This morning we drove to the grocery store. As you can imagine, it is not a good idea for us to walk, since that would mean walking back carrying groceries in a nation of hunger. Denny, amazing Denny, offered to drive us to Eagle, which just re-opened. The store already smelled usually, most strongly in the fish section. Today, there was no fish (or any meat outside of cans), but the whole store smelled very strongly, suggesting that things are going bad, quickly. There were a lot of empty spaces on the shelves. Not sure what the re-supply situation is.
Ben and I have this recurring conversation in grocery stores because I am, unfortunately, extremely cheap. I say obnoxious things like "is that the best use of money?" (unless, let's be honest, it's something I really want, like Toblerone). Poor guy. We got to the wine aisle this morning in Eagle and Ben asked if I wanted a bottle. I have a very limited taste for wine (much to the disappointment of our more vine-wise dear friends), so I only buy things I've had before and liked. Ben pointed out a few things while I scanned, looking for a label I recognized. I finally did see one I love, and Ben grabbed it. Then I saw the sticker- this bottle is usually about $7 US, but my quick Gourde-math told me it was $10 or $11 here. I protested to Ben, but he turned his full face toward me and said with complete earnestness and kindness:
"Katie, we are still alive. Buy the bottle."
It stopped me in my tracks. He was right.
I think B and I have skipped that whole discussion. We. are. alive. It wasn't a foregone conclusion. Buildings collapsed all over, pancaking people of every color and nation and age. We could have died. I don't think I've really absorbed that fact. Or adequately thanked God. The other night Jamie and Bearded Tony and I went to dinner at Corrigan's (other young teachers here) house, and he was telling me that the night of the quake some Haitians slept in his living room because their house fell. He heard the father praying out loud for two hours: Thank you that my wife is safe, thank you that my kids are safe, thank you for giving us that house to begin with. Two hours of thank yous, on the night of the quake.
But that's the way every day is, really. We're always dancing on the edge of a razor, a second from death, whether we're in Haiti or perusing the aisles of Target in Dallas. Car accident, freak heart attack... it could always be next hour. So. From the bottom of my heart, thank you, Jesus, that we are alive. Thank you for sparing my husband. Thank you for keeping us alive, and with these extra days you've given, us, let us do nothing but bring you glory.
So, while listening to a John Mayer song that begins with the lyric "who says I can't get stoned", B and I have now blogged today about beer-bottling factories, wine, and Cuban cigars. Ha! What kind of missionaries are we? :) Jesus-needing ones, that's all I know.