It…the earthquake…happened close to 4:15 on January 12, 2010. 15 days later, January 27, it was unheard of. Rescuers pulled a girl out from under the rubble. Alive. 28 days later, February 10 another person, a man, pulled out of the rubble. Alive. A testimony of God's empowerment of the Haitian human will to survive. What could that girl have been thinking for 15 days? What tribulations that man must have faced for 28 dark and painful days. Trapped. Alone. So what have I got to be afraid of? Are my fears like the rubble of Haiti? Can I too through God's empowerment of my human will hold on tight and wait to be rescued from my fears?

Right here in the rubble of my office. Waiting…rather…procrastinating. 10 years worth of fears captured in writing. Scribblings stuffed full of poetic anxieties and transparent rantings, ravings, and prayers all entangled in the keeping of two promises.

PROMISE ONE: My promise to answer God's call that was to take me to “first time” places, “first time” people, “first time” happenings, “first time” causes, "first time" choices, "first time" reasons, “first time” first times.

PROMISE TWO: God will never ever leave me or forsake me. That in itself should be enough to unearth the rubble of my fears if only I knew how to believe it. Can I, Yolantha, believe like that little girl, like that man? They are modern day proof that God will keep His promises. Can I keep mine? I know my faith is strong enough, but now with the earthquake are my expectations high enough. For example I have faith that God can heal me, but do I expect Him to?

Before it was just about me and God. All I had to do was to keep my promise of “going”. This earthquake has ruptured my promise. Calling for me to re-examine, to take stock, to take inventory. Just my deciding to go and having gone is now not enough. Now He is expecting me to tell others. Please don't ask me to do that God. The little girl from the wrong side of the tracks says, "What if I stutter?" It's all so personal.

I lay my every excuse at His feet. I was writing the journals because I had no one to talk to on the mission field. Because I do not speak French or Creole. I was writing the journals because no one understood the depth of my journey in America. I was writing the journals because I was afraid no one would believe me or take me seriously if I spoke what I witnessed. I was writing the journals for my daughters, a legacy, a voice they would have of me after I died.

I clearly heard, "And who will be the voice of the thousand upon thousands of Haitians who have died, what will their legacy be? I have empowered you for 10 years now to speak for them. Your daughters still have you. Who will the people of the rubble have? Yolantha, for Me too, it's personal."

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