Yesterday was the first time I heard the words, “I forgot about him.”
Those four words have haunted me these last three years. That one day, my precious Zion, would be forgotten.
I was talking to acquaintances as Jett was being himself, interjecting hilarious side comments and fully aware he was captivating my audience. As he rode off on his bike, my neighbor noted his ability to initiate conversation with adults. I agreed and mentioned he does that almost daily with strangers and often talks about Zion.
It was casual. And I thought he knew. But as soon as I said Zion’s name, I realized… he forgot. Now, this is not to blame an individual or say they are rude or even that they should have remembered, it was just another first. The first time I felt that feeling. Forgotten.
My little boy who has changed my life forever and forever a part of my life. Forgotten.
Instead of being speechless I quickly resurrected the conversation and gave short details to jog his memory, which he suddenly spoke to remembering those 10 days. He graciously apologized to have forgotten such an important part of my life. My child.
I thought about that conversation all evening. I honestly didn’t even know how to feel. And I’m not sure I’ve even processed how each year pulls me farther and farther away from those 10 days.
But I wasn’t only feeling that for Zion. I was feeling that for everyone who has felt forgotten. God kept reminding me of the children in Haiti. Two years ago I was honored to be a part of something God was already doing. I spent a week in Haiti struggling through the language barrier, serving the village of Colladere, laughing at our dancing skills, marveling at God’s beauty, screaming at the sight of tarantulas and playing games and singing with the children.
It was more than an experience, it was a new perspective.
I remember the day we had to say goodbye. I couldn’t keep the tears from rolling down my face and puddling into my lap on the long journey home. I never wanted to forget them, their sweet faces, the friendship we had built. But more than that… I wanted them to know… they would never be forgotten.
They were precious and known and loved. I knew they had seen Americans come and go, and I didn’t want to be another face that came in with a smile and just took it back home. I wrestled with this feeling not knowing if I would ever see them again. And how they must feel.
This week, I will head back to Haiti and hug my friends once again and laugh and sing and scream at tarantulas. God has given me the opportunity and provided the way for me to join Him, where He is already working. I’ve been praying God would reunite us and let our story pick up where we left off. And that my presence would be nothing more than the evidence of God’s faithfulness. That He has not forgotten them. That He is ever present in my corner of the world, and in theirs.
I have errands to do, more packing, lots of cleaning, tons of laundry, and a to-do list that would rival any…but for some reason, I had to put all of that on pause and just sit. And pray. And let God be at work in my heart. Because I don’t have to wait for a missions trip to stop and listen to what He has to say. And neither do you. He uses my painful moments to lead me closer to Him and see His love. And He uses your moments too. If you let Him.