I’m an avid reader of blogs. I can’t even begin to estimate the number of blog posts I’ve read. While I greatly appreciate and read my fair share of how-to blog posts, the ones I love most are packed with heart and soul.

I want to know – what’s your biggest battle and how in the world are you overcoming that deep, deep pain? Get real with me. Tell me how it is. And please, oh please, tell me when you’ve seen the light and you’re free to just dance and be.

In all my reading of thousands of blog posts back to August 2010, I’ve run across one sentence that’s proved to be a theme, regardless of the writer’s position on the battle field. And get this – for the most part, it’s worded the same way every time.

I’m too much, not enough.

Whatever the battle is, it comes down to this one false belief.

I’m too much, not enough.

I’m too much, not enough.

Think about that.

The enemy of our soul takes one sentence and uses it to destruct thousands of souls. He morphs and twists it into a whole host of ugly words we use against ourselves. And after all that thinking and speaking bad about ourselves, we just want to curl up in a ball and say forget it. I’m not playing the game. I’m stepping out. I’m not going to win anyway.

I’m too much, not enough.

It’s always both. Never JUST – too much. Never JUST – not enough. Nope. It’s always…

I’m too much, not enough.

The enemy of our soul wants us to believe both sides of this ugly coin. That way he can hit us from every angle.

I’ve written these words about myself. I’ve read it too many times to count. But here’s the deal. I’m tired of these words. I’m tired of these words for myself. And I’m tired of them for you.

So today I’m not going to solve this problem, but I’m going to begin bringing it into the light. And I’m starting with this part of the lie…

I’m too much.

If we bring these lies into the light, we’ll expose them for what they are – flat out lies, false beliefs we’ve held about ourselves for way too long, for no good reason. And truth is? We’ve got to release these lies. Or the enemy will keep us right where he wants us. Flat on the ground, no good for anything, and certainly not up to fulfilling the awesome plans God has in store for us.

So here we go people. I’m giving mine up. All this I’m too much I think about myself? Forget about it. Let’s put it to rest. I’m laying it all out. Right here for you. I’m bringing every false belief I’ve held about myself boldly into the light.

I’m too much.

I’m too serious. Most definitely. For sure. Way, way too serious.

I’m too intense. Like shake it off, girl. Ease up. Take a chill pill, for real.

I’m too fat. My butt is too big. And my stomach has always been too. big. My nose, it juts out just a little too much at the top. The arms, that place behind my shoulder where I have a little too much fat and it shows in pictures shot from the right angle? Too much.

So let’s get back to that too serious and too intense stuff. Like people might not want to hang too long with me because I’m too serious, too intense.

Maybe the activities I like are too boring, too quiet – like reading and writing, watching movies and gardening. Ya, those sound like cool things to do when I’m retired, not now.  

Maybe I’m too churchy, too religious, too spiritual. Maybe I talk about God too much. Maybe I crossed the line, maybe I’ll cross it again and you’ll think I’ve gone too far. I just need to stop talking about all that church stuff. It’s too much.

Maybe I’m too deep. I think and overthink too much. Just ease up. Isn’t that all I need to do? Stop. thinking. too. much. And stop thinking so deeply. Just move on. Who cares. Not everything’s that important, that necessary to think through so thoroughly. I’m just too deep. It’s all too much. I’m too much.

I want things perfect, too much.

I want to do things right, too much.

I want to make the right decision, too much.

I care what everything thinks, too much.

I can obsess about anything and everything, too much.

I write too much. Post on Facebook too much. Made a comment on someone’s blog and it was just a little too much. Shared something intimate, personal, too much. Said something in 1,400 words when I could have said it in 700? Too much. Way too much. Keep it simple stupid. I write too much, divulge too much, care too much. And ya, this post? It’s probably too much.

Explained every detail when I could have gotten to the main point in one sentence? Too much.

Texted three sentences when I could have said it in one? Too much.

Emailed several paragraphs when I could have just emailed one? Too much.

That music that I like? Too boring, too slow. Ya, some of it’s just too intense. Like nobody gets that stuff. Where in the world did I find that song anyway? And those movies? BO-RING. Dramas? Documentaries? BO-RING. That stuff that makes me cry? It’s just all too much. Movies are for entertainment, not inspiration. Stop trying to find meaning in movies. They’re just movies for goodness sake. And when I hide away in a movie theater by myself with popcorn, candy, pop and  a movie of my own choosing? That’s just weird. Too weird. Who does that anyway? 

And what about all the dreaming? You’re dreaming girl! Get real! Give up the pipe dreams and start living in the real world. This is life, not Fantasyland! Those dreams, they’re simply too big, utterly impossible. So stop obsessing. It’s all too much. Give it up. Just give. it. up.

As much as I’d like to resolve these issues, take fight against the enemy of my soul right here and now, I want to leave it like that, lay it down just as it is. Because sometimes we just need to admit, here are the lies I’ve been believing about myself. Here are the false truths the enemy has tried to shove down my throat for years. This. has been my reality.

When we take a moment to reflect and acknowledge that these are ugly words, pure garbage, perhaps we’ll get to a place where we finally get real with ourselves and say…

I’m not willing to live that way anymore.

I will no longer accept those lies as truth.

I’m believing the truth about myself is much more beautiful than this.

We’ll talk about this more as the week unfolds. In my next post, I’ll dive deeper into not enough. And I’ll wrap up this week-long series just in time for Easter; we’ll discuss why we’re truly ENOUGH, just the way we are.

In the meantime, I wonder – what are some of the lies you’ve believed about yourself through the years? In what ways have you felt like you’re just too much?

Lay them down. Lay them all down here.

Then, be gentle with yourself. Because you’re not too much of anything. You’re enough, just right, just as you are.

Amy

Amy

*This is the final post from a month-long series about my journey to Haiti. Click here to read all the posts in the series.

*Music courtesy of Ft. Alex Boye, Africanized Symphonic Cover of Adele’s Set Fire to the Rain

It was my first full day in Haiti with Compassion International. Hours into the day, I found myself actively engaged with a group of girls at the far end of the project’s play yard.

With the help of a translator, I uncovered bits and pieces about the girls. They were all around my son and daughter’s age – eight, nine, ten and eleven-years-old. I was intrigued by their personalities and way of being with one another, and kept thinking how cool it would be if my daughter was there, engaging with the girls, just like me.

Another woman from our group approached and began conversing with the girls, so I decided it was a good opportunity to engage the teenage girls I saw yards away.

The day passed. We spent the rest of the morning with mamas and babies enrolled in Compassion’s Child Survival Program, had lunch with project staff, visited families’ homes, and returned to the project at the end of the day.

After we spent a little more time in the classrooms and play yard, after we used the restroom one last time before we had to leave, I met the boy who stole my heart.

I really didn’t want to say good-bye, but I was on my way back to the van. It was time to go.

Most of my fellow travelers were already on the van. I was one of the last to load.

Just feet before the van, a boy approached. He came alongside me, hung close, tight to my body. I’m still not sure if I’ve ever had anyone step in tandem with me the way that boy did. The only way I can describe it is that his little body was so tight, right alongside me, that we became one walking unit in that moment.

God helped me recognize, immediately, this boy’s strong presence.

I put my arm around his shoulders as we walked. “Hi buddy,” I said quietly, lovingly.

He kept close, never out of step. He snuggled in a bit closer.

And then he looked up at me, as we were walking even slower now, and ever so gently but assuredly said “I want you to be my mommy.”

This was the first child that had spoken a word of English to me all day, and these were the words I was going to hear?

My heart broke. I began crying immediately. “Oh buddy,” I said, as I gave him the biggest, most endearing mama bear hug I could muster.

The world around me disappeared. We were three, maybe five feet from the van at this point, and I’m sure there were an abundance of kids and adults wondering why I was crying and hugging this boy. I’m certain they had no idea what he’d just told me.

I loosened my embrace because we were now even closer to the van. He looked down and pointed to one of two bracelets I had on my wrist, one purple, one cream. (Oddly enough, I’d received those bracelets as gifts of appreciation from Haitians in the market 16+ months ago after I’d presented them with gifts I brought from home.) I couldn’t be his mommy, but I knew as soon as he looked at that purple bracelet that I wanted to give it to him to let him know how much he was loved. A translator was present and helped with the exchange. For a few seconds, all was right with the world. I had a bracelet and the boy had a bracelet. We’d be tied together, in our hearts, and the bracelets would be a tangible reminder. But a little girl approached and saw I had another bracelet to give, so I obliged, even though it meant I’d no longer have a bracelet to keep my heart tangibly tied to this sweet boy.

Still crying, I gave him one last hug, waved good-bye, and got on the van. Tears continued to stream as I made my way to the back of the van, past most of my fellow travelers. I explained to a couple who’d asked, he said “I want you to be my mommy.”

How was I supposed to sit in this van, act like I’d just heard any ‘ol words, and move right on out?

Praise. The. Lord. He wasn’t about to let my time with this boy end, even though all other indications said it was a done deal.

Thankfully, our departure was delayed for one reason or another. I didn’t even care because all my mind could think of was the boy. Kids were swarming around just outside of our van. I looked to my right, and there he was. I caught him just as he was looking down, fiddling with his bracelet. “I’ve got to get a picture of this boy,” I told those around me as I stood up immediately and captured not one, but two pictures. I felt blessed to have, at the very least, seen him again and captured these photos to remember him by.

If I remember correctly, the van moved, turned in the direction of the gates where we’d depart. I thought I’d seen the last of the boy. I was sad, but grateful too, that God had given me the opportunity to see him from afar one more time.

But God knew otherwise. The van stopped. There was another delay.

Some moments passed, and then I noticed my boy coming alongside our van. He was looking up, into the windows, and he was now on the side of the van where I was sitting. When he came to the window of the people sitting in front of me, I noticed he was looking at them and pointing to his bracelet. I knew right away, he was looking for me.

“He’s looking for me!” I exclaimed as quietly and as calmly as I could without seeming like a freak to my fellow travelers close by.

I knocked on the window, loud enough so he could hear and notice I was there in the back row. I waved, put my hand on my heart, pointed to his bracelet, and then pointed to my wrist where the bracelet had once been. He looked at me with his big brown eyes and smiled.

We’d found each other, once again.

I began crying, once again.

I opened one hand and put it up flat against the window. He put his hand up too. One panel of glass separated us.

It was clear the bus was about to move towards the gates.

I blew him a kiss. He blew me one, too. I blew another. He blew another.

And as we drove off, I looked back and noticed. He was wearing navy blue Converse, untied. He walked quietly by himself as we drove away, fiddling with his bracelet, yet again.

Call me a blubbery mess. Call me whatever.

In the days following, I wasn’t sure what to do with this experience. In fact, nine days later, I’m still not sure why I met that boy, why he was the only child I engaged with that day that spoke any word of English, or why he felt compelled to say “I want you to be my mommy.”

I’d give anything to know if that little boy has a mommy. I’d give anything for the opportunity to go back and take a Compassion staff and translator with me, visit his home, and know more. If he had a mommy, I’d love on her and tell her how awesome she is and how she’s raising her son with a beautiful heart. I’d tell him what a great mommy he has and how she loves him with all her heart. And if he didn’t have a mommy? Well, I don’t know what I’d do. But reality is, I’ll never get the opportunity to do any of that.

Why is it that my Heavenly Father gave me this gift, this boy to love for just a few moments? I don’t know.

The Lord gives, the Lord takes away. Blessed be His name, is all I can say.

Perhaps I’ll never know why I met this boy, why he wanted me to be his mommy. Perhaps someday the good Lord will make it clear. For now, I trust, there was a reason.

Five days after meeting the boy, I arrived back home. Photographs of my journey flashed on our television screen as I recounted my days in Haiti with my husband and two oldest children.

And then, the Lord gave me eyes to see what I needed to see in a photograph I hadn’t remembered taking earlier that morning in the play yard.

The boy.

There he was!

I’m not 100% sure because the first two photos I took of the boy were from the side, and this photo was straight on. But my heart knows, my heart feels confident. The Lord gives me eyes to see what He wants me to see, because He’s awesome like that.

That boy in the middle of all those girls?

It’s him.

I recognize his face, he looks familiar. He looks exactly like the boy who told me “I want you to be my mommy.” He looks exactly like the boy who blew me kisses when I was still crying in the van. He looks exactly like the boy who wore navy blue Converse, untied.

And if it’s truly him as my heart thinks it is?

Then God has spoken.

I’m here, orchestrating every bit of your life, whether you know it or not.

I chose you before you chose Me.

You are loved.

Now go love.

Amy

*This is part of a month-long series about my journey to Haiti. Click here to read all the posts in the series.

Re-entry, it was all good.

Well, at least for a little while.

The first flight took us from Port-au-Prince to Miami. The plane was nearly silent in those last moments on the ground in Haiti. I’d never seen so many people looking out windows as a plane readied for take-off. Even so, it was all good.

Going through customs, waiting longer than expected for our luggage in Miami, and then waiting another 30 minutes to get into the terminal for our connecting flights? It was all good.

But then, after all that, re-entry wasn’t so good.

I bid farewell to the last members of the group I’d been traveling with for six days, and things went downhill from there.

A man directed me that way, to Concourse H, the place I’d check in for my flight back home. The walk was longer, much longer than I expected. In fact, so long I thought I’d gotten lost. By the time I made it to Concourse H, my anxiety and stress levels had skyrocketed. If there was any way to measure my anxiety in Haiti (nonexistent) vs. my anxiety in that moment (extremely high), I can guarantee the contrast would’ve been striking. I was so anxious and stressed, that by the time I arrived at Concourse H, the only words I could muster to the last two Compassion travelers I ran into from Wisconsin were “I’m really stressed now.” But I’d made my way, so I paid to check my big red suitcase and picked up my boarding pass.

I ran to the security line which appeared to be a mile long. I had to go to the bathroom and wanted to grab lunch before the flight departed, so I knew I didn’t have a minute to spare. I stood in that security line for 30 minutes, listening to two in front of me talk about $4 million, $22 million budgets, how they hated the fact they had to hear the same speaker two years in a row – how could anyone think that was a good idea? A lady stopped dead in her tracks and sighed. Everyone was harried.

I had to hold myself back from breaking down in tears, sobbing, at this re-entry. It was bad enough bearing this weight, this heaviness inside, the somber feelings anyone would’ve seen if they observed me closely. Tears were welling. I wanted to run, hide.

And then, I looked down and realized – I hadn’t actually checked my bag.

So after 30 minutes in that security line, I had to go back to the airline check-in, stand in line for another 15 minutes, and check my bag.

I got back in the security line, only this time it was much longer than it’d been the first time. I forced myself to breathe deeply. There was nothing I could do to change the circumstances. A woman from Atlanta struck up conversation with a woman from Canada in front of me. “I just got back. All I want to do is go back to the island. It’s too cold here.” And the woman from Canada? She responded, “I just hope my flight gets delayed. I’d be good staying here as long as they need me to.”

And me? I just wanted to catch a flight back to Haiti, and somehow magically transport my family there with me, and magically all four of them would acclimate, and magically they’d all feel called to become missionaries and we’d spend a lifetime waking sleeping giants in Haiti.

A woman nearby had the words Trust Your Journey printed on her shirt.

I knew God had me going back home. My husband’s called to creative corporate life, my kids are established, safe and sound in their school, sports and peer groups. There was no way any of this magical thinking would ever become reality. My life and my loves are in the United States. But I also knew in my heart that God intended, planned for me to return to Haiti. I didn’t understand how it’d all fit, how it’d all unfold, and I didn’t know when. I just knew, I just know.

Trust your journey, I reminded myself.

This second wait in security was another 30 minutes, but I finally got through.

I felt like a foreigner, a robot, just another body as I formally re-entered this nation of mine. Shoes off, laptop in the bin, bag on the belt, liquids in the quart-sized-bag using this 3:1:1 method known intimately to TSA. I didn’t take off my sweatshirt, but the TSA agent called me on it right before I passed through. Apparently, there was something about me that was unusual, alerting. I didn’t pass the test. “Follow me,” said the agent. He asked me to hold out my hands, face up. He swiped a tiny piece of fabric or paper across my hands, stuck it in some machine that read the results, and lo and behold, I checked out ok.

I plopped my shoes, bag, laptop, and all my other stuff on the ground so I could gather myself outside of security. “It’s just not right,” said a man as he passed me and shook his head. “Ridiculous,” I responded as the stranger walked away.

I proceeded to the bathroom. The toilet paper holder fell on the floor. The door didn’t lock.

I grabbed the only food that was close, Nathan’s Famous. Soggy fries and a chicken sandwich were dropped in a paper bag, now mine, for a total of $12-something.

There was nowhere to sit, nowhere to plug in my phone. I sat, then grabbed all my stuff and got back up thinking there must be a better place. But truly, there was nowhere else to sit. So as odd as it seemed, as odd as it felt, I plopped right back down in that same spot a couple minutes later.

It was all a little awkward.

People were on phones everywhere.

I overheard a man, tattooed up and down, “they’re not making money.”

A young guy, “I’ve had scheduling problems.”

And even an old guy, “I’m a little annoyed.” And later to himself, after he ended the call, “It’s starting already. I hate this.”

My straw creaked loudly as I adjusted it in the Nathan’s Famous Hot Dogs cup of Diet Coke I’d grabbed with my lunch. Everyone turned and stared at me all at the same time.

I scarfed down my soggy fries and chicken sandwich, and plugged in my phone for a few minutes of charge before I boarded the plane.

It was then, as I looked down at the rolled-up painting I bought in Haiti, that I realized – we’re all human, we’re all broken. We’re all living in poverty one way or another, all impoverished without Him. He knows our fallen nature and He’s desperate to re-charge us, give us hope. So we plug in to the source, the only source that brings life and true wealth, God.

I looked across, out the window where wings made by men directed our way back home. The sun was setting, the clouds victorious, soft promises.

He’s in control.

He knows what He’s doing.

We hear.

We trust.

He knows the way.

He turns our poverty into wealth-of-a-spiritual-kind if we plug in, let Him lead the way.

Snow covered the ground. I walked out, into the cold with a humble Haitian heart, full of hope regardless of any circumstance I face.

I plug in. And I know, I’m not alone. For my one true source of life, of hope, is with me, now and forevermore.

Amy

*This is part of a month-long series about my journey to Haiti. Click here to read all the posts in the series.

“We already have victory against the battle we are fighting.”

“Our beneficiaries are sleeping giants. We feel the reign is coming.”

Program Communications Manager, Compassion International Haiti Country Office

Why can’t we just pass by poverty?

Why can’t we just leave, forget about it, store it away in the recesses of our minds?

Why can’t we just ignore this problem of poverty and hope it’ll go away on its own?

Because human beings live in those tent cities.

Human beings fill and hang off those tap taps.

Human beings wait by loaded buses for desperately needed supplies that might take days to unload.

Human beings walk miles carrying filled-to-the-brim metal pots, sacks and jugs on their heads.

Human beings travel to the market with donkeys and wheelbarrows, waiting on provision. for today.

And here’s the clinker.

Every one of those human beings has a face.

Every face is part of a family.

Their lives are precious and real.

They have hopes and dreams. And they’re working hard, really hard.

The simple truth is this. They don’t have access to resources that would meet their most basic of needs. They don’t have access to resources that could make their hopes and dreams come true.

So it’s up to us.

The Lord has asked us to serve and provide for those in need.

So we must.

Not only is it our duty, it’s our privilege.

It’s a great honor and delight to engage and witness first hand the slow, but sure transformation of a country.

Sleeping giants will rise. One generation of giants will give rise to the next generation of giants.

With God, all things are possible. Of this, I am convinced.

Haiti already has “victory against the battle [they] are fighting.”

Victory seen in the face of a little girl who drove down the mountain six and a half hours on a motorcycle with her mama, walked the markets of Port-au-Prince, and used precious resources to buy barrettes and the most beautiful dress they could find for the day they’d meet the little girl’s sponsor.

Victory seen in the face of a little boy who, because of Compassion International, was able to travel to Port-au-Prince to see doctors about the “problem in his head.” He and his family have hope now, that they will get help. God is working.

Victory seen in the faces of young adult men in Compassion’s Leadership Development Program. They’re enrolled in college, studying education and psychology, and they want to be a part of this waking of the sleeping giants.

“We are working hard to change the destiny of this country.”

“This is my dream, to change my country.”

Why would we ever want to deny the basic needs, the marvelous hopes and dreams of fellow human beings?

Why would we not want to partner, get in on this transformation of a country?

The beauty and hope of the possibility lit me on fire when I realized. Our work? It’s really making a difference.

Let’s rise one sleeping giant at a time. Human potential is limitless. God’s power through us? Unfathomable.

So today, I stand, on behalf of Haiti and its beautiful, humble, gracious and hard-working people.

I am with you. I will support you. I will not forget. And I will be back.

It is my duty, honor, and delight to be an ambassador for you.

Amy

Do you want to help raise up a generation of giants in Haiti? Sponsor a child through Compassion International. It’ll be the best decision of your life. Period. Click here to see children who are waiting for a sponsor.

*This is part of a month-long series about my journey to Haiti. Click here to read all the posts in the series.