I'd like to tell you a little bit about this picture. It was taken in February during the Carnival holiday weekend in a seaside town called Au Cayes on Haiti's south coast. Au Cayes has an iconic boardwalk in Gelée - where dozens of stalls offer delicious grilled seafood.

Popping colors, ocean breeze, and buttery fish and lobster - what's not to like? This was day 3 of our 5-day Haiti beach excursion, which included uncovering faraway beaches of Jeremie and dipping in the blue and sunset-purple waters of Port Salut, exploring caves, and swimming near cool waterfalls. But I digress...

My sharing this photo isn't really about the setting, or the auspicious weekend it recalls, but about the people it features: Kurt and Wilda Hildebrand (and yes that's me too; "hi, me!") Kurt and Wilda have been MCC Haiti's co-representatives since 2011, and Kurt's service with MCC Haiti goes back to 2006. This week, however, marks the end of their terms.

In the span of Kurt's 10-year and Wilda's 5-year service with MCC, my and Ted's year-and-9 month overlap with them could be seen as fairly brief and inconsequential. However, the truth remains that we are losing two key figures that have shaped so much of our service with MCC in Haiti thus far.

Kurt and Wilda have been our primary guides and interpreters of Haitian culture; they have provided much insight into community development and partner relationships in Haiti: endless stories, anecdotes, and good humor that have softened many-a-bewildering moment for us here. Their daughter, Akila, has been a joy to watch as she grows; she loves her world, and she loves to dance.

I'm starting to see that transition is a large part of serving with MCC. Service workers generally come in on a 3-year term. As people rarely start their terms at the same time, each year has the potential for some coming-and-going of team members. In our less-than-two years here, we have said good-bye to 3 service workers (after this week, 5), and two national staff. The frequency of the transitions, however, does not make them "easy," but I don't suppose transitions are ever supposed to be "easy."

Maybe transition is felt harder here because, as a service worker, your social networks are so much smaller than those you have back home. Or maybe it's just a good sign that you generally like the people you are working with. These experiences abroad are so formative, can be so challenging, that you hate to bid your fellow-journeyers farewell. 

Yet, Ted and I were part of a transition when we arrived here, and we will initiate another one when we leave. C'est la vie as Haitians would say. It's hard for me to imagine the numbers of international volunteers that some of our national staff have seen come-and-go over the years.

Yet Kurt's long service with MCC Haiti is a rarity in the development field, and the appreciation felt for he and Wilda's combined dedication and passion was duly expressed at a farewell party for them today (though, they did make us curb the sentimental speeches and offerings of gratitude.)

Great things come in transitions, but the need to acknowledge and grieve the loss is there all the same. 

A beautiful portrait done by our pastor, Corrigan, at MCC's request,
 as a parting gift to the Hildebrands.

* Looking at this post title, you probably think I made some goofy spelling errors, but this is actually Haitian Creole for "transition." Read it out loud - tranzisyon - the exact way it is spelled, and you will be speaking Haiti's native tongue! (Also, you are pretty close to speaking French for the same word.)

A few key messages from God

A time for lament. The time leading up to my week at Duke's Center for Reconciliation was difficult for me, as I was still reeling from a shooting that happened on our block just a few weeks before. As a witness to the shooting (in which no one was, thankfully, hurt), I experienced shock, numbness, and confusion for some time. As I boarded the plane for Durham, I felt worn and tired from trying to process the hard questions that I needed to ask, like: what am I doing here? What does God want to show me through this? I felt deeply burdened by the hardships faced by residents on my block.

When I applied for the conference two months prior, I had thought that the time would be one of vision-casting and receiving direction for my life, as it pertained to the pursuit of God's heart for reconciliation. I was excited and expectant at the connections and plans God would lay. Instead, I found myself acknowledging after the first day's sessions that I felt completely burnt out.  Oh no!

Has that ever happened to you? You enter something new with expectations that sparks will fly and that God will speak something so clearly and directly, that all of a sudden the different pieces that He has been moving in your heart and mind will click into one, clear Word from Him, but then, nothing tangible seems to materialize?

In hindsight, I can see that what did happen at Duke far outweighed my expectations. God did speak clearly to me, but in my cloud of mixed desires and expectations, it was difficult to discern.

Of all the themes explored at the conference, the dominant message for me came from day two, where we explored the meaning of Lament. Rev. Sarah Jobe, a prison chaplain, shared how her daily experiences of overwhelming sorrow and darkness threaten to make her heart hard. Lament is the antidote to a hardened, calloused heart, but it requires an intentional choice to keep our hearts soft toward God. It requires space to weep, mourn, and pray. At the other end of lament, we do experience hope, and resurrection.


This statue on Duke's campus called "Reconciliation: The Parable of the Prodigal Son" demonstrates both the hardened and the softened heart before God. The prodigal son, though he spurned his Father's name and ran off in disobedience, came back weeping and asking for forgiveness (pictured here). I spent a lot of time studying this statue one morning.

But the older son, despite the Father's pleading, stands with his arms crossed, remaining hardhearted towards them both. He, like his Father, had been hurt by the younger brother, but he held onto that hurt instead of opening himself to grace and compassion which come from above. As I gazed upon the statue, I didn't label myself as one son over the one, but I could see both of them in myself, and I knew that the message that morning about having a "soft heart" was for me.

God invited me into His presence that week, through quiet time, and through the compassionate ears of a few key people. As I look back at it now, I think I was being called to just kneel and lament in His presence, much like the younger brother in this statue, and to receive grace for myself. I didn't need to "figure out" what God was doing or where He was taking me in terms of my spiritual direction. I just needed to be.

Gorgeous spaces for reflection at Duke