Even so, come, Lord Jesus

I scan news sources every morning looking for any new information on Haiti. These days the headlines read of the proposed UN deployment of troops to help the country fight the numerous gangs which now control the capital and beyond.

Here in Haiti there is much conversation about what's transpiring and what the future will bring. People are afraid of what will happen if no "help" comes. People are afraid of what the "help" will bring.

Driving by another refugee camp yesterday - one that has grown over the weekend - I was reminded that simply having breath in one's lungs does not mean they are alive.

Watching hundreds of people stand in line at the bank yesterday hoping they might withdraw a little cash - perhaps the bank will be generous today and allow the equivalent of $20 US to be withdrawn? - I found myself with tears in my eyes that I thought I was no longer capable of shedding.

I realized yesterday automatic gunfire has become background noise, like the sound of the roosters or the barking of dogs through the night. It no longer disturbs us. We only turn our heads to a pop-pop-pop that sounds closer than usual.

We can speak of Haiti in theory. We can speak of Haiti in analytical terms. The world can speak of Haiti from a distance.

But this morning, as I prepare for church here in Port au Prince, I'm praying over the individual faces, the individual stories, the individual lives that are struggling to find hope day-by-day. And all I can pray is, "Even so, come, Lord Jesus."

This is my friend, Anora. I had the privilege to sit with him for a few minutes yesterday. He is now past 80 years of age, a milestone very few Haitians see. Anora knows a different Haiti, a Haiti that today’s generation has never seen.

But I know he remembers that Haiti of long ago.

And I ask myself this question: “Will he see even a glimpse of the country of his childhood before he meets Jesus?”