The longer I let it sit the more antsy and uncomfortable I become.
It’s simmering under the lid I’ve kept on tight and it’s threatening to bubble over.
These writers and friends and strangers, too, they up and left for Haiti. The first pictures to hit Instagram found me crying in bed when I should have been getting ready for class, ready for the day ahead.
All I could do was close my eyes and go back. The purples of my eyelids become the brown dirt roads and hills barren of trees. The bright white smiles against dark skin shine bright and when I open my eyes I’m back in a place where it’s comfortable to be comfortable and yet I’m right in this middle ground, caught between the two.
If you spill glue on your hand as you paint or create, it smears white every which way.
But when it hardens, the glue is easier to peel off.
I’ve been letting it sit and soak and cover like a callus and it’s time to rip off the bandaid and rip off the glue.
The glue that seems to be holding me together is really holding the stories deep inside.
I’m ripping and tearing and my heart is splitting, but what the glue held together it also held back.
It comes spilling and seeping and pouring out and the words catch the page and my fingertips catch the tears and Jesus catches me in a downward spiral of pieces and pieces of stories and sights and sounds and smells.
I don’t know when, but Haiti lodged herself into my heart and she hasn’t let go.
It’s been four weeks since I began the journey, three weeks since arriving back in the states.
I miss it every day. I’m overcome with it. But.
It’s time. It’s time to remember. It’s time to speak. It’s time to share.
It’s time to let the Body be the glue that holds us together.
It’s time to let in and let out and let shine what only He can sign His name to.
Tonight we’re writing on GLUE over at Lisa Jo Baker’s. Just five minutes of writing, no editing allowed, and then we get brave and click publish.