rocks. anger. and a different pair of eyes.

I threw the large rock into the sea, angry. Well, not threw, hurled. As if I could throw away all the pain I had seen these past weeks. Maybe, it too would get carried away by the waters.

I continued walking the long stretch of beach, toes crunching on the sand. I’d been sitting, standing, walking, then repeating that whole cycle for some time now trying to process my thoughts. Anger and compassion are difficult to reconcile. I couldn’t quiet the murmurs of my heart. Nor could I stop the tears tracing my wind and salt stained face. They made little rivers on my cheeks. Maybe, the little rivers could carry away all the pain. Maybe, but I doubt it.

I found a broken piece of concrete half buried by high tide and sat down. An appropriate symbol for this broken country – made mostly of concrete, dirt, and sky. I sat and wept. I wept for these people, this land, and the wounds you saw open and bleeding everywhere you looked. You saw the pain in the mother at the market trying to feed her four children; in the old man with the machete carrying today’s meager crop; in the dogs and donkeys, the pigs and pidgins with glazed, hungry eyes. They are roaming. Roaming… that is a word for this place. People roam here They don’t quite belong. Belonging constitutes safety, food, family. Roaming is more like scavenging or surviving. The land is roamed over, picked dry by tired, worn brown hands. And yet… somehow in the midst of the roaming there is home… there are moments of laughter, echoes of singing, and pairs of sparkling eyes. That is what most of my tears are for - - the beauty of this broken land- for what was and what could be again. No these people don’t belong to this land… they don’t belong among the ruins.

I couldn’t quit the tears. I’d been though this country and now this country was going through me. Over and over. Scenes, sounds, smells, sights…. Rushing and tumbling just like the waves. Fierce, painful – fresh and raw.

With my tears I had only one thought… how can I ever go home? Home to the land of the Free and the Brave , home to the land of plenty, home to the calluses that were sure to follow. It would be impossible to bleed or to weep like this forever. I fear that the calluses will come and maybe I’ll forget. . . how do I go home? I must, you know. I cannot stay here forever.

How do I explain all of this to you? How can your eyes see through mine? How can I show you the hunger and pain of these people? I don’t fully understand it myself. I’m not sure if I ever will… but I know I will weep for them. I will be different. And I too will see with different eyes, with their eyes… I will look with the eyes of the hungry, of the dying, of the desperate. I will look across the ruins…

And what to make of God amongst all of this pain…. That’s the reason I hurled the rock, angry… not at Him, but at the brokenness this world has… how this place is not in solidarity in its suffering, humanity is a brotherhood in that. There are millions dying, millions hungry. Angry - because there is so much that needs to be rebuilt. Ruins that need to be restored. There IS beauty in this tragedy and a home among the ashes. Angry – because at 23 I see this burden and don’t know what do to with it. I want to change it all. Angry – because I know I can’t.

I stand back up and run to the water’s edge. I dive in, fast. I swim the length of the beach in hard strokes. I want to leave it behind. I’m frustrated that I cannot change the world -arm over arm, breath by breath, heart pounding- But that doesn’t mean I won’t try.

After all, the One who made the Ocean I am swimming in, the One who made the rock I threw, the One who has walked the path of desperation, hunger, shame, and loss Himself … the One who bled - - He promises beauty for ashes and to be the place we call home.

** pictures are from our excursion to the mountains near Port-au-Prince **