30 December 2013

Silence Broken

We've been home about three months now, and I've become very forgetful. Please forgive my silence--consider it meditation. You see, it's really easy to forget a lot of things.

Some of them are the daily realities of Haiti that seem to be on another planet. In an attempt to not sensationalize our life there, I don't write about them all that much, but reading a friend's blog today, it jogged my memory. The smell of urine on the street; the constant sweat on my brow; being browbeaten by ladies selling things on the street; the terrible customer service; the relentless begging; the stares, not unfriendly, but always there. 

I remember it, but it feels like another life.

But I'm not sure whose life I'm living here, either. Being on furlough is a bit like piecing together a quilt from scraps...you've borrowed a little from everyone and you keep staring at the pieces, not sure how (or if) it'll all fit together. I've been staring at the pieces, probably too much. Just staring, sometimes in tears, cognizant of the passage of time and the smallness of my own ability to keep things together. I don't have a pattern for this. I'm working without a net here. 

In this pregnant pause, this silence, I know you've been praying for us. I can tell, because I'm not in a puddle on the floor like I should be. I know, because despite everything I've forgotten, God is faithful still to remember for me and remind with grace. And I know because some of you have stopped and pressed pause on your regularly scheduled lives to listen with me and to me, and it meant a lot. 

Every Christmas, we sing Silent Night. Forgive me for saying so, but every Christmas, I think it's the dumbest song I ever heard. I don't need a God who doesn't cry. I need one who can feel my pain when I've pricked my finger with the needle for the thousandth time trying to piece the patchwork together my own way. I need a God who's perfect in His love, not perfectly proper. I need a God who can enter into the silence and be the light who illuminates my darkness with more than radiant beams from a sweet face.

Merry Christmas to me--that's exactly what I've got.


No comments:

Post a Comment