The calming scent of cedar filled the room as I slowly lifted the heavy lid of the wooden chest. It had likely been more than ten years since I last looked inside. I drew out the familiar pink and white baby blanket resting on top and held it close, imagining how my dear mum had wrapped me up countless times in its pillowy folds and nestled me in her arms.
I’ll never forget the day my debt was cleared. The heavy, soul-disquieting weight I’d been carrying for several years was lifted in a moment — an expression of the mercy of God, the love of the body of Christ, and the profound beauty of grace.
I had reached a breaking point. I felt spent, desperate even. Both my body and soul were at a point of exhaustion. How much longer, Lord?, I cried within.
Winding through a maze of cinder block houses on dirt roads which followed no distinguishable order, I kept pace a small distance behind my missionary friends. As we walked through the labyrinth of multicolored homes, free-roaming cattle, burning trash, and playing children, I had a strange realization. I had made several trips to Haiti, but this was the first time I genuinely started to feel at home.
Throughout my thirties I often looked dauntingly at one day turning 40. Thinking of that approaching milestone, I would appraise where I was at in life and (try not to) anxiously think of where I wanted to be by the time that day arrived. Lord, I want so much to happen before then.
All the muscles in my upper body burned with pain as I paced the length of the airport terminal — a sleepless infant in a front carrier, a loaded backpack on my back, and a heavy diaper bag repeatedly slipping from my shoulder…