Tuesday, August 30, 2011
The Stupidest Thing I've Ever Done
I just got back from a quick trip out to Colorado with Kristi, Kayla, Josh, and Honey Rae. We drove out there to climb Long's Peak. We've tried it before.
My family vacationed out there years ago. We decided to try our flat-lander feet on the 14,000 foot mountain. They told us to start climbing at 4:00 a.m., so we started at 10:00. They told us to turn around no later than noon, so we were still up there by 4:00 p.m. Which is when the storm moved in. From below us. Do you know what lightning looks like from above the clouds? I'd never literally run down a mountain before that day.
Mountain: 1
Me: 0
This weekend, I tried again. I was older and wiser. It couldn't be that hard, right?
Ha.
It started at 1:30 in the morning. That's an hour and a half after midnight, in case you're wondering. 1:30 in the morning is not a good time to start something. Especially when you were finishing a 5-mile hike at 8:00 the night before.
That was my first mistake.
We had to be starting on what I'll refer to as the "Death March" by 3:00 a.m. (They'd upped the time over the years. Apparently, the degradation of American society includes more than just entertainment and politics.) And, yes, I did say "we." I wasn't climbing Long's Peak alone. I was taking two marathon runners with me.
That was my second mistake.
I haven't run a marathon for 29 years. (For those of you who don't know, that's how old I am.) The Death March is 14 miles long - seven up, seven down. I don't remember ever walking 14 miles in my life. Kristi and Josh (my hiking buddies) are training for the Chicago marathon. They ran 18 miles last week. Let's just say the playing field wasn't very evenly matched.
Too bad I didn't think of that before the climb.
Three hours and 2,500 vertical feet later, I wasn't feeling so good. Altitude sickness, I think it's called. I wanted to live. I headed back down. It took me the same amount of time to get down as it had to get up, but the good news is, I was feeling much better. Well, except for my knee which had started on fire about a mile and a half back, my shoulders which were not used to lugging 15 pounds, and my feet which were quite piqued that I'd stuffed them into boots after an entire summer in Chacos. I was in marvelous shape, let me tell you.
Mountain: 2
Me: 0
My marathon buddies finished the Death March without dying - and it only took them 14 hours to do it! I'd come up with an equation to figure out how long that means it would take me, but I'd rather not know the answer. I think I'll bring my horse next time.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
The Silent, Peaceful Night
I would like to tell you about a certain night in Haiti that I slept through in perfect peace and tranquility. I was lucky. I was on the second floor.
It was a different story downstairs.
It was our last team for the summer in Haiti. We were in a giant yellow mansion of a house: approximately 15 rooms, a courtyard, an enclosed balcony, two bathrooms upstairs, one downstairs. The girls got the upstairs.
We woke up one bright morning, shuffled down the stairs for breakfast, and noticed that the guys were stumbling about with slightly haggard, not-really-awake expressions. “What happened?” we wanted to know. “Didn’t you sleep well last night?”
“No,” we were bluntly informed. “We didn’t sleep well at all.” And then they told us their story.
It started off with two cockroaches. Two five-inch flying cockroaches. I’ve seen them before. They’re so big, you can hear their nasty little feet tapping on the concrete floors. They like to dive-bomb into peoples’ heads and brush their whiskers against the cheeks of innocent missionaries sleeping on the floor. (Both of these happened to me.) These two five-inch terrors zoomed into the guys’ room just as they were preparing for bed. They buzzed around, making themselves scary and obnoxious, until . . . CRUNCH! . . . no more flying cockroaches.
The guys laid down to get some sleep . . . Only to be awoken not long after by ear-piercing screams issuing from the neighbor’s house about ten feet away. It was a woman, she was weeping hysterically, and it really sounded like someone ought to call 911. Only wait. We’re in Haiti, aren’t we?
The guys listened for awhile, wide-eyed and shell-shocked, wondering what they should do, what they could do. Without warning, the screams stopped. Dead silence . . . Dead might be too apt a word . . . Several loud, sharp smacks. And then . . . “Wah! Wah! Wah!” It was the cry of a baby. A newborn baby, to be exact. Apparently, our neighbor was pregnant. That is, she had been.
The guys swallowed and drifted back into unconsciousness.
It wouldn’t last long.
In the pitch-black hours of early, early morning, Chad woke up and put a hand on his belly. Or what should have been his belly. “I didn’t know what it was,” he said, “except that it certainly was not my stomach!” It moved. Ran a couple circles on top of him, then skittered away. Chad thought maybe it would be best if he ignored it and went back to sleep. Only he was a little thirsty first. He reached for his water bottle. And touched It again.
Chad did what any manly man would do after the type of night he’d had. He screamed his head off.
Every soul downstairs was awake and ready for combat at this point. Armed with flashlights - for the sake of light or a weapon? - the men ransacked the bedroom. They found It. Hiding in a corner behind the door. Teeth bared, fur bristling. It was a rat.
Two dead cockroaches, a mutilated rat carcass, and one very live, crying baby later . . . the girls were extremely grateful we’d been given the upstairs! And to think, I slept through the whole thing . . .
It was a different story downstairs.
It was our last team for the summer in Haiti. We were in a giant yellow mansion of a house: approximately 15 rooms, a courtyard, an enclosed balcony, two bathrooms upstairs, one downstairs. The girls got the upstairs.
We woke up one bright morning, shuffled down the stairs for breakfast, and noticed that the guys were stumbling about with slightly haggard, not-really-awake expressions. “What happened?” we wanted to know. “Didn’t you sleep well last night?”
“No,” we were bluntly informed. “We didn’t sleep well at all.” And then they told us their story.
It started off with two cockroaches. Two five-inch flying cockroaches. I’ve seen them before. They’re so big, you can hear their nasty little feet tapping on the concrete floors. They like to dive-bomb into peoples’ heads and brush their whiskers against the cheeks of innocent missionaries sleeping on the floor. (Both of these happened to me.) These two five-inch terrors zoomed into the guys’ room just as they were preparing for bed. They buzzed around, making themselves scary and obnoxious, until . . . CRUNCH! . . . no more flying cockroaches.
The guys laid down to get some sleep . . . Only to be awoken not long after by ear-piercing screams issuing from the neighbor’s house about ten feet away. It was a woman, she was weeping hysterically, and it really sounded like someone ought to call 911. Only wait. We’re in Haiti, aren’t we?
The guys listened for awhile, wide-eyed and shell-shocked, wondering what they should do, what they could do. Without warning, the screams stopped. Dead silence . . . Dead might be too apt a word . . . Several loud, sharp smacks. And then . . . “Wah! Wah! Wah!” It was the cry of a baby. A newborn baby, to be exact. Apparently, our neighbor was pregnant. That is, she had been.
The guys swallowed and drifted back into unconsciousness.
It wouldn’t last long.
In the pitch-black hours of early, early morning, Chad woke up and put a hand on his belly. Or what should have been his belly. “I didn’t know what it was,” he said, “except that it certainly was not my stomach!” It moved. Ran a couple circles on top of him, then skittered away. Chad thought maybe it would be best if he ignored it and went back to sleep. Only he was a little thirsty first. He reached for his water bottle. And touched It again.
Chad did what any manly man would do after the type of night he’d had. He screamed his head off.
Every soul downstairs was awake and ready for combat at this point. Armed with flashlights - for the sake of light or a weapon? - the men ransacked the bedroom. They found It. Hiding in a corner behind the door. Teeth bared, fur bristling. It was a rat.
Two dead cockroaches, a mutilated rat carcass, and one very live, crying baby later . . . the girls were extremely grateful we’d been given the upstairs! And to think, I slept through the whole thing . . .
Friday, August 19, 2011
The Body
God did amazing things in Haiti. I’m supposed to talk about them on Sunday evening at church. 6:30 p.m. at the E-Free Church in Central City. You’re welcome to come.
I saw the sweetest smiles on the sweetest faces of the dearest, naughtiest little children in the world. I saw the hands and feet and voice of Jesus moving in the streets and houses of Haiti. I saw walls getting built. I saw souls being saved. I saw real, honest-to-goodness miracles. I saw a team of nine odd, slightly eccentric, scattered strangers come together in a foreign country. And I saw Jesus meld us together and make us one.
It’s one of my favorite things about Haiti. One of the things I haven’t mentioned yet: Community. We’re not strangers anymore. We haven’t killed anyone. We haven’t left anyone behind. We had a few close calls, but where we’d entered as strangers, we left as friends. Good friends. Friends who have eaten and prayed and cried and worked and crashed and danced together. (Yeah, you missed out on the dancing party...) Friends who have been irritated, broken, moved, starved, delighted, and crammed together.
Jesus brought together an amazing team in Haiti this summer. He brought Leeza, the mother of the group, to be always kind and encouraging and give a listening ear. He brought Jenny to dance and sing and laugh and make us dance and sing and laugh with her. He brought Marcio to burn a bright, enthusiastic fire into the dark, unspoken places. He brought Mark to give us age-old wisdom and patience that we were too young to know. He brought Josh to breathe His Spirit deep into our souls and show us things about ourselves and each other that we’d never seen before. He bought Steve to get us all moving the same direction and make sure we didn’t kill each other (or him!) in the process. Later on in the summer, he brought Jordan to be a light and peace and bring us joy again. He brought Tifany to strengthen us, to fortify us with truth when we were weak and ready to give in.
Jesus brought together a group of strangers and fashioned a body. The Body of Christ. And I watched that Body go out and hold hands with a little naked boy who lives in a tent. I watched that Body step with feet radiating light to a suicidal girl’s bedside. I watched that Body speak truthful, prophetic words to a drunk man and sober him up. I watched that Body move rocks, wash dishes, color pictures, and dance with children.
I saw Jesus in that Body . . . I saw Jesus in His Body.
So, thanks, team. Because of you, I now have a very clear vision - a very real vision - of how beautiful the Body of Christ can be. Because of you, I am more able to love, more willing to love. Because of you, I have a picture to go with this verse: “My command is this: Love each other as I have loved you. Greater love has no one than this, that he lay down his life for his friends.”
Here’s my picture. It’s you.
Monday, August 15, 2011
A Snapshot of Grace
We were standing under the shade of a tree next to the tall gray wall that marks the edge of the tent city. Gyver had just joined us and was sharing his testimony.
I had heard some of it before. When Gyver was seven, he and his family lived at the foot of the mountains on the outskirts of Port-au-Prince. One day a voodoo man put a curse on Gyver. He cursed the seven-year old boy so he would die. And then he took a stone and hurled it at Gyver’s face. The rock struck mere centimeters from Gyver’s left eye, nearly blinding him. The wound was deep and sever. He wears the scar today. It is a testimony to God’s saving hand. Gyver told me God saved him because, even though he wasn’t a Christian at the time, God had a plan for his life.
But I hadn’t heard it all. Gyver is fourteen. His youngest sister is eight. That means all of them were alive during the earthquake. This is what Gyver said: When the earthquake hit, he and his brother were out of the house. Gyver was watching TV with a friend; Holendgy was with an aunt. Antonia, their mother, and her two youngest children were at home. The house collapsed. Without warning, Antonia was buried under a pile of broken concrete. Two of her children were with her.
But they were alive. They waited under the rubble for two days. 48 hours. Can you imagine lying in a coffin for 48 hours? Not knowing if anyone is ever going to come and open the lid. Not knowing if you will ever blink your eyes in the sun. Not knowing if you will ever taste water on your lips. Knowing only one thing: that two of your children are trapped in this living grave with you.
Someone came and dug them out. All three of them. Alive. Buried under an entire house, choked by dust and bricks, pinned for two days, alive. It was just after their rescue that Gyver surrendered his life to Christ. He’s never looked back.
When we took this family to the beach during our last day in Haiti, I realized something. They shouldn’t be here. Gyver was cursed. Holendgy nearly drowned. Antonia and the other two children had a house fall down on top of them. By all rights, they should be dead. Every last one of them.
But they’re not. They’re not dead at all. They’re living in a tent, they don’t have jobs, their shoes have holes in them, they don’t always eat. But they are alive. And through their life, I see the almighty, saving hand of God. I see His authority to call salvation out of an earthquake. I see His power to draw life out of the rubble. I see His confidence to direct for His purposes all things, to completely route the plans of the enemy. I see the merest sliver of His astonishing grace.
I had heard some of it before. When Gyver was seven, he and his family lived at the foot of the mountains on the outskirts of Port-au-Prince. One day a voodoo man put a curse on Gyver. He cursed the seven-year old boy so he would die. And then he took a stone and hurled it at Gyver’s face. The rock struck mere centimeters from Gyver’s left eye, nearly blinding him. The wound was deep and sever. He wears the scar today. It is a testimony to God’s saving hand. Gyver told me God saved him because, even though he wasn’t a Christian at the time, God had a plan for his life.
But I hadn’t heard it all. Gyver is fourteen. His youngest sister is eight. That means all of them were alive during the earthquake. This is what Gyver said: When the earthquake hit, he and his brother were out of the house. Gyver was watching TV with a friend; Holendgy was with an aunt. Antonia, their mother, and her two youngest children were at home. The house collapsed. Without warning, Antonia was buried under a pile of broken concrete. Two of her children were with her.
But they were alive. They waited under the rubble for two days. 48 hours. Can you imagine lying in a coffin for 48 hours? Not knowing if anyone is ever going to come and open the lid. Not knowing if you will ever blink your eyes in the sun. Not knowing if you will ever taste water on your lips. Knowing only one thing: that two of your children are trapped in this living grave with you.
Someone came and dug them out. All three of them. Alive. Buried under an entire house, choked by dust and bricks, pinned for two days, alive. It was just after their rescue that Gyver surrendered his life to Christ. He’s never looked back.
When we took this family to the beach during our last day in Haiti, I realized something. They shouldn’t be here. Gyver was cursed. Holendgy nearly drowned. Antonia and the other two children had a house fall down on top of them. By all rights, they should be dead. Every last one of them.
But they’re not. They’re not dead at all. They’re living in a tent, they don’t have jobs, their shoes have holes in them, they don’t always eat. But they are alive. And through their life, I see the almighty, saving hand of God. I see His authority to call salvation out of an earthquake. I see His power to draw life out of the rubble. I see His confidence to direct for His purposes all things, to completely route the plans of the enemy. I see the merest sliver of His astonishing grace.
“To God be the glory, great things He hath done.”
This is me with Gyver and his family at the beach on our last day in Haiti.
Saturday, August 13, 2011
Holendgy (Oh-LAWN-jee)
I was sitting on a rickety Haitian bus seat next to my little brother, Holendgy. It was lunch time, and we were headed for the beach. Our last team for the summer, Jordan, Jenny, Holendgy, his family, and me. “Are you excited to go swimming?” I asked him.
I told him I would watch out for him, that he didn’t need to be afraid; the water wasn’t too deep, and I was going to stay right next to him. He didn’t understand me. I said it all in English.
Holendgy shook his head no.
“No?” I didn’t understand. I come from America where every 11-year old I know is excited to go swimming. Please explain.
So, he did. Last year, Holendgy and his big brother Gyver went to the beach with some friends. They stayed for awhile, and then Gyver said it was time to go home. Holendgy didn’t listen. Instead, he jumped back in the water and started splashing around. A sort of whirlpool grabbed hold of him and started sucking him under. Suddenly, Holendgy remembered that he couldn’t swim. But it was too late. As the water tugged him down, down, down away from air and breath, Holendgy reached out his hand for help.
A man saw it. A random stranger who happened to be at the beach that day. Holendgy didn’t even tell me his name. He dashed into the water and rescued a boy he didn’t know from drowning.
I sat next to Holendgy on the bus in shocked silence. Dude. No wonder the kid didn’t want to go swimming.
We arrived at the beach. The water was murky and full of waves this afternoon. The aftereffects of tropical storm Emily, even if she didn’t ever really hit us. I got into my swimsuit and again asked Holendgy if he wanted to go swimming. Most of our team was already in the water. It looked slightly terrifying, but ocean water sure feels good when you’re in Haiti. Besides, the boy lives in a tent. How often does he get to go swimming?
There were stairs at our beach skipping down into the ocean. Skipping might not be quite the right word. It was more like one step, two step, woosh! Welcome to the Caribbean. I jumped in to choppy water up to my chest while Holendgy stood on the second step, considering. Could he get in without getting wet? Could he get in without drowning?
I told him I would watch out for him, that he didn’t need to be afraid; the water wasn’t too deep, and I was going to stay right next to him. He didn’t understand me. I said it all in English.
But my beckoning hand must have said something my words couldn’t say. This boy who had nearly drowned finally grabbed hold of my hand and jumped into the water. Well, he jumped on my back at least. And clung there for a solid five minutes, arms wrapped around my neck, while I struggled between laughter and fighting to breathe.
Slowly, I convinced Holendgy to relax his strangle-hold on my trachea. He let go with one hand. He flapped around in the water a bit. He let go of my shoulders altogether, his hand still clamped on to mine. He bobbed around by himself. He could touch. This wasn’t so bad.
Before we left the beach, Holendgy was splashing around in the salty waves, shouting and giggling with his siblings. He pushed a soccer ball under his chin and floated around on it. He tried to back float. We searched the rocks for crabs.
It was a beautiful picture. A picture of healing. A picture of trust. A picture of God taking something hard and sad and even frightening in our lives and teaching us how to laugh with Him again.
Thursday, August 11, 2011
Being Sure of What We Hope For
One of the first weeks I was in Haiti, I wrote a blog about a young man named Jeff (See “Was Blind But Now I See”). I would like to share with you the rest of the story now.
We saw Jeff several times throughout the remainder of the summer. He lived just a few blocks from Pastor Amos’s house, so any team that stayed there invariably went for a visit. People came to encourage a boy who is blind and left amazed at the joy and depth of his spiritual eyes. They sang with him. They prayed for him. The Lord gave visions and promises about restoring Jeff’s sight. But He never did just reach down and open his eyes. It began to really bother me. Obviously, Jesus could restore his sight. There was no reason for Him not to. So, why didn’t He?
It wasn’t until my second-to-last night in Haiti that I understood. I had invited Jeff and his mom over to meet our last team, a group of twenty: 14 youth, 6 adults. After dinner, Jeff shared his testimony. He encouraged us. He gave glory to God. And then the group asked if we could pray for him. We circled around him, put our hands on him, and brought him before the throne room of Heaven, asking for him encouragement, strength, provision, grace. And then, as the Spirit, led, we began crying out for God to open his eyes.
The kingdom of Heaven touched down on earth. In a little, rocky courtyard full of Americans and Haitians, a few wooden benches, and a plastic chair, the Presence of God came. He gave songs, verses, words, visions. And what the voice of God spoke in their ears, our team spoke with their mouths. It was pure. It was true. It was powerful. And at the end of our prayers, Jeff opened his eyes . . . and he still couldn’t see.
As I walked Jeff and his mom out to the waiting tap-tap, I was wondering what I would tell the team. How could we process what just happened? How could I encourage them when God hadn’t opened the eyes of the blind?
I sat in front of the group and asked what they thought about it. Without hesitation, one of the teenagers raised a hand and said, “God will open Jeff’s eyes.” So simple. So certain. So childlike.
That’s when it hit me. For maybe the first time ever, I held in my hands a literal, physical representation of FAITH. God had given it to me, not through what we did see, but through what we did not see. It couldn’t have been faith any other way. “Now faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see.”
Jeff is blind. But I do not for a moment believe that he will always be blind. Quite the contrary. God has said very clearly, through more people than I can remember, that He will open Jeff’s eyes. Have I seen it? No.
And that’s where faith comes in. The surety in what we hope for. The certainty of what we don’t yet seen. I’ve seen it radiating through the words of a young man who lost his sight. And because of Jeff - because of Jeff’s God - I have begun to see an echo of faith in my own soul as well.
We saw Jeff several times throughout the remainder of the summer. He lived just a few blocks from Pastor Amos’s house, so any team that stayed there invariably went for a visit. People came to encourage a boy who is blind and left amazed at the joy and depth of his spiritual eyes. They sang with him. They prayed for him. The Lord gave visions and promises about restoring Jeff’s sight. But He never did just reach down and open his eyes. It began to really bother me. Obviously, Jesus could restore his sight. There was no reason for Him not to. So, why didn’t He?
It wasn’t until my second-to-last night in Haiti that I understood. I had invited Jeff and his mom over to meet our last team, a group of twenty: 14 youth, 6 adults. After dinner, Jeff shared his testimony. He encouraged us. He gave glory to God. And then the group asked if we could pray for him. We circled around him, put our hands on him, and brought him before the throne room of Heaven, asking for him encouragement, strength, provision, grace. And then, as the Spirit, led, we began crying out for God to open his eyes.
The kingdom of Heaven touched down on earth. In a little, rocky courtyard full of Americans and Haitians, a few wooden benches, and a plastic chair, the Presence of God came. He gave songs, verses, words, visions. And what the voice of God spoke in their ears, our team spoke with their mouths. It was pure. It was true. It was powerful. And at the end of our prayers, Jeff opened his eyes . . . and he still couldn’t see.
As I walked Jeff and his mom out to the waiting tap-tap, I was wondering what I would tell the team. How could we process what just happened? How could I encourage them when God hadn’t opened the eyes of the blind?
I sat in front of the group and asked what they thought about it. Without hesitation, one of the teenagers raised a hand and said, “God will open Jeff’s eyes.” So simple. So certain. So childlike.
That’s when it hit me. For maybe the first time ever, I held in my hands a literal, physical representation of FAITH. God had given it to me, not through what we did see, but through what we did not see. It couldn’t have been faith any other way. “Now faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see.”
Jeff is blind. But I do not for a moment believe that he will always be blind. Quite the contrary. God has said very clearly, through more people than I can remember, that He will open Jeff’s eyes. Have I seen it? No.
And that’s where faith comes in. The surety in what we hope for. The certainty of what we don’t yet seen. I’ve seen it radiating through the words of a young man who lost his sight. And because of Jeff - because of Jeff’s God - I have begun to see an echo of faith in my own soul as well.
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
A Reckoning
Dear Supporters, Readers, Curious Snoops, Etc:
I am writing this very dignified, polite letter to let you know several things.
First, I am back in my parent's living room in Nebraska. Sitting on the carpeted floor with my dog because the couch is too comfortable. To my knowledge, I have not contracted dengue fever, malaria, insomnia, or schizophrenia. Although it was rather hard to go so long on so little chocolate.
Second, I would like to give you an un-in-depth and not very business-like reckoning of the donations that you so kindly sent with me to Haiti. God saw fit to make money a complete non-issue this summer. I didn't need anything. It was sort of like being back in infancy. Everything was provided. A plane ticket, a roof over my head, delicious meals (when I wasn't cooking), clean water, dish soap, toilet paper. God knew this. I knew this. You knew this.
But you donated anyway. And because you did . . . A child without a caretaker will get to go to school in Gressier this year (See Megan's blog at http://blessedwithaburden.wordpress.com/ for more information). We were able to bless some of our favorite translators for working overtime with us on personal ministries outside of the AIM teams. This included a two-day Bible study we held in a tent city where several children came to faith in Christ. A young married woman was supplied with beads to add to her souvenir-making business. A family in the tent city was blessed with money for rice and beans or clothes or shoes or whatever they need. A boy who dreams of being a musician is beginning four months of guitar lessons under a very talented music teacher (who also happens to be one of our translators). The only reason we didn't also buy him a guitar is because someone donated one.
Because of your generosity, I was able to be generous. We were able to go as a staff on a day trip up into the gorgeous Haitian mountains . . . and then spent another day across the bay at a beach resort. So, we had the chance to enjoy ministry together and relaxation together. And in both, through and through, we saw the beauty of God in the people and creation, and the goodness of God in providing for us everything we needed - and much more!
So, thank you. This summer would have looked different - not only for me, but for everyone else - if not for you. "This service that you perform is not only supplying the needs of the Lord’s people but is also overflowing in many expressions of thanks to God. Because of the service by which you have proved yourselves, others will praise God for the obedience that accompanies your confession of the gospel of Christ, and for your generosity in sharing with them and with everyone else (2 Corinthians 9:12-13)."
We saw a lot of Jesus in Haiti. We saw Him in the shining eyes of the kids in the tent city, the mother in a one-room house who prayed every morning for her family's daily food, the pastor whose church meets in the streets, the little boy who flawlessly quoted Psalm 100 with his hands folded and his eyes closed. But that's not the only place I have seen Him. I also see Jesus in you.
Praise the Lord.
Yours most sincerely,
Rebecca
I am writing this very dignified, polite letter to let you know several things.
First, I am back in my parent's living room in Nebraska. Sitting on the carpeted floor with my dog because the couch is too comfortable. To my knowledge, I have not contracted dengue fever, malaria, insomnia, or schizophrenia. Although it was rather hard to go so long on so little chocolate.
Second, I would like to give you an un-in-depth and not very business-like reckoning of the donations that you so kindly sent with me to Haiti. God saw fit to make money a complete non-issue this summer. I didn't need anything. It was sort of like being back in infancy. Everything was provided. A plane ticket, a roof over my head, delicious meals (when I wasn't cooking), clean water, dish soap, toilet paper. God knew this. I knew this. You knew this.
But you donated anyway. And because you did . . . A child without a caretaker will get to go to school in Gressier this year (See Megan's blog at http://blessedwithaburden.wordpress.com/ for more information). We were able to bless some of our favorite translators for working overtime with us on personal ministries outside of the AIM teams. This included a two-day Bible study we held in a tent city where several children came to faith in Christ. A young married woman was supplied with beads to add to her souvenir-making business. A family in the tent city was blessed with money for rice and beans or clothes or shoes or whatever they need. A boy who dreams of being a musician is beginning four months of guitar lessons under a very talented music teacher (who also happens to be one of our translators). The only reason we didn't also buy him a guitar is because someone donated one.
Because of your generosity, I was able to be generous. We were able to go as a staff on a day trip up into the gorgeous Haitian mountains . . . and then spent another day across the bay at a beach resort. So, we had the chance to enjoy ministry together and relaxation together. And in both, through and through, we saw the beauty of God in the people and creation, and the goodness of God in providing for us everything we needed - and much more!
So, thank you. This summer would have looked different - not only for me, but for everyone else - if not for you. "This service that you perform is not only supplying the needs of the Lord’s people but is also overflowing in many expressions of thanks to God. Because of the service by which you have proved yourselves, others will praise God for the obedience that accompanies your confession of the gospel of Christ, and for your generosity in sharing with them and with everyone else (2 Corinthians 9:12-13)."
We saw a lot of Jesus in Haiti. We saw Him in the shining eyes of the kids in the tent city, the mother in a one-room house who prayed every morning for her family's daily food, the pastor whose church meets in the streets, the little boy who flawlessly quoted Psalm 100 with his hands folded and his eyes closed. But that's not the only place I have seen Him. I also see Jesus in you.
Praise the Lord.
Yours most sincerely,
Rebecca
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