no ounce of odd.

Would you believe that it’s actually become much more of a cultural stretch for me to go from Haiti to the States than to go from the States to Haiti?  I’m realizing it anew today.

We’ve worked hard these years: worked hard to understand, worked hard to dress and eat and  work and play like Haiti, worked hard to embrace the culture, worked hard to speak the language.  To know Haiti inside and out. 

We have gone about for years now like children, asking, “Why? Why?” Learning.  Stretching.  Growing up, again, but this time Haitian.

So I guess it makes sence that somewhere along the way, it’s become less and less work--more and more normal. 

No, I will never be Haitian.  But I realize when suddenly immersed in scores of Americans that I’ve changed far more than I realize.  After 6 years, it feels like I hardly know how to be an American in America.  After four years, I hardly know how to be alone without 2 girls.  Between the two, I hardly know what to do with myself!

For the first time in 6 months, I do NOT stick out as foreigner today, but I promise you I haven’t felt so bizarre and strange since July.  Things happen so fast here!

Sarah’s jeans, though loose, feel like they’re indecently outlining the fact that I have legs.  My formal English feels heavy in my mouth.  I’m trying to figure out how many gourdes $11 US is, instead of figuring out how many dollars 500 gourdes is.  No one is looking at me.  No one.  And instead of feeling relief, I feel isolated. 

I haven’t moved more than 30 mph in 6 months.  Just the zip from one airport to another in Port-au-Prince had me clutching the car door.  The guy at the coffee counter asked from my accent if I was from Cap-Haitien.  People around me are talking about…well, weird things J  Things Haitians don’t talk about.  Just as Haitians talk about things Americans don’t talk about.  (Which pretty much means there’s nothing I don’t talk about J )

I’m texting with Junior at the same time, Junior who always struggles the same as I do. Fully Haitian.  But raised largely by Americans.  Now, no one understands him.  He’s too complicated for his own good, and feels always odd…always out of place…always missing someone.

It makes me realize how complicated we all are.  Everyone around me.  You.

As I sit in Port-au-Prince, waiting to fly to Miami, half the people around me look like me, and the other half are huddled in coats and sweatshirts, like me.  All the people around me talk one of my languages.  I get both cultures.  I understand where everyone is coming from…and yet where NO ONE is coming from all at the same time.

What grace we can give each other, knowing what deep wells we each are.  How far past our appearances we go.  Even our languages.

For who among men knows the thoughts of a man except the spirit of the man which is in him? (1 Cor. 2:13)

And yet then there’s God.  Praise the Lord.  God among us.  But not like us.

God, who meets me in that weird place.  White skin.  American clothes.  Haitian casual.  Mourning heart.  Missing my children arms.  Hating to miss the Christmas party talent show this afternoon.  Anxious to be with my father.

He’s been in every one of my experiences.  Knows every crevice of my spirit.  Knows where I struggle, knows where I rejoice.  There He has been, there He is, and here I am--fully revealed, fully known, fully me before Him. 

No ounce of odd.  No ounce of American or Haitian or black or white or English or Creole or otherwise.  No ounce of out of place.  No ounce of misunderstood.  

In Him, I am.

What a beautiful truth.  What a beautiful place to dwell, wherever our feet are.

Whom have I in heaven but You?

And besides You, I desire nothing on earth.

My flesh and my heart may fail,

But God is the strength of my heart

And my portion forever.

The nearness of God is my good;

I have made the Lord God my refuge,

That I may tell of all Your works.

Psalm 73:25-28