Five days until Haiti.

A raging case of nerves has kicked in, which happens right before every trip I’ve taken like this. I’m thinking things like “What can I possibly do to make a difference in a little over a week?” and “What if my selfish nature rears it’s ugly head and I don’t feel like serving?” and “Is it arrogance to leave comfort for a week knowing I’ll quickly return and leave the reality of poverty behind again?”

There’s a sickening tension in all this, and I don’t think I’m supposed to relieve it. I’m uncomfortable. I need to live with it, allow the tension to camp out in my gut and keep me wrestling with the all the implications. I don’t want this trip to be poverty window-shopping. I don’t want this to be more thinly-veiled self-absorption or a glorified vacation. I simply want those I meet –in Haiti or Denver–to know they’re loved and worth the world, according to the God who has their names written on His palm.

But who am I to be the messenger? I’m coming off one of the toughest seasons of my life. I’ve messed up in more ways than I can count. I may have a house and enough food in the pantry to feed a small country, but I’m poor with nothing to offer but my own poverty of heart and a belief that there is a God in heaven who loves more deeply and forgives more completely than I will ever be able to replicate or understand.

I hope my nothing is enough.

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