I couldn’t help but feel I was invisible, just another body, as I walked the pathways of Nickelodeon Universe at the Mall of America.

The diversity of people roaming the walkways was undeniable – young, old, black, white, body piercings, Jesus jean jackets, Albino white hair, curly black wig hair, robed from head to toe, and scantily dressed.

But as I walked and then stood among the people, it was easy to see why anyone could feel alone, unimportant, just another number trudging the ground of this place called earth.

What is this place?

And why are we here?

What in the world is the point of all this anyway?

I pondered these things as I waited for my daughter to take a spin on the swings.

I positioned myself near a duck game and as odd as it sounds, the ducks called to me in that moment. Laying there lifeless, they reminded me of what I’d observed about people roaming Nickelodeon Universe’s walkways. Aren’t we all just waiting to be chosen, longing to know our lives have purpose beyond mere existence? Don’t we all want to believe we’re special, that we stand out amongst the rest? And why is it that everyday life sometimes causes us to become silent, lifeless, stuck in what feels like a plastic merry-go-round, just like those ducks? Can’t someone just come and rescue us, get us out of this place, help us know we’re more than just another body on the walkway of life?

This theme continued to emerge in different ways as we made our way through the Mall of America. Life CAN feel pointless at times. It’s not uncommon to feel alone, even in a crowd. And it’s ok to wonder if we’ll ever be fully loved and known here on earth. We wait, sometimes in desperation, for reassurance that our life truly does matter.

In all my Christianity, in all my belief that there IS more to this life, I paused and wondered, not for the first time…

What IS the point of all this?

Why God?

Why do you even have us here?

The next morning, I woke bright and early for a desperately needed workout at the gym. Approximately 15 minutes into my workout, I noticed two women hovering over the ledge, staring down intently at the cardio and weight training area. One of the women was significantly distraught, the other was working hard to calm her.

I have radar intuition and knew something was horribly wrong, so I stopped immediately.

As I approached, the calmer woman said to the distraught one, “You need to leave. Get out of here. Everything is going to be ok. Don’t watch this anymore. Go.”

And then I looked down, into that open area where everyone but a few were completely oblivious.

A man was flat down on the ground between two weight training machines. His eyes were closed. He appeared totally unconscious. His chest was heaving notably. I could only assume he’d had a heart attack or stroke and might just as well be dying, right there as I watched.

Two gym members stood inches from the man; I assumed they were present when it happened. The manager of the gym was there, and one personal trainer. I’d arrived so early on in the scene that they were just affixing some equipment to the man’s chest, and were performing CPR. I wondered if anyone had called 911, but determined based on peoples’ behavior that it must have been taken care of.

I began praying silently, to myself, as I watched from above.

Part of me realized it might not be terribly respectful to watch this man in his worst of hours, his life possibly passing by. But there was a bigger part of me that knew – I needed to see this. Maybe the reason my eyes were opened to the incident while most were still oblivious was because there was something I really needed to learn that day.

So I continued to pray, watch with open eyes and an open heart.

Before I knew it, one first responder entered the main floor through the back door wearing layman clothing, nothing official. When he knelt down, I noticed the man’s chest was still heaving notably but irregularly, and he was still unconscious.

Just seconds behind the first responder came the policeman with a big plastic tote in hand. He, too, knelt down next to the man. They began a thorough examination.

Then, a whole host of medical and emergency professionals arrived. And now, there were too many bodies to count, all hovering around this one man.

His life was on the line.

It was then, when I could barely see the man on the ground because of the crowd around him, that I understood more than ever the fragility and sanctity of a single life.

Gym staff gathered large signs and arranged them as screens around the scene to honor and respect this man’s privacy as his body was transferred from the ground to a stretcher.

At that point, I thought it was best if I left, continued my run.

But as I made my way around the corner, pressed play on my iPod, and reluctantly pushed the headphones in my ears, I realized the most fitting song was playing.

I stopped.

And looked down once again, this time from a slightly different angle.

The music played.

I watched newcomers enter the space with great concern. I watched people on treadmills and ellipticals turn around and become aware of all that was happening for the first time. And I could feel and see the gravity of the situation on peoples’ faces as they passed and moved about.

It was a holy moment. Right there in the gym.

As the man’s body was rolled away on the stretcher, tears streamed from my eyes. Kari Jobe’s “What Love is This” played quietly on my iPod. And I couldn’t help but feel God’s presence.

There was something about those moments that made me realize – God’s truly in control. There’s a bigger story that’s unfolding and it’s richer and more complex than we know. We don’t need to know all the answers. We don’t need to understand every bit of why and what and when and how.

But what we DO need to know, what YOU need to know, is this…

You are chosen. God knows. your name. Your life means something. Whether you believe it or not.

In the end, what matters is that you loved and that you were loved.

Your life is at stake. Live it.

Because in the end, when you’re flat on the ground taking what might be your last breaths, you won’t be worrying about how much money you made, what position you held in the company, how big your house was, how fat or thin you were, whether you ate steak or hot dogs for every meal of your life, whether you wore Lululemon workout gear or cheap Target stuff, or whether your kid owned a real American Girl doll or the Walmart knock off. And in those final moments, nobody will give a rip whether you worked overtime, full-time, part-time or not at all.

Nope.

The only thing that will matter when you’re on your death bed is whether you lived and whether you loved. Whatever your situation, live it and love it. That’s all there is.

And know. People care. People love you.

So be loved. Allow yourself to soak it in.

Whatever life circumstance in which you find yourself – whether you feel completely worthless and purposeless and like nobody really knows the real you, or whether you feel full of life and purpose and known by many – just know. you matter.

In the end, they’ll hover around you. It will be a sacred, holy moment. Your life will prove its worth.

So make the most of these days.

Because your life is short.

Do what you love. And love what you live.

Decide to do that.

Because none of us know when we’ll be flat on the ground.

So live for today, as if it’s your last.

And know. You’re important to the God of the universe. He formed your being, He named you special, worthy. He made you with purpose. And he wants you to live abundant. Today.

As I made my way around, to the place where the windows faced the ambulance where the man lay, men and women stood, looking on. “We all get to go like that one way or another at some point,” an older man said to me as we stood there quiet, watching. Nothing but the man’s lifeless foot was visible from the one ambulance door that remained open.

Live. So when you die, others might live differently because of your life.

That one thing you need to know about your life? It matters. So live it.

Amy

I freed up 21 days for rebirth.

I spent 19 days thinking, praying, reviewing journals, writing in journals, digging up evidence from the past, compiling quotes I’d gathered from the past two years, listening to podcasts, and watching Christian speakers and motivational videos on YouTube. I met with wise counsel, witnessed a 17-year-old live out her own God-sized dream, finished two books and started a third, and dug deeper into scripture. Heck, I even took my first webinar.

My time in reflection was desperately needed. And it was extremely productive in a soul searching kind of way.

By day 19, I had clarity. Complete clarity between me and God.

I’d set this time apart, and He’d set apart everything I needed to know to move forward into this rebirth.

But between days 19 and 21, things became muddied, for reasons I can’t reveal now, but hopefully someday, to give another hope – that God’s dreams for you really can come true, even when they’ve been muddied up momentarily.

This wasn’t what I expected. Not on day 19. Not when I was planning to return to blogging on day 21. Not when I’d planned big movement forward this week.

My plans, (seemed) ruined. My hopes, dashed. My expectations, unfulfilled, yet again.

I felt alone. Like it was just me and God. Like I was back at square one. After all that. Back at square one.

But then I was reminded, the clarity I received during those 19 days is irreplaceable. The evidence still remains. My heart still says yes. God still put the pieces together, and they remain true, today.

As I sat there, late that night of the 19th day, in my writing spot on the far left end of the long couch, feeling crazy, tears running down my face, feeling like it was all for naught, my dreams and rebirth and hopes and plans down the drain, like I was back to square one with a heck of a lot of work to do to get peace and clarity again, I heard this whisper…

I want you to believe this is possible. I’m calling you. You’ve been called.

I grabbed my computer. I needed to write this down. To know, remember, the first words of clarity that came to me in these moments of despair. I opened up the document where I’d written everything, the document where all the evidence I’d gathered was in one place, so I could prove to myself God truly did have a plan to rebirth my life.

I scrolled to the bottom.

And typed the sentence.

I want you to believe this is possible. I’m calling you. You’ve been called.

I sat still for a moment. The words kept coming. In an instant, without thinking it through, I decided to close my eyes, type the words I was hearing, the words I believed God might be speaking to my heart and soul in these muddied up moments.

I typed and typed and never once opened my eyes. I felt like a translator. Any word that came to my mind, I typed it. Every word. There was no editing. If I heard it, I typed it. When the words subsided, I opened my eyes. It’d been 34 minutes since I first started typing.

And this. is what I typed (pacing and punctuation is completely organic, unedited)…

I want you to believe this is possible. I’m calling you. You’ve been called. I need you to trust, believe. Know you are loved. Receive it. Believe it. Feel it. I love you deeply. Know that wherever you are, I am. I am. for you. I love you. Believe it. Know it. Feel it. There’s no need to perform. No need to act. Just be, Amy. Sit. Be with me dear. Stop this working hard, trying hard. I don’t ask you to try hard. I don’t ask you to work harder. I ask you to be. With me. Follow. Me. Trust. Me. Believe. Me. Know. Me. 

Believe when I say. I’ve called you. Believe it. There’s nothing more to say. Believe it.

Amy, you’re in the boat. I’m asking you. Come. Now. Trust. I’m here. I’m not asking you to jump. I’m asking you to come. Closer. Trust. Watch me. Watch how I love you. Watch how I sense you. Watch how I connect with you. Know. I’m here. 

Sit. And calm yourself. Be comforted by my presence. Trust I’m taking you at a pace that’s right for you. Don’t rush. Just follow. Me. You’re so tired. Lean. Lean in. You need me now more than ever. I’ve got your back. I have your hand. I’m sitting right here. 

Just be. Sit. Rest. I’m here. I know. I’ve been here before. 

Calm yourself. Calm. Know I’m here. You don’t have to perform. You’re no act for me. I’m gracious. Peace flows through me like a river. I hold no judgement for you. I seek nothing from you. But trust. 

Amy, love. Just be. In me. Stop the game. It’s not about the game. See?

It’s me. Here. Near. 

Amy, my love. You need to know. You’re not cooky, you’re not crazy. You haven’t gone off the deep end. You see, you’re with me. With me isn’t safe. But with me, you’ll find freedom. With me, you’ll find peace. With me, you’ll be. 

So Amy, dear Amy. Take care of yourself. Don’t rush. It’s in my hands. I’ve got it. 

Believe.

Be free. of it all. Worry not, dear one. Time will tell. You’ve waited. And I’ll have you wait more. For you are a patient servant. This I know. You don’t want to be patient, I know. You’re tired. You’re weary from the wait. But Amy, please, you must know. I’m here, even in the wait. 

I know. 

I hear you.

I’m desperate. For you not to work. But to trust. I’m desperate for you to know, you’re loved. I’m desperate fro you to know, you can count on me. When all else fails. Me. So believe. 

Take a breath.

Be.

Trust. 

Feel.

Know that I’m with you. 

Understand, it’s in my hands. I will reveal.

Feel.

Sit in my presence.

Lay it down.

Believe, Amy. Believe.

You’ve got this. I’ve got this.

You’re in another realm. 

And no, you’re not crazy.

Believe that.

Know that.

Trust that.

I see.

All I’ve made you to be.

It’s beautiful.

I’m waiting. 

It’s not time. 

Not yet.

Just wait. A bit.

Seek me. and all these things will be added unto you.

That’s what he said, isn’t it? That pastor who reminded you what’s most important.

Seek me. And all these things will be added unto you.

So be.

Our journey, it’s not done.

Listen. Walk. Walk with me.

You’ve got to trust. Trust that I have a plan. Trust the timing will be. Trust. 

For kingdom work is hard. There’s no easy way. They won’t understand. But I do.

So go. Be a light. Do what you need to do. Follow my commands. And trust. I’ve got you. Know. I’m here. Believe, I see you.

Be. 

You.

It’s not a game.

It’s not a play.

I am. the real deal.

I speak to you in words you understand.

I’m in the boat. W’ere here, together. I’m smiling. I truly am. I have no doubt. Cast the net. Cast it.

Do what it takes. You’ve got to believe. I’ve got you.

You’re so not trusting, so not believing.

But I got you.

Come. Closer.

Hear me speak. You are called.

It’s not possible, it’s true. 

So believe.

Hear me. Hear me.

You are called.

You are called.

You are called.

You. Are. Called.

You. Are. Called. 

That’s what I needed you to hear. That’s what I wanted you to hear. So go. GO daughter. Live it. Speak it. Do it. Do what it takes. Work at it. Live it. Feel it. Receive it. Believe it. For I am here. I am with you. I see you. I know your trials. I know your pain. I’m with you. You must trust. You must go. You must do. You must believe. Believe. 

Now go.

Go.

Go.

Go.

So today, though my logical and emotional self wanted to tell you, my dear readers, that I couldn’t come back yet, that I needed to take more of a break to get my head on straight all over again – I’ve decided to come back, in faith. Because God’s said – trust, believe, go – He’s got me. So I must. He’s provided clarity. Now I just need to trust He’ll help me work it out.

And maybe, today, you need to read those words, inserting your name for mine, knowing you’re held, loved, seen as beautiful and worthy by God. If that’s you? Do it. He speaks words of life and hope over you and in you, too.

Blessings.

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

He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the human heart; 

yet no one can fathom what God has done from beginning to end.  Ecclesiastes 3:11

God makes no mistakes.

He orchestrates every detail of our lives.

He knows exactly who to bring into our lives and when, so we become more of who He created us to be.

It’s been 12 days since I met Kednaud. Out of all the translators I could’ve been assigned, God chose Kednaud. It was truly a divine appointment.

Kednaud spent an entire day with me. It was arguably the most important day of my trip to Haiti, the day I met our sponsored children. He translated every word I uttered, every word our two sponsored children uttered, and every word uttered by a mama, auntie, nurse, and project director. Add up all of those words across an entire day, and you’ll begin to grasp the thousands of words Kednaud translated.

I was grateful for Kednaud’s presence and assistance, truly grateful.

The only words he didn’t know how to translate from English to French Creole were “pink” and “swimsuit.” That accounts for an entire day of translating words. I’d say that’s beyond impressive.

I’ve worked with translators before for my work as a speech-language pathologist, so this translation was nothing foreign to me. But this experience of working with a translator all day, non-stop? It was beyond amazing. The Compassion staff reminded us that these were not just translators, they were “relationship builders,” and that’s exactly what Kednaud was.

But there’s something more I want you to know about Kednaud. You see, he wasn’t JUST my translator that day.

I believe God sent Kednaud to be my translator because there was something He desperately wanted to show me, show us, in the moments in-bewteen translation.

God arranged moments in-between translation for me to connect with Kednaud. When everyone else was using the restroom, when everyone else was helping the kids change into their bathing suits, when everyone else was helping the kids change into their clothes, when everyone else was getting a second helping of food, and after everyone else had been given gifts, Kednaud and I were blessed with small moments to connect about things that matter most.

What are the things that matter most? They’re things that connect us as human beings, regardless of our gender, regardless of where we were born, regardless of our possessions, regardless of any circumstance.

Kednaud’s friends tease him, joke that He’s not fully Haitian. He “gets” American culture. He has friends that are from America, and they’ve invited him to come and live in the United States. They’ll even buy him a house if he’ll move to America. It’s tempting, but he knows. He’s Haitian. He loves his country and he doesn’t want to leave. He’s meant to stay here, in Haiti.

So he translates for American visitors, he values the opportunity to engage and develop relationship with Americans who visit and build homes in Haiti.

And God’s placed on Kednaud’s heart a big God-sized dream. Kednaud dreams of learning 21 languages. He’s already learned four, and knows what his fifth will be, Italian. Because education is expensive and finances are limited, Kednaud works on one language at a time, as he’s able to afford. He takes courses online, through a website called Babbel, where he learns each language and earns a certificate that proves his proficiency.

Kednaud understands. His dream to learn 21 languages is big. It’s a dream most might think is unattainable, especially considering his circumstances. But he believes, I believe, that ALL things are possible with God, through Christ.

I shared about this “God-sized dream” talk in America, how God places dreams on our hearts that seem big, unattainable through the lens of human eyes, but that we trust, knowing anything is possible with God.

We both looked up towards the sky, stating out loud, agreeing as brother and sister in Christ, that yes – anything. is possible. with God. There was peace and joy in this agreement. And that was the first moment I knew, God had me meeting Kednaud, and Kednaud meeting me for a very special purpose. To propel both of us further, with confidence, towards His dreams for us.

Kednaud plays drums. He’s in a band, and he writes songs. And as you might guess, he loves American music. The most perfect medley of songs played throughout the day with our sponsored children. Bryan Adams’ “Everything I Do,” Louis Armstrong’s “What a Wonderful World,” and The Jackson 5’s “I’ll be There” played as we frolicked in the pool for the first time ever, played games that united young and old, and shared a great feast together.

Then, it was time to present the families with gifts I’d brought from home. First was Bethchaida. The joy on her face was indescribable. And sweet Djino. I’ll never forget the way he smiled bashfully when I showed him the motorycycle shirt I’d brought for him, the way he bent over, kissed me on the cheek and said “merci.” Kednaud was there, and captured it all in words and photographs.

But there was something missing. I’d promised Kednaud a special gift, too. There was a song, it came to me in the moment we were talking about American music. And I knew I needed to share it with Kednaud. I’d just downloaded it from iTunes a few weeks prior to coming to Haiti; it’s the song that’s resonated most with my spirit these days.

So I ran. I literally ran back to the place where I had my iPhone and headphones. Because the clock was ticking. I’d used up all but 15 minutes of time with my sponsored children and their accompanying adults, and I didn’t want to miss a minute. But I wanted to keep my promise to Kednaud. I wanted to give him this gift, I wanted him to hear this song. So yes, I ran, and then I ran back, iPhone and headphones in tow.

I turned it to this song, Just Say Jesus, and gave Kednaud the headphones.

I sat with the children, the mama and the auntie gathered the gifts, and as we all sat together, speechless, in these last moments, Kednaud pressed play.

The music started. My heart raced. This was the song I’d promised. I had no idea why it was the only song that’d come to me when I learned Kednaud’s dreams and love for music, but this was the song I needed to share.

And that’s when he began. As the words and tune met his ears for the first time, he smiled, his face lit up. He air drummed, and he air drummed some more, non-stop, until the song was done.

He loved it. My gift had been received. God’s gift, to both of us, had been received.

The day had been worthy of a million pictures, and this moment was as worthy as any other. So we snapped a photo of another moment I’ll never forget, a moment that needed no translation.

God unites his children in the most unusual and unexpected ways. He tailors our experiences uniquely. Because He’s the one that created us. He knows our innermost being. He knows our heart and He owns the dreams He’s placed there. He’s the only one who can translate, when words just don’t suffice.

I saw so much of myself in Kednaud. We share a love for words, for music. Kednaud’s only part Haitian, and I’m only part American; we rest in peace knowing our eternal citizenship is in heaven. We share God-sized dreams that seem impossible, but we know in our hearts, without translation, that anything is possible with God.

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.