I am afraid I will forget.

It’s been almost a year since an earthquake shattered Haiti. In fact my birthday, January 12th, will be the first anniversary of the devastation, and by the time that date passes, thousands will have died from the cholera epidemic that hit the poorest country in the Western Hemisphere just one month ago.

I work for an international disaster relief organization whose people have been laboring around the clock in Haiti these ten months. Most of my work revolves around marketing, social media, and creative input in various communications projects. I make sure our supporters know what our international staff is up to and I work to gain the awareness and support of still more individuals. Haiti, though, has changed the way I think about these things.

Cholera hit nine months after the earthquake, and two weeks into the outbreak, most Americans had all but lost interest. Even now, the highest levels of response and engagement come when we report that the number of deaths and infections has risen. The statistics are always repeated and my organization is viewed as a reputable source for information. And yes, those are goals I have in my line of work. But.

But will the 200 people in the 125-bed clinic live to see tomorrow? Will the nurse be able to get IV fluids into the two-year-old girl who is so severely dehydrated that finding a vein is proving impossible? Will the man who was driven to the clinic on a motorcycle, while unconscious, ever open his eyes to see the bright Haitian sky again? Will the boy who’s playing soccer in Cite Soleil take a swig of cholera-infected water when he flops down to break from the heat?

I don’t know the answers to these questions, and to be quite honest with you, I don’t think about these questions as often as I wonder how I can use that picture of the dying child to get you to care enough to follow our updates on Facebook. Yes, it sounds shallow.

But I don’t really care about the tweets or the status updates or the number of views on YouTube. I care that there are thousands of people infected with a disease that is alarmingly preventable. I care that relief supplies are being held useless and that manipulation of last Sunday’s election could stall aid for desperate people. I care that a lot of organizations collected money in January and only a few are doing the large majority of actual work.

I care that most of you didn’t know these details, but that these facts are pushed into my face day after day; they are told beside pictures of mothers cradling their sick children, filmed by friends who’ve just returned from the clinics, spoken through the clenched teeth and tear-filled eyes of exhausted medical staff as they hydrate one more patient, sing to one more sick babe.

I care that I am at a loss for how to make America give a damn.

Since 2001, I’ve pitied people whose birthdays or anniversaries fall on the eleventh of September, a date that will forever pass in infamy in the minds of American people. I can tell you from experience, that kind of shadow will not always fall over January 12th—indeed, most people today could not name the date the ground cracked beneath an already broken land.

I am afraid I will forget. I fear that January 12th will pass for me as another year I’m single, or another year I’m not where I thought I’d be in life. I fear wishing I had a little more money in my bank account, rather than wishing I could save a few more people from death by waterborne disease.

I’m afraid I’ll never be capable of adequately conveying the urgency of this situation to a population who may not hear about it anywhere else. I’m afraid Haitians will keep on dying, and I’m afraid we could be stopping it.

Haiti Cholera Edpidemic - Urgent Appeal from Matt Powell on Vimeo.

I am young and I am clumsy.

I suddenly find myself very happy with my job. This was not expected.

I baked in my cousin’s café in Colorado after college, and I loved it. Even though I struggled in my growing up that year, the season held joy, and now I understand well the necessity of that battle for maturity. While my cinnamon rolls were rising, peace began to take root in my soul. It was right to leave that place when I did, but in the years between then and now, joy in my work has not been something I’ve experienced much.

To be frank, this town where I live is not my favorite. It’s small—which I don’t mind so much, except that most residents are college students or retirees. It’s charming, and it is lonely. However, I happily stay late at work, accomplishing more in the quiet of shared space when others have returned to their families. When I pack up my things at the conclusion of the workday, I feel satisfaction. As I walk to my car, weary of high heels by now, I am content in the freedom my night holds. I can go to the gym, stop for take-out or a movie. I could pick up a new book, or spend time at home brainstorming creative ideas for tomorrow’s day in the office. I might bake cinnamon rolls, throwing flour all over my inadequate kitchen, and leaving the dishes for the next day. I can stop over at a friend’s house, or meet someone for coffee, enjoying long stretches of conversation without care for the late hour.

I speak often of the seasonality of life, the way relationships ebb and flow with changes in circumstance, but I have failed to apply this basic life framework to my vocation. The problem is, I’ve long espoused the belief that my greatest purpose is to be a wife and mother. Regardless of what else I do before/after/during that time, I’ve believed that will be the most meaningful part of my life. Even as I have maintained that I have the right and ability to “be more” than a homemaker, I have approached my work as a way to kill some time, make some money, pay some bills. Sure, I’m decently good at what I do. I’m using gifts God gave me, but not like I will when I’m a wife and mom… at least, that’s what I’ve been telling myself.

But that’s an awfully limited perspective. As I said in my last post, I believe God is vast. I believe he puts infinite God-dreams into finite human hearts. As the meaning I find in my work has grown, so has my understanding of seasons. There is purpose in this season of work, and it speaks to bigger dreams than I’m able to imagine.

For one, I’m learning a lot about myself within my interactions with coworkers. I am humbled, often (like yesterday when I over-simplified an explanation in a pretty big-deal meeting and thus misrepresented the entire mission of one our projects…in front of its director and VP). I’m listening more. I’ve picked up on cues between rivals and discovered how to maintain peace.

Yet, I am young and I am clumsy. I misstep. I push forward. I’ve found that this season isn’t just about my own growth. I am a piece of a changing organization. I fight every single day for new approaches I believe will work—are working, even now. This moment in history is the precise turn of the clock in which my work and my attitude towards that work fit, just exactly right, into the puzzle of my company.

So my point, dear friends, is to keep your heart open. Don’t think you know everything. Don’t believe you’ve got it all figured out. We’re all in process, you see. We’re all growing and changing and showing up into stories we never expected, only to find ourselves playing roles and reading lines we hadn’t practiced. So we improvise, and the words might come out wrong, and the cadence will be off. The comic timing could be 3 seconds too late and the wardrobe might malfunction (note: leggings are not pants!), but the whole point is, you’re here. You’re on the stage of your life and you’re playing your part, however awkward. Dance to the symphony, even—and especially—when it’s not what you planned.