Moving Mountains

If you refer to my previous blog post, you will see how the Lord answered my prayer and I am assuming the prayer of so many other people for this place of false worship to be torn down.  Just a reminder that my God moves mountains and is God who allows cities to fall down just by his people being obedient and walking around it.  He is mighty.  He is no statue that can fall and crumble. Stand in awe and worship. And pray believing he listens.

These links show the damage to the White Temple.

Wat Rong Khun Beyond Repair

Earthquake Beheads Buddha Statue

Rub Some Dirt On It

Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance. Let perseverance finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything. If any of you lacks wisdom, you should ask God, who gives generously to all without finding fault, and it will be given to you. But when you ask, you must believe and not doubt, because the one who doubts is like a wave of the sea, blown and tossed by the wind. That person should not expect to receive anything from the Lord. Such a person is double-minded and unstable in all they do.

James 1:2-8

It's 1:43 am. Jet lag is a beast. My mind won't rest. So here I am. I am a little unsure of what to say because everyone has so much to say these days, so maybe the purpose is just a little bit of soul searching for myself. Maybe it's facing the lies that have been tormenting me for too long. I have bought into the saying of “rub some dirt on it” as a way of coping and dealing with life. And it just doesn't work.

After several years now of what seems like significant trial after trial, I'm really tired. After a difficult accident, a hard time in Spain where I felt sick most of the time, another surgery, a suicide followed by deep grief and loss that cannot be resolved, and loneliness, I start to focus more on the suffering than on the One who I should be finding joy in. Job's grieving in sackcloth and ashes and even the scraping of wounds doesn't sound crazy in the least bit. The facade of cool, calm and collected has fallen once again. I feel overwhelmed and mocked once again. I wonder where my Savior is and if he is good.

I think I lost it for the millionth time when I keep seeing a friend who is silently struggling and won't speak. I lost it for the millionth time coming home from an amazing trip to Thailand that reminded me that my body has literally been broken and does not seem like it will ever completely heal. I think I also lost it when it seems like everyone else's life moves forward with no bumps while I feel like I'm a punching bag for Satan. I just couldn't keep it up because I'm so tired of everyone pretending like it's all okay all of the time when I privately hear the same struggles expressed over and over again by others and myself. Whether Satan likes it or not, it is time to speak truth again.

Holly and I were standing in the most ironic Buddhist temple ever built. Wat Rong Khun, known as the White temple, is beautiful. Google it, let your eyes take it in because you will not see the darkness until looking a bit closer. Snared and contorted faces can be found in the midst of calm, relaxing ones. White concrete hands desperately reach from the bottom of somewhere at the bridge leading to the entrance of the temple. Light is reflected by the temple.  People come to make merit and bow down to manmade statues. I could see and recognize the darkness of it all and even questioned myself as I took pictures of it. Was it right or wrong to take pictures? Everything about this place seemed like the biggest lie ever.

I felt quite physically broken as we walked into the temple. I was talking with Holly expressing my frustrations. Nothing was right. I was on the trip of a lifetime and my feet and legs were more swollen than ever, and I had just fallen off of an ostrich (weird, I know) and thought I possible broke my ribs (because I do know what broken ribs feel like and this hurt!) It just seemed like the biggest joke in the world was being played on me as I lived through pain once again. Could I ever move somewhere again that requires walking and warmer temperatures or will my legs always give out? What is the purpose of being 28 years old and in a body that feels like it's breaking down?  Why do I get to suffer the injuries?

I shared with Holly the attack I was feeling. I told her that I was tired of being tired. I told her that it seems so unfair for others to walk seemingly less difficult trials. I reflected back on the past year and saw God as distant and uninterested in my life. Satan was playing a trick on me. I was in pain and had been physically attacked in the two areas of my body that have been broken by two separate car accidents. Was this a coincidence? I couldn't help but to imagine Satan laughing at me reminding me that he's the ruler of this world and that he does in fact ask God to allow us to be challenged, tempted, and broken. I was so mad because shouldn't God come help me this time? I keep following time after time but I am really tired of the joke being on me. I heard others around me say that God allowed these things because he knew I could “handle it” and then I called bull crap because I about went crazy hearing that junk (maybe I said something different, don't judge). I said that no one can just “handle it” apart from God's grace and I was sick of hearing that same lie from people who mean well. Rub some dirt on it because you can take on the pain. Rub some dirt on it because THEN it will feel better. Rub some dirt on it THEN you will forget that you've been cut open and are bleeding. I shared some frustrations with Holly and she shared some truth with me.

It wasn't profound. It wasn't anything I hadn't heard before. She just told me that God has good things coming oftentimes when we face trials. For whatever reason I felt hope for the first time in a long time. I felt like maybe, just maybe, God was weaving some grand tapestry and he hadn't forgotten the small string that I represented among the millions in that tapestry. Maybe the darkness that I had felt emotionally wasn't futile. Maybe the physical pain was to draw me nearer and nearer to him because I can be too self-reliant. We continued to walk around the temple and I refused to relent like times before. Maybe the Spirit stirs in me in these times through my stubbornness. So I prayed for the people of Thailand. I prayed for God to tear down, literally, this ugly place of worship that puts on a mask of light. I prayed for Satan's rule to end and for Thailand to be a place where people are known to worship the true God. And I gave myself over to him again because once you experience truth you can never convince yourself of anything else. It's like when you know 2+2=4 you cannot ever be convinced that 2+3=4 or even 2+7=4. It's impossible.

Tonight I decide to keep trusting him in the early hours of the morning even though it all still hurts. I decide to walk forward even though I have no idea why I go to a Greek class at 8:30 am but this is the place in which God has me now. I decide to let it go for the millionth time because as much as I see the foolishness of bowing down to manmade idols, I always find little idols firmly planted in the depths of my heart. I can guarantee I'll go through this same process at another time probably sooner rather than later, but I'm calling bull crap (or something else) on rubbing some dirt on it. Instead of seeing brokenness as a bad thing, I'm choosing to trust that all of my brokenness is to help me rely more on God. I don't like it, and it hurts, but it is required of us as believers in the one true God who cannot be made into a manmade object. He is terrifyingly beautiful and majestic. Words cannot contain him, our minds cannot fathom him, and he is above all, so bow down before him.

He is the only one who takes broken things and puts them back together again to make something extraordinarily beautiful. I'm counting on it because everything I have is broken.

Remember the joke about my 2 weeks notice?

Homemade family videos can be highly informative about how you were as a child. Were you an angelic little people pleaser? Were you an uncontrollable heathen? Were you somewhere in between the two?  Only home videos can really tell and allow you to step back in time to see the reality of who you were.

One day I was watching a home video with the family and in the video my mom tells me to stop doing something. Being the defiant little sinner that I was, you can see me shaking me curly haired pony tail “no” very adamantly. I think they classify this type of child as “strong willed.” That was me, alright. Praise be to God he got a hold of my soul, but many times deep down I have these tendencies to shake my head no at God as though I know what is best for myself. Inside of me is the same 3 year old who wants to do what she wants to do without any consideration of what is good, right, or maybe even helpful for me.

In a 12 month period, I have told God “no” to three different things.  I am now eating my words on each and every one of them.

October 2011- “God, I refuse to work for a church. And I refuse to move back to Fayetteville.”

Guess what I was doing 8 months later?

October 2012- “I REFUSE to go to seminary. I just won’t do it.” (imagine very strong head shaking on this one)

Late December 2012 hits, and there was something weird going on in my mind about seminary.  I was considering it sincerely for the first time in my entire life. Then my boss, Stephen, goes and tells all students one Sunday morning at the beginning of the semester how my time working for the church is open-ended, so God can move me as he chooses.  Up until this point the running joke had been about me turning in my two weeks notice to hop on a plane to move another country. I started asking God what in the world was going on!  After a lot of prayer and a campus visit in February, I have decided to attend seminary this fall. I have so much to learn about God. Which is pretty clear.

So much for shaking my head at the King of kings and Creator of the world.

Here I am again. Getting ready to do the very thing I refused. I have to ask myself why I keep fighting God on these things. There were periphery issues in both of those situations, but deep down the issue is that my sinful heart wants to control absolutely everything. If God would give me a 5 year plan, I’d be thrilled to follow it to a T.  I have tried so very hard to come up with my own plans, and each time God takes my plans, throws them away, and then he shows me what he’s really up to.  He weaves together a journey more exciting and magnificent than I can imagine.

This past year has been amazing. College girls have shaken my world in more ways than I can imagine in many ways.

I have had to revisit the junk of my own life to share with my girls how God has worked and transformed me.

I have had the honor of teaching girls how to read the Bible and pray. 

I have challenged the mess out of these girls, and most days I’m surprised they still want to be friends with me.  They answer to the challenge, and I get to watch the Holy Spirit at work.

I have seen girls grow. Man oh man, have they grown! God has allowed me to sit by and watch him work in the most wonderful way. 

I have texted more than I thought possible, and then I have picked up the phone to force them to talk to me 

when texting turns into paragraph conversations.

I have cried. A lot. I have cried with girls, I have cried for girls, and I have held back tears as girls have shared their deepest hurts with me. I have cried on the Lord’s couch all alone. I have cried on the Lord’s couch with different girls.  Did I mention that there have been tears???

I have watched these girls go to battle as they face difficulties with friends, family, personal doubts, school and so much more.  I have seen them rise victorious in the name of Christ.

Then I have this honor of praying with them and for them. Something so beautiful happens in prayer.  Our hearts are in tune with our Savior and he begins to work and mold us.  The praying always gets to me as I am humbled to be able to approach the throne and intercede for my little sisters in Christ.

I have learned so much in this time. I will miss this time. This time has reminded me though, that my heart beats for the nations in such a way that I almost go crazy thinking about it.

The time has come for me to go

I hate that I feel like such a nomad. I feel like I’m constantly saying hello and goodbye. I desire a sense of earthly stability, and yet in the midst of all of this my Father keeps calling me forward. I have no idea what this next step will look like. I am only partially aware of the purpose behind this step. My five year plans have yet to work, so here I go. I’m learning to be a little more trusting of the most faithful, high God. I’m learning how much I have to learn. I hope that deep down inside this broken person that he is transforming me to look more like himself because I question if a change is happening in my heart.  Ultimately I hope for more.  I know that this “more” can only be find in the One who is the lover of my soul that redeems me. 

I must go and prepare, so that people can hear.  So that more people can hear his precious name.  So that more people can call on his precious name for salvation and freedom.

I will not leave my job until July, but I love it when girls say, “what will we do without you?”  First, it makes me feel kind of cool and like they love me because I love them so much. Second, it allows me to pose the same question back at them, “what will you do without me?”   Then they answer that they’ll keep reading their Bible, keep praying alone and with one another, and that they’ll disciple new girls.  I guess when we have the Holy Spirit we do not need one another anymore, but instead we are empowered to do his work in the world.  So even though we love and enjoy time with one another, I am certain, and so are they, that they will be just fine without me.

I expect big things out of my girls.  They will change the world, and I believe they will bring glory and honor to their God in the process.  

And I will try, in the meantime, to not make ultimatums to God about what I will and will not do.  My prayer has been for him to soften my heart, so I can listen. 

God also reminded me a couple of months ago some truth that he has repeated through various means:

Don’t you have a saying, ‘It’s still four months until harvest’? I tell you, open your eyes and look at the fields! They are ripe for harvest. Even now the one who reaps draws a wage and harvests a crop for eternal life, so that the sower and the reaper may be glad together. Thus the saying ‘One sows and another reaps’ is true. I sent you to reap what you have not worked for. Others have done the hard work, and you have reaped the benefits of their labor.”

John 4:35-38

When God first showed this to me I had about 4 months left.  The harvest is now, and I have been blessed to watch a season of growth due to the labor of many before me. I will work until the finish. This is the rich, goodness of my God.

Off to the Bluegrass State I go!

Taryn

A Fight with the Mirror

I wrote this back in the fall after being reminded by my college girls of the intense battle that exists around beauty. I forgot how being surrounded by your peers who aren’t focused on Christ can be exasperating. You never feel like you’re pretty enough. You blame that on reasons why guys don't ask you out, and on and on the battle goes. I wanted to share this specifically with them because we prance around with impressive facades that don’t allow others to see that we too have been on the same battle ground. I became aware of this ability of mine to seem "just fine" while sharing a struggle of mine with a friend from college who commented that she would’ve never thought that I had any doubts about myself. So here’s to vulnerability. I think there's a part of me that was even afraid to admit to any of this in any outward way other than personal conversations. I think my college girls are worth me sharing this (and baring a bit of my soul for that matter) So here it is from this so-called “strong” girl to the girls who feel like they have to be strong, but on the inside are dying for freedom from lies about how they look. I struggle too, but my Savior is greater.

She was frustrating me so badly. Why couldn’t she be more put together? Why is she wearing that? Not to mention she should probably work out more.  I think her eyes would be better if they were a different color. How should she fix her hair today? Why aren’t her lips fuller? Should she whiten her teeth? If only she were taller that outfit would look better. Why can’t she be more like… why can’t she be more like the perfection of airbrushed magazines and models?

Is it too much to ask of her? Why can’t she be perfect? Why can’t she be better? Prettier. Lovelier. More appealing. Maybe if that were the case someone would notice. Can't she just be something? Just something more than what she is.

You may think I'm awful. That I’m the most judgmental girl you’ll ever meet. Hateful. Shameless. Critical. But this was my fight with the mirror. 

I was frustrated with the women looking back at me. Then the tirade happened. The woman in the mirror didn’t feel any better about anything, and she left feeling as though perfection will always be out of reach.

I hate to admit to it. But all too often this happens. I get in a huge fight with the mirror and the reflection looking back at me. It goes a little something like what I’ve already said. Too many times it will go on for longer. A tug here and a pull there at my clothes. Running my hands through my hair one more time to make sure there’s perfection. Why won’t my eyelashes curl? Is my skin too dry? This was NOT this tight on me last week.  Why can’t I be more?

I’m 26 years old and I find myself shocked at times with the obsession I can have over how I look. All of that to say, I don’t even spend hours getting ready in front of the mirror. I’m a get up and go kind of girl, but my argument with the mirror is never out of my reach. It will happen at the strangest times. I’m my worst critic, and I’ll even find myself focusing on and even disliking qualities that a moment before I liked.

I know that inward beauty is the most important. Of the women I respect the most, I can’t recall the color of their eyes, whether or not their teeth were straight, or even if they dressed in style. Oh, but their hearts! I can tell you of their hearts. I will sing their praises for what the Lord has done in their life. The sad thing is that as soon as I put myself in front of the mirror, it’s a different game. It’s me now, and I can shred myself to pieces.

You won’t usually hear me complain about how I look. I for sure would NEVER say anything in front of guys.  So the entire battle can happen without anybody knowing about it. I find that most girls do this to themselves and worse. They resort to eating disorders or trying to compensate in other ways. Plastic surgery. Chemical peels. These things are among the women of my generation as well as women who are getting older. Our culture really does love beauty. Well, the beauty on the outside anyways.

So after talking to the mirror for awhile, I have a choice to make. I have a battle to fight. The battle is not against the one in the mirror but against the lies of Satan. The deception of beauty. The way that the evil one loves to weave lies around us so that we can’t see the beauty of Christ in our hearts. He fabricates these things so that we almost forget that the deception began with him. He’s really good at it. So sometimes I have to stop and tell the woman in the mirror that she is all of those things that she desires. She’s pretty. Lovely.  Appealing.  She’s something. She’s something because she’s a daughter of the King of kings and not because of how she looks on the outside. She can conquer in the midst of the battlefield of lies.  She doesn’t have to go down the destructive road. She can turn and run to God and his love. For she is not something because she’s earned it. She’s something because of God’s grace.

And that’s enough. That’s more than enough. Because at the end of the day when you strip away the airbrushing and perfection of the magazine, it’s all been a lie. You are left with nothing.

One of the few times I’ve ever verbalized these things in front of a guy, I was cropping a picture of myself for my prayer card.  First, he looked at me like I was crazy. I was going over and over again about how maybe my smile was crooked or my eyes looked too squinted. I remember a knot in my throat as I kept feeling so dissatisfied with myself. Then my friend told me if I wasn’t happy with that picture I’d never be happy with any of them. Talk about a gut punch with a side dish of embarrassment. I didn’t even realize I was tearing myself apart. On top of that, he was right.

Women will always find something to complain about. We’re experts at it. It’s our struggle, and it can come and go as quickly as time does. So what do we do? We lean into our Creator who has purified us. We lift one another up with words of affirmation. Then we tell Satan to get behind us, because who really has time to spend fighting with the mirror?

Charm is deceptive, and beauty if fleeting, but a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised.

Proverbs  31:30

Fighting the load of lies,

Taryn

I own a couch.

So here’s the thing. I now own a couch. I didn’t want one. I didn’t ask for one. But I have one now. It’s mocha brown (sounds fancier than just brown) with some fun pillows. My mom and I sat and rolled on couches a few months ago in the furniture store to find THE couch. I tried to tell her I didn’t need it. She and my dad blessed me with it anyways. It’s a nice couch. But it feels so permanent.

The entire reentry into your own culture is one of those most bizarre experiences. You go through weird feelings and freak out moments over couches and iphones (these situations may or may not be referring to real life instances). You don’t really know where you fit. You’ve seen the world. You’ve seen how the rest of the world is still never quite as materialistic as Americans. You’ve seen a level of suffering that makes you wonder why you got so lucky. All the while you become an outsider to your old world without you getting the memo. Americans seem so silly to me at times, and yet I know and can follow their way of thinking. I also know that I’m so silly at times.

As I readied myself to come home for my rest period and surgery, I knew two things were facts. I did not want to move to Fayetteville (been there, done that), and I did not want to work for a church(I hear it’s a tough job). So I tried to leave the country again. I went to Haiti with full intentions of moving there. Packing up my things. Leaving this world of technology and stuff. Unplugging. Sweating. Hard work. Tears. Hungry babies. Raw life on life ministry in poverty. I was ready for it all. I knew I could do it. But then, strangely enough, God closed that door. I know why, and sometimes I don’t know why, but it left me with a new decision to make. A job had been offered to me before I went to Haiti. It included two things: 1)move to Fayetteville 2) work for the church I went to in college

HA! The joke’s on me, right? When the job was proposed to me, I could imagine myself doing college ministry. It seemed too easy. It seemed effortless. Not hard enough. Not getting deep enough in the trenches. In spite of all of my silly, know-it-all presumptions about my next big step, I felt confident that Haiti was a closed door. The college ministry door swung wide open and a pathway cleared. A step where I could still be of service to my God. A step that didn’t require much of me physically, which in reality is a huge blessing still. A step that in many ways would extend my rest. A step of faith to stay when all I want to do is go.

So here I am. Fayetteville, Arkansas. Women’s collegiate ministry. I have found the trenches to be deep, dirty, and full of muck. I have found the college students ready for the Gospel to rock their worlds. I have been overwhelmed and amazed at their open arms to me. God has been faithful to show me internationals I can love and embrace in the here and now.  I have been blessed. Period. No question about it. And yet I’m always looking forward. My heart still beats to the nations. 

As I watch my friends return to serve overseas(with a ting of jealousy might I add), I have made a decision. God willing I will be part of the raising up of an army of college students in northwest Arkansas that will go to the world. Their impact for the Gospel WILL BE FELT in this earth and in the heavens. God ‘s spirit is heavy on them, and they want to see God’s love transform. God willing I will serve my heart out and cherish this time He has set before me. It’s still very uncertain to me, and in the back of my mind I wonder why He has me here and for how long. As my mom says, the cloud has shifted here, but it has yet to move again.

So like the Israelites I’ll follow the cloud by day and the fire by night. My God is an all consuming fire. I can trust Him. Even when I think I know it all, He must get a giggle in every now and then watching me “figure out” my life.  So much for all of my plans!

So there it is. I have a couch in my life. I’ve dedicated it to the service of the Lord. Maybe you just laughed but no, really. It’s the only way I could handle it being in my life. I have promised to use it for friends to sleep on when passing through. I have promised to have conversations on it that glorify the Lord. And last but not least, I have promised to not love it, and I’ll leave it if necessary whenever God calls me to the next place or next step. But for now He has me here. Even though I don't have much to offer I feel confident He will use this broken soul for His glory. The miracle of it all is that He's done it before.

So that couch is not so permanent after all. Whew, I can breathe! But I must remember how my God is eternal and everlasting. My citizenship is permanent in Christ. No couch can slow me down or hold me down!

Hallelujah. Amen. Pray for me as I battle in the trenches with college students. They are truly warriors.

Taryn

Haitian Hospital Hustle

I was invited to go with Kristi on a Port run. Kristi will soon be working for another orphanage in Montrouis where there are children with physical needs and disabilities. Here I was with Kristi, Eddy, and three boys in the back seat of a large truck on our way to the hospital. Eddy is this tall, strong Haitian man who has a powerful story of being lost and redeemed by the blood of Christ. He directed Kristi through Cite Soleil. A name that means Sun City, but all I saw around me was a city of darkness. I couldn’t help but laugh a little at Eddy’s semi-absurd comments as we passed through the dangerous neighborhoods. Eddy kept saying to us, “don’t come here alone, but since you are with me we’ll be okay. White and wealthy Haitians don’t come through here.” I realized quickly if someone wanted to take down the white people (Kristi and myself) they could. One Haitian couldn’t stop that. In the midst of this feasible danger, I found that I had no fear.

The devastation of humanity was consuming and before me. The river of white Styrofoam garbage that made me question whether or not there was even water underneath it all. The mounds of dirty cloth that may have once resembled a shirt or pair of pants spilling over the edges into the Styrofoam white river. Trash. Dirt. People. Slums. Shanties. Poverty. Gangs. Prostitutes. Emptiness. A place that needs Christ.

I found myself chuckling again as we passed the market that Eddy told us was also too dangerous for a white person. I saw piles of clothes that comprised one side of the market. I learned these were clothes from donations after the earthquake or even before. What entrepreneurs! Gather up donated clothing and sell it to generate revenue. I don’t blame them for this, and in a strange way commend their initiative of creating a market to produce income for needs to be met.

Reality sets in when your babies are hungry or even if you only care for yourself and your basic needs aren’t being met. I found this of TOMS shoes as well. You can buy them in markets in Haiti even though they have writing, in English mind you, that clearly states that they are not to be resold. I would break the “rules” too if my baby was hungry (and I didn’t speak English because it wouldn’t be my native tongue, so of course I can’t read the “rules”) and there was a choice between rice and a pair of shoes. So goodbye, TOMS. Hello rice. And not that there aren’t children who are actually using those shoes and getting use out of them, but sometimes our help doesn’t exactly accomplish what we think it will.

It’s 8 a.m. and the national anthem comes on the radio. I find that the anthem plays at the same time every day. I guess there’s some national pride but when I asked the boys if they could sing their anthem, they kind of laughed and ignored me. So I sang the only song I know in Creole and their faces light up and they can’t help but to sing with me. I find this song to be a constant bridge to the people because it appears all the Haitians know it. I did not meet a Haitian who didn’t know this Christian melody. My heart lifted to see how the tune moved these boys, and I knew that somehow a barrier was down between us.

After weaving through the city, we finally arrive at the hospital to wait in a long line where they are putting people in order to see the doctors for checkups. I look down at Bijoey, one of the boys who had surgery because he has club feet. He’s 7 years old. He’s in a wheelchair. He’s a beautiful boy who makes God smile. He’s been through a lot of pain in his short life. He’s doesn’t have a mommy or a daddy to sit by him at the hospital. And it hits me. It hits me hard. I look at him and see him as he is. A little boy. A baby really. So I put out my hand and he takes it, and we spend the majority of the hospital visit like that. Hand in hand. Because he truly is only a baby. And babies need to know that they are not alone.

They take Bijoey back to cut off his casts and then take him in again to recasts his legs. I have never in my short 26 years heard a child yell like he did. Eddy and I did our best to hold him down and he would yell to Eddy in Creole that he wanted me to hold his hand tighter. After having personally experienced bilateral leg injuries, I can only imagine the pain he felt. The casting heats up and is an uncomfortable sensation. It’s scary. Once you’ve already been through so much pain, even the least amount of discomfort is too much to bear. So he did what scared children do best. He screamed. Then it was finally over. The tears ran down his sweet little brown face. I held back my own. We kept holding hands.

As we waited some more, one of the 17 year old boys, Larry, and I practiced my numbers in Creole. A crowd was attracted to the scene immediately. Before I knew it several people were correcting my Creole and laughing. What a funny white person I must have been with my pitiful attempt at saying these foreign words with sounds that are not included in English! I was amazed at how few white people I saw overall, but in the hospital there were by far more white people than anywhere else in the city. A sea of black and brown faces met you everywhere. I like that.

Something weird always happens in these situations. I may have said it before, but I basically thought I was black and I was certain that my Creole was almost perfect. I find that if my communication is lacking verbally, smiles, hugs, hand holds, funny faces to solicit smiles, pats on the back, or even whistling or the singing of any song is enough to close any gap.

Praise the Lord that these boys are not left alone or are not abandoned. They have an American mother who lives in Haiti and runs the orphanage where they live. She just wasn’t there because she was back in the States raising funds for her work. Because I know someone is already there engaging in the struggle, I could leave my precious little 7 year old knowing that he is loved, fed, and more importantly told about Christ. Bijoey will walk again because of the surgery, but with anything it will take time.

We leave to go back after the boys finish up. It’s been a full day, and my heart is tired, but full of joy. I can’t believe that God allowed me to spend my day serving this little guy by just being there for him and letting him know that someone loves him. All it took was a hand hold.

My God loves those who are left behind by the world. He is so good.
Taryn

You Been to Haiti Before?

I land on the ground and it's like I’ve woken up out of a deep sleep. Electricity starts to run through my body and I feel alive, almost like I’m really breathing for the first time. For whatever reason, God has made me this way. Being in another culture excites me more than anything else, and I ponder which direction He is leading me. I step out of the plane in Port au Prince and immediately feel the humidity in the air. Yes, I expected this. Humidity is nothing if you are an Arkansan, so I smiled knowing that the heat is nothing. I go through customs and am surprised by the faces I see. Some of the Haitians have honey colored or very light colored eyes while others have black eyes. I count how many white people I can see. A dozen or so. But somehow I don’t see my color. I’m aware of the differences among everyone else, but wherever I am I just assume I’m the same color as the people of the country I’m in. I also assume that I can speak Creole, which is completely inaccurate.

I walk outside into the sea of coal black faces and look for someone holding a piece of paper with my name. I walk through nonchalantly telling people “no thank you” to their help despite their persistence and meander until I find someone holding a piece of paper with my name. There it is. Taryn Blocker Canaan Orphanage The Haitian holding the piece of paper leads me to another man, Pastor Henri. Then Henri sends me back in to find Sister Gladys because we were actually on the same flight from Miami. Who knew? I go in, introduce myself to her, retrieve her, and off we go.

“You have been to Haiti before?” Sister Gladys asked almost a statement but with a hint of a question in there as we finished our hectic exit out of the airport. It was evident that Pastor Henri (PH) and Sister Gladys (SG) hadn’t seen each other in over a week by the giddiness they were displaying in talking with one another. I followed close to their side and took it all in.

“No, I haven’t been here before. This is my first time” I replied.
“Ah, you seem too comfortable. You travel a lot?”

I laugh and told her how I had been able to travel quite a bit in my life. SG nodded her head with the acknowledgement of why I wasn’t overwhelmed. Then I realize that once you’ve seen 3rd world (or the politically correct term of a “developing nation”), you can decently gauge what to expect. You will never completely know everything, so you sit back, follow the lead of those around you. And don’t you dare freak out.

I soak in this world that has been on my heart for the past 3 years. I had considered moving to Haiti the summer of 2009, before I went to my interview that led me down my winding trail to Spain. But here I finally was. To see it for myself and consider if this could be where God would lead me next. After listening to SG and PH catch up we talked some and SG asked me my age. FYI, I look younger than my age. And I thank you for that, SG. As I looked behind us at the tap tap ( a taxi/truck with people piled on/risking their lives for the sake of transportation) I caught the eye of a woman my age. I smiled and she nodded her head at me with a bright smile. This was my official welcome to Haiti.

I asked SG and PH about their ministry and their life work. How it started. How long they had been married. Then I asked how many children were at Canaan now. The response PH gave me was such a reminder that I am an American and I still live with an American mindset. PH told me that others at Canaan know how many children there are, but God told them to stop counting long ago. I responded with an amen, for as Americans we are way into the numbers of it all.

PH is a Haitian, but I tried to figure out his heritage since he is white with light eyes. After some investigation I came to discover that his grandfather was a German who married a Haitian. PH even sometimes struggles with proving to Haitians that he is Haitian! The conversation goes that he can’t be Haitian because he is white, and he argues with them that he has been in Haiti his entire life, of course he is Haitian. Eventually he wins the argument with whoever questions his nationality. For he is truly Haitian. I guess my immigrant investigation training in Spain helped me put together the puzzle pieces.

About an hour and a half later, we arrive at Canaan in Montrouis. A place like the biblical Canaan. Rocky soil that has been nurtured, watered, and loved. This soil is not only the composition of the terrain but a place that once served as a rehab center for drug addicts and now is a refuge for children . A place of trees and shade where one can rest before going out into the deforestation surrounding it. The rocky soil still exists as a reminder that the work is never finished.

Haiti has yet to have a functioning economy because of its poverty, lack of resources, and political corruption. Desperation is everywhere. As it is Haiti will forever be a black hole of resources if an economy is never created. Once again I find myself engrossed by this problem of a self sustaining society YET I believe Christ is first in foremost in the formula for what they really need. For man does not live on bread alone. And who am I really kidding? Christ is first and foremost in what I need, even though I have more than enough of the other "stuff". So I gathered this new information. Stored it in my mind. This was my introduction to Haiti. And there is more to tell. I have yet to tell you of the hospital run to Port, how to get something notarized, my breaking point, and how God held my hand through it all.

End of Installment 1. Stay tuned.