The suitcase that carried all the liquids already weighed 50 pounds on my scale at home. At the last minute, I decided to throw in two bottles of nail polish anyway. One bright pink, one sparkly purple.

But before I move on, there’s something you must know. I really don’t like my nails painted. I prefer my nails cut medium length and I wear them plain, natural. I never use nail files, and I’ve only had two manicures in my life because the intense nail filing irritates my sensory system.

My daughter, on the other hand, loves to paint her nails and everyone else’s nails, so she always asks me “why don’t you paint your nails, mom?” I give all my reasons and I know she just doesn’t understand. I encourage her, maybe she’ll own her own salon someday and she can do nails all day if she pleases!

So the two bottles of nail polish I brought in my suitcase to Haiti belonged to my daughter. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind that I shared. In fact, I’m sure she would’ve loved to be there today as I spent a good third of the day painting girls’ nails. And yes, as I sit here typing, my fingernails are painted bright pink, too.

Let me share this story that’s dear to my heart and moved me to tears more than once today.

It was another beautiful day in Haiti. We loaded the van for another Compassion Child Development Center.

After an amazing, heart-filled gathering with hundreds of children in the worship center, we were divided into small groups. I knew the odds and ends group was for me.

All 23 of us on the trip had brought gifts from home that we could give the children in Haiti. So today was an opportunity to engage children with one of the many fun activities we’d brought, likely something the children had never been exposed to.

It was time to head to the room assigned to odds and ends. A bunch of girls from the Compassion Center grabbed my hands and attached on to one another. At least 10 came alongside as we journeyed to the room where we experienced much joy together.

When bubbles and light up toys appeared and children swarmed, it was pretty clear that I’d prefer to isolate myself in a corner and engage more intimately one-on-one with some girls.

Two nights ago, our group had an opportunity to pool all of our gifts for children at the Compassion Centers. The only two gifts I chose to keep in my backpack were my daughter’s two bottles of nail polish. So nail polish it was!

As soon as I sat down with the two bottles of nail polish and showed the group of girls what it was, they began swarming around me. At home, I often feel overwhelmed with abundance. I become overwhelmed with excess, clutter, too much STUFF. Sometimes I just want to get rid of it all. And here, there was a deep sense of scarcity. The girls were worried there wouldn’t be enough.

I assured the girls they’d get a turn. I promised there would be enough. I created order where there was none.

A sweet soul, Eve, was the first girl to grab ahold of my hand out in the courtyard, and there she was, sitting next to me now for nail painting. So I knew, Eve was first.

I made it clear, before I even started painting Eve’s nails, that I would paint, one by one. Each girl was special, unique. I let them each choose which color they wanted, and asked each girl for a picture after she got her nails painted. And before I started painting, I let the girls know who’d be up next so chaos and that ugly sense of scarcity was minimized, and the predictability of abundance was maximized.

It worked perfectly.

I just kept painting and painting and painting. Each girl was made to feel special. It felt intimate. It was important service and care for these beautiful girls. And before each girl left, I shared a special word of encouragement. “You are beautiful.” “You are going to be a leader.” “You have really beautiful nails.” Whatever felt just right for that girl and what I learned of her while painting her nails is what I said. I’ve learned here in Haiti, these direct words of encouragement are precious to the people.

And then something pretty cool happened. From then on out, the dynamic shifted between me and the girls. See the girl on the top right hand corner of the picture above? She’d been waiting to get her nails done. She’d noticed my camera and was really curious and wanted to see how it worked for herself. She was clearly old enough to handle the camera independently and I felt comfortable letting her hold it and take a picture. So with the direct assistance from a translator, I showed this beautiful girl, step by step, how to turn the camera on, how to take the picture, how to zoom in and out, and how to view the pictures after they’d been taken. 

This is the very first picture she took with a camera.

I empowered her, “If you love to take pictures, you could become a photographer when you grow up. You can take pictures of the beautiful people from Haiti and sell them to earn money for your family. It can be your work.” She smiled and it felt good to share this love of photography. I really wanted her to know this was a possibility. She took several other photos and even taught the other girls a bit. But she was the only one, really, who had a natural inclination towards photography.

I kept on with the painting nails.

The teenage girl who’d been taking pictures hadn’t gotten her nails painted yet, so it was her turn. I painted her nails, and right before I was finished, she told me she wanted to paint MY nails. I nearly broke down in that moment, as I wasn’t there to be served, but to serve. So I didn’t expect anyone to serve me. But our group leader and Compassion representative, Yvonne, had reminded us last night, “remember to be open to receiving as well as giving.” I’ve learned the Haitian people are extraordinarily loving and giving, and I’ve been working on this receiving thing, so I accepted her offer graciously. After she painted my nails, I allowed her to take one of the polishes and start painting others’ nails, which she did with a servant heart.

Edwidge, clearly one of the oldest girls that was in the room with us, had stopped over earlier. She wanted her nails painted with the sparkly purple polish. I told her she was next, so she returned for her turn. I painted her nails and loved on her so much. There was a connection between the two of us I couldn’t measure. While we were engaging, Edwidge told me she creates art and she wanted to get a piece of her art to show me. I empowered her, yes, I would LOVE to see her art! So she left quietly, in search of her art.

I continued to paint nails. The last group of girls to come through was an assortment. Some already had their nails done and wanted to see photographs of themselves. There was one girl who was feisty, another with burns to her face, and other with deformities on her fingers. Their personalities were really shining through, so I continued to encourage them uniquely.

As I was painting the last round of nails, Edwidge returned. She had a black pouch in her hand, she wanted to fix my hair. I took the binder out, continued painting nails, and let Edwidge love me through her service. I thought she might braid my hair or put it up in some cool ponytails or something, but she just kept brushing and brushing and brushing.

Edwidge was showing her love for me, her care for me. I was humbled, moved so deeply, almost to tears, that Edwidge just kept brushing and brushing and brushing. I don’t know how long it’d been since someone just brushed my hair, not just to get the job done, but just to brush it as a loving act of kindness. It was so, so beautiful. Thank you, dear Edwidge.

When I was told it was time to wrap up and go eat lunch, Edwidge was waiting at the front of the room. I asked if she’d found her art. She’d spoken with the Compassion Center Director and the art would be held where we were scheduled to eat.

When I arrived at the location, Edwidge found me and showed me her art work. She was proud. And I was proud of her. She wanted a picture with the two of us and the art she’d made. I thought, based on our communication earlier, she’d intended to give me the art, but realized after she put the piece back on the table, that it had already been sold to another trip member (older students were selling the pieces they’d made to earn money to buy more art supplies).

I engaged others in conversation, and moved to the other end of the room. On my way, I found Carol (a woman on the trip I’ve come to adore – she’s a perfect mix of me, my mom and my mother-in-law, if there ever was such a thing) with Edwidge. Carol was speaking life affirming words directly to Edwidge. She spoke straight to Edwidge’s soul with words like “You are beautiful. Keep making beautiful things.” Carol’s words brought tears to my eyes. Real, big tears. These women I’d grown to love, each in different contexts, had grown to love one another, too.

Edwidge asked if she could sit next to me at lunch. I agreed, I’d love to have her sit next to me. We enjoyed a delicious meal and more time together. “I love you. I am so happy for you,” she said among other beautiful things in those final moments.

How to empower girls?

Love them. Come alongside them. Serve them. Teach them to serve others. Speak life affirming words over their lives. Be completely authentic. Remind them they can do anything. And tell them they are so beautiful, just the way they are.

Amy

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

Apparently the guy in front of me in the security line at the airport knew the guy behind me. They talked through me, as if I wasn’t even there. And I didn’t even care.

“What’s new?” said the middle-aged man in front of me, his hair bleached blonde, skin tan and wrinkled a bit.

The man behind me responded promptly, “Same old, same old.” His hair was dark, clean cut, his presentation professional, business-like. “Money. Money. Money.” He paused a bit before adding “the recession hit me really hard.”

“I stepped out of the rat race four years ago,” exclaimed the blonde. “It’s kind of fun traveling around and all that.”

“On a golfing trip?” asked the business man.

“Ya, I’m going to Orlando for a tournament.” replied the blonde, smiling with ease.

The business man stated what might be an obvious downfall to the blonde man’s lifestyle. “The only problem with being a ‘professional golfer’ is that you have to pay for it all yourself.”

And with that, an airport official yelled to the crowd. Security line two only had an 8-minute wait, and ours was bound to be a 25-minute wait. The whole lot of us fled the scene, speed walking to line two.

I never did get to hear the end of that story, how the blonde man would respond to this questioning, these challenges about leaving the rat race and “paying for it all yourself.” I wasn’t engaging in that conversation other than to overhear, so I might’ve never learned why the blonde man left the rat race, or how he used to earn a living, or how he earns a living now, or anything else about his old life compared to his new life as a “professional golfer.” Speaking of, was he really a professional golfer? Or was he a “professional golfer?” And I never did get to delve deeper with the business man to determine exactly how the recession hit him hard, how he knew this blonde man in the first place, or what he’d do if he left the rat race. But those guys got me thinking.

An hour later, I boarded the plane.

As we ascended, I noted the ground blanketed in white snow. Squares, rectangles and L-shapes divided most of the land into some sort of box. It was, of course, a sight I’d seen before. But this time, I saw those boxes in a new light.

Perhaps we box ourselves in.

Perhaps we’ve divided up God’s land so perfectly, pristinely and professionally, we don’t even realize how boxed in our lives have become.

Could it be that we move from our boxed in home, to our boxed in car, to our boxed in workplace, to our boxed in cubicle, and then back to our boxed in home again? In our free time we go to boxed in churches, boxed in restaurants, boxed in coffee shops, boxed in museums, boxed in movie theaters and boxed in hotels. When we’re sick we go to boxed in hospitals, and when it’s time to learn we go to boxed in schools. And just about everything we do happens on some piece of square or rectangular boxed in piece of land, and we don’t even know we’re living that way until we see it from above.

Could I be exaggerating to make a point? Sure.

Of course, there are roads that wind, curve. They’re paved and they’re pretty, but they’re headed to a particular planned out destination. There are cul-de-sacs, cloverleaves, and turn-abouts, baseball diamonds, open-air football stadiums, and rough and rural areas that don’t have shape.

But really, how much of your life is spent in a box? How much of my life has been spent in a box?

Time passed. And before I knew it, I looked down and the blanket of white snow was gone. But the boxes remained. All I could see were boxes. Boxes everywhere. Big boxes, little boxes, boxes within boxes. And now, box-shaped pools.

So it’s true. This boxing in isn’t an isolated phenomenon.

I felt uncomfortable in my window seat as I tried to find the right time to take my camera out of the case and take a picture to remember this realization about our boxed in lives. Body language experts claim you exhibit insecurity when you rest your hand on your neck. Ya. My left hand was all over my neck, my right hand all over the camera as I brought it up just long enough to capture these boxes a little closer.

As I sat eating Chick-Fil-A, waiting for my connecting flight to Miami, I found myself uncomfortable, insecure again. There I sat in my sweatshirt, black jeans, white socks, and old black tennis shoes I haven’t worn for a couple years. A woman sat down next to me. Her outfit sparkled and it was classy and she was put together. I felt like a frump and knew on any other trip than this one to Haiti, I’d be dressed much more like her. And in that moment, I became painfully aware of how much I care about my appearance.

Ya. Appearances. My safe little box. I do care what I look like. And I want it to appear, to you, that I’m doing the right thing, making the right decision, behaving the way I should. I don’t want to appear as if I’m stepping out of my safe little box. If I suddenly disappear and appear outside of my safe little box, what will you say?

But you know what I had to realize? I am stepping out of my safe little box.

This sweatshirt and black jeans (they’re sparkled on the butt, by the way), and the white socks with the black tennis shoes? So horrible. It’s kind of geeky. And I’d never wear this anywhere important in real life.

But this is my real life. And it’s important, really important. And I’m still me. In fact, it’s possible this trip to Haiti might force me to be and become me more than I’ve ever been before.

The seat belts in the shuttle squeaked loudly on the way to the hotel. The woman in front of me grabbed her seatbelt and pulled it tight. I let mine squeak.

It was Saturday afternoon, but Miami traffic was painfully slow. The driver shared with us – there’d been a big accident. Two fatalities.

And I couldn’t help but think about the blonde golfer guy and the dark-haired professional. It hit home for me and all of us, really. If you were to die today, would you die in the box or out of the box? Do you find yourself trapped in the Americanized rat race of ought to, should, totally could? Or do you secretly long to jump out of the box, running wild and free after God’s unique dream for you?

As for me? I choose, in faith, to step out.

Amy

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

There’s a quiet here, in this waiting before the story.

It’s a feeling I’ve had before.

This waiting, nesting, preparing, quieting the spirit and mind before birth, before the arrival of new life, it’s familiar.

I wonder – what’s the purpose?

I know – there’s a purpose.

I believe – He has a plan.

I dream – it’ll make perfect sense.

I trust – believing He’s prepared the way.

I rest – knowing He’s called.

This story and that story, they’ll be my best.

My heart’s prepared to do its work.

My eye’s prepared to see.

To go, to let go, it’s all He wants now.

So I surrender to the call.

I pack.

I prepare.

And I wait.

I quiet.

It’s the quiet before the story.

New birth, for me.

Amy

I will lead the blind by ways they have not known, along unfamiliar paths I will guide them; I will turn the darkness into light before them and make the rough places smooth. These are the things I will do; I will not forsake them.  Isaiah 42:16

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

I found them hidden away, in a dusty old lockbox that hadn’t been opened for years. I knew they were somewhere, but I had no idea where. A month-long clean out of my closet revealed great treasures, among them, five diaries I’d kept from 7th through 12th grade.

Long before Facebook or Twitter, long before any blogging platform was conceived, there were these old fashioned things called diaries where crazy sentimental people documented every day events. Their deepest, darkest thoughts and feelings were revealed in the forever locked-up recesses of pages for no one to view but themselves. Ya, believe it or not, I was one of those crazy diary keepers.

I didn’t read every word of those five diaries. That would take a day or two. But I learned a lot about myself from what I did read. So how would I summarize my discoveries? The person I am today is fundamentally the same person I was 20-30 years ago. When I step back and make broad sweeping generalizations, it’s pretty remarkable how much I HAVEN’T changed. And it’s phenomenal to see how my past reflected my present.

Curious? Here’s what I found…

So ya, let’s just get that out there. I’ve always been an overachiever, striving to do my personal best. I have to ask myself, why would a 7th grader feel the need to document her grades in her diary if it weren’t internally driven? My only answer is, it’s just who I am, I guess. I want to do well, I’ve always wanted to do well, so be it. Looks like I’ll have to accept that as something that was in me from the start.

I’ve always been detail oriented. In this entry, which I vividly recall keeping for weeks, maybe months, I documented every single shirt a boy-crush of mine owned. What was the point of documenting every single shirt a human being owned, I’m not sure except pure teenage infatuation. The only other explanation is that I am and always have been a detail oriented person. I notice everything, and my brain documents it all, whether I write it down or not. Yep, edging on obsessive, that’s the real, hard truth of who I am.

I like to share my insights, if nothing else for my future self to remember and reflect on. There’s something about the way my brain was wired from the start – I make observations about life, and then I write them down for future reference. In this case, hey, maybe that advice from my teenage self will become valuable four years from now?!

Apparently, I’ve always needed an outlet for processing and documenting my days. The simplicity of this entry tells it all. (And no, I have no idea what the 3 days refers to! Apparently it was important.)

These emotionally charged entries really got me. While the details of what I’d say today would be different, the general feeling is still the same. Ya, still wish people would say what they really think. Ya, still wish people would stop putting off all the things they should do today instead of tomorrow. Yep, still hate it when people are judged by their cover. And yep, still believe the world would be a much better place if people accepted themselves and one another for who they truly are.

This was a power packed page! Where to start? Let’s just forget that first paragraph – complicated, awkward?! And did you note the number one New Year’s resolution from that year? “To be myself (which covers a lot).” Um. Ya. Didn’t I just kick off this month, January 2014, indicating that same desire (re-read When Becoming Yourself Means More Than Just  Bit of Bling)? Maybe it’s time I actually met that goal! And what about the “I really want to be friendly to everybody and make them feel their best. Not that I didn’t do that before, but I really want to do it now.” Interesting. For some reason, this sentence stopped me dead in my tracks when I read it the first time. It tells me there’s something about the way God made me that makes me want to help others feel their best, help them see what’s unique and beautiful about themselves. It’s part of the big-picture goal for my work here on the blog.

OK. I’m a little embarrassed to share this one because it’s a little high and mighty, as if I’m SOOOO beyond high school I can’t stand it. But it provides insight into something I’ve felt most of my grown up life, and that is, I’ve always felt much older than my real age (and LOOKED much younger than my real age). My mom recently reminded me I was walking by 9 months and completely potty trained by 18 months. So I’ve battled this “old soul” feeling for a long time. Perhaps I’ve been given this old soul for a reason?

Fascinating. This is probably the most eye opening diary entry I read. My blog vision page is due for a MAJOR re-vamp, but if you read it as-is today, you will discover the basic vision for this blog is what I wrote in my diary entry 20 years ago. Now if that isn’t telling of God’s working over time in one individual’s heart, I don’t know what is. Why did I have such a strong desire to write that article about lonely, separated, ignored people? I have absolutely no recollection. And why, today, would I state the main purpose of my blog is to provide a voice for people and stories that would otherwise go unheard, untold? These are the little things that make me believe God is real, His desires for my life, unwavering.

So thank you for joining me on this scavenger hunt of a diary discovery! It was a little random, a little kooky, and a little unexpected, but I’m hoping it was as interesting for you as it was fun for me. If you were one of those crazy diary keepers back when, maybe you, too, will take a second look at the words you kept secret. I pray you’ll find hidden treasures that’ll help uncover more of the real you.

Amy

Four days turned into 11 days of the most peace and joy I’d experienced in a long, long time.

But inevitably, things went south on day 12.

It’s not like day 12 came and BAM, everything was bad. That would definitely be exaggerating! Reality was, not-so-fun things kept popping up one after the other, and all combined together, they set me back more than I would have guessed.

On Wednesday, I got a flat tire. The baby was with me, it was 1 degree outside, and since I didn’t know how to install a spare, I had to wait 1 hour and 40 minutes for a tow truck to bring me to the tire station.

On Thursday, my husband left for a 4-day business trip after having already worked 7 weeks straight like a MAD MAN.

On Thursday night, baby was up nearly all night long with a cough and runny nose, crying her eyes out next to me in bed.

On Friday night, I found crusty, dried-up yellow stuff in baby’s ear.

On Saturday, I gave baby a bath only to discover blood and puss coming out of that same ear as I was drying her. A double ear infection is what she had, one of the eardrums ruptured.

On Sunday, I woke up at 5:15 a.m. to get myself and three kids ready to leave the house by 6:20 a.m. to get to a 5th grade boys basketball tournament one hour away by 7:30 a.m. Games 1 and 2 were fine, manageable, tolerable. By game 3, ya, baby and I were on the verge of losing it. The mobile phone car charger we’d bought cheap on eBay wasn’t working. Without GPS, I took the least efficient route home, making it a 1 hour 20-minute drive through snow-blustery winds. And oh ya, I forgot, I’d officially become sick, so everything about me was wearing thin.

On Monday, school was called off for the 4th day this winter due to dangerously cold temperatures, and school was already called off again for Tuesday. All three kids were at home, all day, inside, with nothing to do, and I was sick and completely worn out.

After the two oldest had gotten in a fight, chasing each other around the house yelling stuff and grabbing at each other continuously, I yelled from the couch “STOP IT! YOU NEED TO STOP IT NOW, OR YOU’RE GOING DOWNSTAIRS TO FIGHT BY YOURSELVES! I DON’T FEEL WELL. YOU NEED TO BE QUIET RIGHT NOW!”

Where the Wild Things Are played in the background. Ya, it was pretty much just me watching the movie at that point. Baby was sleeping and the Wild Things were, well, being Wild Things.

They calmed down and I continued my on again, off again watching of the movie while trying to get a little much needed rest.

A half hour later, my daughter approached with a box of tea I’d purchased while life was feeling more peaceful and joyful. “Can I make you some tea, mom? It’s for stress and tension.” (Ya, I knew I’d need that sooner or later.) “Yes,” I said. “That would be awesome. Thank you for being so thoughtful.”

I continued to lie on the couch, all snuggled in tight with the last afghan ever knit by my late grandmother, and waited for my tea.

A couple minutes later, after a little direction from a distance, she arrived with the cup I needed more desperately than I knew. I took the cup, tested a sip, and gave that Wild Thing a big hug. “Thank you, that was so kind. You’re such a sweet girl.”

She let me rest in quiet while I drank.

The Wild Things agreed amongst themselves “Mom’s stressed today.” I explained, “it’s not so much stress as it is I’m not feeling well at all, and I really need some rest and quiet.”

Husband was home from his business trip, and I’d planned on isolating myself in the bedroom all night long when he got home from work. I’d planned on making myself a cup of that tea, but realized – receiving that cup as a heart-felt gift from my daughter was much more fulfilling than serving it up to myself.

When daddy came home and I was once again on the couch, he knew “If mom’s on the couch, that means she’s really not feeling well.” So I let him take all three kids to McDonalds. The Wild Thing that gave me tea took my order on a cartoon notepad before she left. Grilled chicken sandwich. Fries. Diet Dr. Pepper.

I got myself a hot shower, lay down in bed under the big fuzzy blanket, and waited in peace and silence until they came back home.

McDonalds was accompanied by the Bachelor wedding of Sean and Catherine, which was followed by another cup of hot tea delivered by the Wild Thing that was.

I glanced again at the tag attached to the tea bag.

The power of love is infinite.

When she delivered the tea, I’d told her this Bachelor wasn’t appropriate for kids, that she needed to go downstairs and spend some time with daddy. But she came back an hour later, “I just wanna spend some time with you.” “Lie down,” I said. “Lie down right here next to me.”

The cares of the day washed away in the moments before she fell asleep. It was in the slowing down, the caring for one another, the receiving of gifts unexpected, where peace and joy were found again.

Amy