“Not far.”
“Not long.”
During the times I ministered in Haiti, I heard those two expressions more times than I could count. At first, I assumed they meant the same thing they meant at home.
I quickly learned otherwise.
When I asked how far we needed to walk to reach a church or town, the answer always came back the same.
“Not far.”
After walking several miles under the Haitian sun, I would ask again.
“Not far.”
“Not long” worked much the same way. I might ask how long before we left or when something would begin.
“Not long.”
I soon learned that “not long” could consume a significant portion of my day.
The distance rarely bothered me. I was much younger then and a runner. I could walk another few miles without much trouble.
Time frustrated me more. I wanted to know when we would leave and how long the trip would take. I wanted to plan my day and control my time.
Haiti didn’t always cooperate.
Most of the locals couldn’t afford to own a car. They walked or traveled by tap tap, the brightly painted trucks and vans that carried passengers from place to place. A tap tap didn’t leave because a schedule said it should. It left when enough passengers paid for a seat.
Even church followed a different clock. An evening service didn’t necessarily begin at 7:00. It began at dark o’clock. Whatever time that was.
My Haitian friends measured life differently. I came from a culture of clocks and yards. Haiti is a society of sunlight and destinations.
Eventually, I stopped trying to translate their answers into mine. Someone would tell me the destination wasn’t far, and I learned to accept “not far.” If something hadn’t happened yet, “not long” became enough.
Something changed when I could ask the question and answer it with them.
“How far?”
“Not far.”
“How long?”
“Not long.”
Today I know Haitians who live in the United States. When one of those questions comes up, we sometimes give the old answer together and laugh.
“Not far.”
“Not long.”
The distance didn’t change, nor did the clock move any faster. My expectations changed.
That lesson followed me home from Haiti. I discovered how easily expectations create frustration in our relationship with God. We pray and start watching the clock. God calls us somewhere, and we start measuring the distance. Then, when the journey takes longer than we expect, we start looking for ways to hurry it along.
When God doesn’t follow the schedule we imagined, frustration pushes peace aside and tempts us to take control.
Samuel anointed David while he still tended his father’s sheep, but David didn’t become king the next day. Years passed before he sat on the throne. He couldn’t know how long he would wait for God to fulfill His promise.
Yet David wrote, “Wait on the LORD; Be of good courage, And He shall strengthen your heart; Wait, I say, on the LORD!” (Psalm 27:14, NKJV).
David didn’t stop living while he waited. He continued doing what God placed before him and trusted God with the timing.
We don’t need to know how much farther the road stretches or how long the journey will take. Our expectations don’t define God’s reality. We can trust Him with what we can’t control and find peace while we wait.
How far?
Not far.
How long?
Not long.
I learned to live with those answers in Haiti. I’m still learning to trust God the same way.
About the Author
David Johnson is the co-founder and Director of Ministry at Laurel Mountain Ministries. He is an ordained minister, retired attorney, Bible teacher, and author who enjoys helping people discover God’s truth through practical Bible study. His latest book, PEACEMAKER: A Twelve Session Journey into the Heart of God’s Peace, is available on Amazon.
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