Returning home from Haiti I feel unearthed. Again. This whole movement of life... the trips, the country, the people... it's all turning into one huge excavation site of love. It's beautiful, and a wreck. Even as we lost our girl's life in a car wreck, so our lives are being lost in a wreck of love. The wildness of loss, at times, completely envelops. It crashes up and around us like the waves crashing the Haitian shoreline.
We walk the foam littered
With hope and grief,
Longing, and aching.
We're not a solution in Haiti. At best, we're a sign. Feint. Barely visible. Where does the sign point? I think (but who can say exactly) toward more longing. The longing pulls. Always. We're never removed from its incessant knocking, sometimes gentle, sometimes fisted, and throbbing. It impels us to move. Forward. Into more.
The longing filled only within a deeper longing.
The ache healed only from a greater ache.
The loss resolved only by a more wild loss.
We are being unearthed, yet healed. All things are being made new, not in spite of, but because of the wreck. Love didn't come to condemn the world, it came to wreck the world.