looking for food. Or a new house. Or a lost comrade in anthood. Whatever it was, they didn’t seem to be finding it. They just kept skittering around, unsure and frustrated as ever.

They might have asked me. I could see for miles. I knew what was downstairs. Three cans of Pringles, a couple bags of fruit snacks, and lots of beef jerky. Those ants might have lived for years on what was downstairs. I could have found them a new house. Not that I’ve ever lived in an ant house before, but I knew where a nice pile of dirt was. And as for lost comrades - well, it’s hard to hide from someone who’s a couple hundred times bigger than you.

But the ants didn’t ask me. They never looked up.

And that’s when God spoke. “Lift up your eyes,” He said. Look up from your concerns and your projects and your deadlines and your skittering to and fro. If I am a couple hundred times bigger than an ant, God is a couple million times bigger than me (and then some). If I knew about the Pringles, God knows about every morsel of food on this planet (and then some). If I can find a house, He can build a world (. . . and then some). Do you think He does not care for you? He’s staring straight at us, but we’ll never see him by skittering around with our noses to the ground and our eyes searching frantically around us. We’ll never see Him unless we look up.

I shared this with the church in Haiti. I read parts of Isaiah 60 to them. In Haiti, I saw God’s church looking up. He had leveled their houses, their stores, even their churches. They didn’t have anywhere else to look. In Haiti, the church is experiencing the daily reality of dependence on God. May God’s church in America do the same.

Making Dents

Now that we’re back, it would be easy to say it was just Haiti. It was the amazing translators. The orphan kids. The leadership. Our team. Now we’re back in the “real world,” and you can’t possibly expect it to be the same. What we learned there was exceptional, different, unique. A once-in-a-lifetime experience. Now it’s back to the schedule: eight to four, three meals a day, open your Bible if you’ve got the time, and don’t forget to set the alarm. Leave the passion, the eagerness, the delicious taste of the unexpected - leave those back in Haiti. They belong to mission’s trips, not practical, daily living. Especially not in America.

Americans like schedules. We like statistics and things that we can prove. “What did you do in Haiti?” the Americans ask me. “Who did you help? What difference did you make? Were you able to make a dent down there at all?”

Well, no. No, not really. Unless you count a pinprick in an elephant’s toe as a dent. We didn’t really do much of anything in Haiti. We sweat off a few dozen pounds, guzzled water like a fish, and ate a couple hundred peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. That’s basically all.

But ask me what Jesus did in Haiti - ask me if Jesus made a difference - and, well, that’s a different story.

I saw Jesus gripping the end of a jump rope and laughing with a group of teenage girls. I saw Jesus listening each morning for the Father’s voice and going out to do His will. I saw Jesus getting distracted mid-conversation and pausing to scoop a toddler up into his arms. I saw Jesus sitting on the concrete, looking up Bible verses with a friend. I saw Jesus dancing to the music, face lifted, hands raised, eyes closed, a huge grin on his face. I saw Jesus down on his knees in a bare living room. I saw Jesus holding a baby with a poopy diaper and letting the kids do his hair.

I saw Jesus take on hands and feet - our hands and feet - and walk down the rubble-strewn roads of Haiti in our flip-flops. I saw Jesus live and move and breathe and sweat through His people, His church.

I saw Jesus alive and well in His Body, the Body of Christ. Not some white building with pretty carpet. Not a new sound system. Not a busy Wednesday night. Not a well-attended service. I saw Jesus in our feet that walked and hands that touched and mouths that spoke and eyes that stared deep into the face of the world and said, “God loves you. Here, let me show you how much.”

We’re not really supposed to be denting anything out here. It doesn’t matter if we make an impact on anyone at all. But Jesus denting things? Jesus making an impact? Well, that’s another matter. “He must become greater; I must become less.” In Haiti, I watched Shane and Diana and Tyson and Michelle and all the rest of us become transparent. I watched us disappear. And then I saw Jesus step in and shine brilliantly in our place. If He can do that in Haiti, don’t you think He wants to do it in America too?

Hands and Feet

There weren’t separate days while we were in Haiti. Or so it seemed. Time blended together into one long, fascinating overflow of, “Wow . . . I see God!” Like the night we slept out on a Haitian rooftop under the stars, reading Scripture together and praying that no one would sleep walk off the roof. And that God would withhold the rain. He answered both. The way the kids looked at me with great concern when they saw my flip-flop had broken. Or when the translators talked about their future and the God who knew His plans for them. These are all snapshots, swirling together to form a living, vibrant tapestry of God’s hand in Haiti.

Here is one snapshot.

It was night, and we were all crowded under several large tarps (think of it as a fluid, rain-proof ceiling), sweating, smiling, and listening to the word of God. There were many children, but none quite so dirty as the little girl with short, ratted hair who wound through the white people, giving out hugs. Her name was something like Keysha, and the Haitians said she was crazy. Some kind of mental handicap maybe. Whatever it was, she was undoubtably friendly. And filthy. I didn’t want to know how long it had been since she’d taken a bath.

We trudged home in the rain and went to sleep in our rooms, and Keysha was forgotten. But God does not forget. The next morning, our team met up on the rooftop for morning devotions. In the middle of our worship time, we realized we were not alone. The little girl with ratted hair and mud running up and down her legs had come to join us. Some of us went to talk to her. She didn’t speak any English. We prayed with her. She still didn’t speak English.

So, we got a little more practical. We decided to give Keysha a bath.

And that’s when I saw the body of Christ in action. I saw one of the mom’s in the group take Keysha by the hand and smile encouragingly at her every time she was afraid. I saw one of the translators explain to Keysha that we wanted to help her. I saw the only girl on our team who was even close to Keysha in size and age give up a dress that she’d randomly tossed into her suitcase. God must love random.

And then I saw Keysha in a brand new dress, clean water dripping down her face, grinning. I saw her eyes light up when we gave her a bag of rice and snacks to take home. I saw her close her eyes and start chattering away in a foreign language, a huge smile on her face. They said she was praying. I saw her dig into the bag of food and start handing her snacks out to neighbor kids. Who taught this little girl to share like that?

I saw a child who was crazy, overlooked, and filthy . . . transformed under the practical love of Jesus. I saw the body of Christ become His hands and feet to touch the mud-splattered face of the world. I saw love. It walked and moved and reached and cleaned in the midst of us. It did to her body what He wants to do to our hearts. May we never be the same.

The Way the Sky Swallows the Sea

If I close my eyes, I see an ocean of blue spanning tan streets filled with potholes, trash, and rubble. I see brown rivers where Haitians are washing their clothes next to the pigs rooting through piles of rubbish. I see collapsed buildings and broken walls. I hear the little gray goat bleating for his mother like so many children cried for their parents ten months ago. I taste the sweat pouring down our faces and feel the gasp in our hearts. “How does anyone live like this?”

But that is not all I see. I see a little girl close her eyes and lift her face and dance before her God in heaven. I hear the drums and the voices loud and exuberant at midnight. I hear the worship songs that never seem to end, the songs I never want to end. I see the light flashing through their eyes as they cry, “Merci, Jesi! Merci, Jesi! Merci, Jesi!” I see the broken ruins of a church housing the live, vibrant body of Christ.

I remember how we visited their orphanage, and their reply was, “Thank You, God.” I remember how we handed them a bag of rice, and their reply was, “Thank You, God.” I remember how we shared our hearts and spoke the Word, and their reply was, “Thank You, God.” The church in Haiti is learning something through their devastation. They are learning something that the church in America desperately needs to hear. They are learning to look up. They are learning to look to God.

We visited them at lunch and found them on their knees. On the concrete, in the heat, on their knees. We collapsed onto our sleeping bags and air mattresses before midnight, exhausted, while they stood downstairs, hands raised, eyes closed, worshiping.

We asked where their joy came from. We asked if they were so joyful because they were learning dependence on God through the earthquake. We asked if God’s power through the earthquake was the source of their joy.

They said no.

They said they were sad because of the earthquake. They said many people died, many people lost homes, many people were hurt, and this made them weep. But that is not all they said. They said they did have joy. Not because God sent the earthquake. Not in spite of God sending the earthquake. They mourn for the earthquake. They rejoice in their God. And their rejoicing swallows their mourning the way the sky swallows the sea.

“We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed.” Why? Because we have found our hope in the Lord. Because we seek His face in the morning and again at noon and again at night. Because Jehovah God is our light, our strength, our song. Merci, Jesi! Amen.