Coming Home

Dragging my feet I started down the hill from the Toddler house to the Main house. I looked around purposefully trying to take as many mental pictures as possible. The brightly painted gate, the abandoned vehicle, the stray chickens, I didnt want to miss a single detail. I just wasnt ready to leave. Soaking it all in, I intentionally dawdled. Had it really been a month already?
My belongings bounced around in the back of the SUV as we weaved our way out of the mountains into Port Au Prince. The plan was simple, we had to be at the airport by noon to board a plane chartered by Samaritans Purse by 1pm. The airport still wasnt open to commercial airlines so this was our only option. There was no picking airlines, comparing prices, times, or routes. This was it, one plane, one destination, one list and fingers were crossed that my name would be on it.
The devastation isnt something that I think anyone gets used to. Driving through the countries capital, the magnitude and severity of kilometers of rubble once again took my breath away. Every turn was another block of uninhabitable homes, destroyed businesses and displaced families. I couldnt help but think “Where do you even start?”
I had my eyes closed with the window rolled down when I heard the loud speaker, “Messi Jezi, Messi Jezi.” As we drove by I was amazed to see a crowd of at least 200 sitting packed under the hot Haitian sun. People spilled out from an empty parking lot into the surrounding streets to take in the pastors message. It was Sunday and it appeared that no one in this neighborhood was going to miss church, no matter what the circumstances. As we continued throughout the city, we passed over 20 makeshift churches. A gas station, an open park area, the street closest to a tent city, it didnt matter where, people were congregating. Loud speakers boomed with a message of salvation, of thankfulness, of forgiveness.
After my beautiful experience at the tent city, I looked with longing at these resilient people. Their voices once again filled the air as parades of men, women and children marched through the streets. It was the final day of the nations 3 day fast and prayer, and the Haitians continued to celebrate. Singing and praying they walked together, hand in hand, declaring their love for the Lord.
The airport was strangely quiet. The flurry of activity that I had gotten used to was reduced to the odd helicopter taking off and small engine plane landing. The calmness was oddly disturbing. There was still so much need, where were the cargo planes full of supplies? Where were the droves of volunteers, doctors, nurses and camera crews? Had the world forgotten already?
Patiently waiting for our plane to arrive the knot in my stomach was tightening. Was the decision to leave the right one? As my internal battle raged I looked over at the military tents, thinking back to the day we sent the Dutch children home. The hot heat, 37 children, and multiple dirty diapers. My eyes rested on the grassy hill where 87 American children waited patiently to board the plane to take them home. My memory returned to the 20 Canadian children who stared wide eyed at the roaring plane packed full of volunteers. All of this had happened on this exact tarmac. I thought back to the beautiful faces of the children who had impacted my life so drastically. The number of lives that had changed on this pavement was immeasurable, mine included.
We boarded the 8 seater plane at 1pm as promised. My teary eyes were glued to the window as the plane charged down the runway. The country that captured my heart was slowly disappearing as we climbed higher into the clouds.