Six Months Later

It has been nearly six months since I pushed through the doors into the cold that is 2am in March in New England. Suitcase in tow, I made my way to a small, dimly lit, and less than heated school buys that seemed like the only thing alive on campus at such a desolate hour. It has been nearly six months since that school bus rumbled to life and merged onto 128 Boston bound.

It has been nearly six months since an epic selfie was taken in the barren terminal of Logan International Airport.

It has been nearly six months since a turbulent plane flew south toward the equator. It has been nearly six months since I felt the Haitian heat take hold of me before that turbulent plane even taxied to the gate.

It has been nearly six months since I again boarded a small bus, this time with no lack of heat, and rode down the streets that mapped out Port-Au-Prince, the capital city of a devastated land.

It has been nearly six months since I sat atop a cement building and watched the burning sun drop below the trees and ignite the sky in a red-hot fire.

It has been nearly six months since I woke up to a rooster and got to see the sun rise up again and sat at a table set for 15 and eat the most delicious oatmeal I've ever tasted. 

It has been nearly six months since I again boarded that colorful bus and rode to the coast and saw water clearer than the tears that fell and mountains that stood stronger than my weak arms. Diving into that liquid salt and bobbing over waves as boat taxis passed.

It has been nearly six months since I stood with arms raised high in worship despite my inability to understand the language in which these praises to God were sung.

It has been nearly six months since I rode along foreign streets and stepped off that bus in a land like none I'd ever seen before.

It has been nearly six months since I lifted my first bucket full of rocks and heaved it through the air to the person who stood almost six feet away from me. And similarly, got buckets of cement thrown toward me, sometimes caught, sometimes not, and in those times of not, getting a slick coating of wet cement across my arms and shirt, later to be scrubbed off in the cold water I had to actively remind myself not to drink.

It has been nearly six months since I sat in a makeshift shelter and drank in not only Gatorade but also the stories and the fellowship and the love of the children that called this place home.

It has been nearly six months since I sat in a circle beneath the stars and watched voltage explosions light up the sky and held hands with my new family as we bowed our heads in prayer to cry out to the Lord.

It has been nearly six months since I heard the stories of struggle, and joy, and triumph of those nature to my foreign land.

It has been nearly six months since I saw my last Haitian sunset and said my last goodbyes, and, for the final time, took in my surroundings. A place that in only 8 days became a home for me, and would hopefully be a home for me to return to many, many times in the years to come.

It has been nearly six months since I took my last malaria pill, the pain in my arms fading and bruises beginning to evaporate and scabs beginning to fall off. All of the places my body was too weak soon dissipating into the comfort and normalcy of home. It has been nearly six months and yet my heart aches for this place in a way that's torn from feeling as though I were just there but also as if I haven't been there in a lifetime.

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