Marked.

A strange thing has happened over the last 70 plus hours. Maybe that’s not quite fair to say because the strangeness about the last few days is that nothing has happened. I mean, nothing has happened. Everything has been perfectly usual in my daily routine: I’ve gotten up, done my quiet time, gone to the library, eaten lunch with friends, gone back to the library, gone to class, eaten dinner with friends, gone back to the library, and gone to bed to do it all again the next day. It’s all very normal.

And that’s what is a bit bizarre. Because, you see, last week wasn’t normal. Nothing about my time in Haiti was usual or ordinary, but here I am, back in the common routine. And last week feels either non-existent or months away.

My heart is sad and bit scared by this. I’m sad because what transpired between me and my Haitian friends and our God was sweet and intimate. I’m sad because it would be a shame to forget and it feels like that is what’s happening. Life is going on as usual and that doesn’t seem to do the experience justice. There aren’t people here who can relive those memories with me or practice my Creole or crave some beans and rice. And that’s okay, I suppose. Just rather unfortunate.
This morning I was feeling particularly dispirited about all this. Lying on my couch in my baggy sweats and massive amount messy hair as the sun crept into my room, I told God I feel a little lonely in it all. I told Him I feel like no one can relive the memories, and, what’s worse, I feel myself forgetting them. I talked to Him about how last week feels like a dream and today feels like waking up. I can’t remember the details, my mental pictures are vague, and it feels easy to shake off like the sleepiness of a long night’s sleep. There’s nothing from that world I can bring into this one. It feels quite fanciful and “other-world” and, in some mysterious way, it is. I laid my head down on the couch and propped my feet up on its arm. Lying on my back, I stared at the ceiling and talked to the God beyond it. I told Him all about it – where my heart’s at, what I’m afraid of, and how I don’t know what to do about it.

And He showed me my feet.

Yes, my feet.

As they lay crossed at my ankles, raised up on the arm of the couch, I notice fresh lines on them.

Yes, my friends. I have some stellar Chaco tan lines.



[Haahaa….It is completely evident that I have broken every toe I have. Seriously. Every. Single. Toe.]

It seems so silly now, and I’m even a bit embarrassed that this is what it took for God to speak into my little heart. But when I saw them I thought, “That! That is what I took from Haiti! Haiti did mark me. Something did cross the border line.” Now I’m not saying the only thing I took away from Haiti is a tan (though I certainly wasn’t ungrateful for a little sunshine smooch), but the lines are evidence that the trip was real, that it happened, that it made its mark on me.

Okay. I know it’s a bit silly and maybe seems ridiculous, but I’m grateful that even when people stop asking how it was, even when all the stories are told, even when all the laundry is done and the pictures tucked away somewhere deep in the abyss that is my closet, there will be quiet mornings lying on my couch with Jesus when my eyes fall on my feet

and I remember
again.