Today, I played basketball with my new friend Som. I beat him twice and I felt all sorts of proud.
Then, I thought of Chantai who was inside.
And Liv who is hours away.
And I wished they were on the court with me. I thought of how I would’ve lost if they were.
Hard lost.
And I smiled and laughed to myself.
Because I’d rather lose to Liv and Chantai and get to be with them. Right next to them. Than beat Som.
I wonder if my competitive friends would feel the same way.
When I was growing up, I was always involved in some form of Athletics or another. I started off in ballet, moved up the ranks to bitty basketball, on to volleyball and softball, took a detour over to tennis, then cheerleading, and found my way back to basketball, sprinkled with some sand volleyball.
My life in sports was a happy one. I remember starting weird conversations in the back of the bus, running until I felt like I was going to pass out, and feeling a sense of pride after game nights.
I found belonging and life being on a team. And if family of origin means anything, getting a good workout in was absolutely part of my DNA.
I was never not engaged in the family of a team.
Except maybe on the court.
I remember so many times feeling like I was on the brink of something, but backing away.
Let me explain.
I remember telling my parents not to worry about coming to my games. “Go to Ryan’s game,” I said. So many times.
I remember getting better and better and then throwing it by slacking in practice. I remember being asked to take over a position and saying no.
I never processed these things back then. I never thought twice. I just laughed and moved on. I was 16.
But I was scared.
Even then.
When I got to the uncomfortable, the place that would would mean change. The place that might mean a new expectation, maybe even being better. The place where people might look.
The place that would mean more investment, being more engaged, and feeling all sorts of vulnerable, I backed away.
I didn’t want to be seen. I had a wealth of insecurities, hated my body, and never ever considered myself beautiful. Let alone “fearfully and wonderfully made.” (Psalm 139:14)
Sometimes competition, being competitive, is a way of investing self. A way of engaging. A way of giving more of you than you have in the past.
Of living life on the edge of the unfamiliar and pushing past it.
If I play with Som but don’t compete, aren’t I holding back a bit?
If I imagine Liv and Chantai here and laugh rather than get annoyed at how I suck, aren’t I stepping out of a place where I could grow? Where their greatness could rub off on me?
If I’m not a little bit frustrated at the end of a loss, didn’t I give a little less of myself?
Sure there’s a point where we hold back, because if we didn’t we might not be able to control our actions. But what about when we hold back too much? When we shoot the easy shot, stride rather than sprint, and stand back rather than grapple?
Now sure, it’s just basketball.
And I’m 31 and not about to be any sort of baller.
Maybe a bitty basketball coach someday, but you get it.
It’s the metaphor.
It’s the idea that I do this in life.
I stepped back on the basketball court when I was 16 and I step back relationally at 31.
I choose to stride rather than sprint. I smile and laugh rather than speak hard truth or create boundaries.
Lately, Jesus has been asking me to do just that.
Speak up and say that thing that everyone knows but no one is saying. Tell the person what they’re doing is causing pain. Ask for what I need and step into a space where I’m ready to receive it.
In life outside of the World Race, I have this lovely amount of space to speak truth slowly and over long periods of time. By the time I say the hard thing to someone, they usually already know it and I’m confirming what they think.
In life on the Race, you live in such close community that the hard thing is taking away from unity, bringing dark, and stifling life before you have even given words to it.
Speaking it out, in truth and love, brings release and relief.
But it also brings hurt.
And grief.
Saying the hard thing, the thing your friend or teammate can’t see, is crazy painful. Who wants to hear the way they’ve been stifling, oppressing, or hurting those around them?
Not me.
Which is why I’ve sidestepped this for far too long. I’ve invested in therapy and safe places and depth of prayer and mentorship all so that I don’t have to be the person who calls out or is called out in my intimate relationships.
Because it’s easier to hear truth in a space designed for truth rather than hear it in a space that holds…well, everything.
A relationship that is so close to you, living life everyday with you, working with you, sleeping with you, seeing every stinking, single, awful, part of you.
Truth means more when it’s spoken over all of you.
So I grapple.
I fumble.
I say the things. To others.
But yeah, to myself too.
I stride and then see my stride, get mad at myself, and try to sprint.
I spoke some truth recently.
I have this beautiful relationship with one of the girls on my team. She has crazy, raw joy and vulnerability. Just last night I told her how incredible the way she loves is. She gives so much of herself that as she toils away at love, you feel it. In relationship with her, you feel all of it. When it’s hard, you know it. And when she’s full, overflowing, it overflows onto you. Being that close to her beauty and her pain is…everything. I can feel how scary it must be for her, because I feel the fear too. I can imagine how brave it must be for her, because it requires courage for me to be in it with her.
But I found myself wanting to step back. Our relationship had reached a new level of intimacy and the boldness, the vulnerability and authenticity it required of me, it was uncomfortable and new.
And she noticed.
My heart doesn’t know this space yet.
Whew.
The pattern repeats.
I grapple.
She grappled with me.
I stride.
Here comes the sprint.
The Race is ending in 3 months, friends. THREE MONTHS.
In the way that I do, I’ve started feeling the grief before it actually consumes me. I find myself lately, stepping into the sadness of this part of my life ending.
And I’m realizing that the decision to engage intimately is similar to how it was when I was 16 and on the court.
I can smile and amicably play the game. And it’s nice. It’s fun, even.
I can convince myself that a friendly win is enough.
I can convince myself that ending the Race how I am today, coasting and having fun these next three months is enough.
After all, the way that the Father has transformed my heart these past 8 months is nothing short of a series of incredibly beautiful miracles.
But is that what Jesus would want? Is that who He is?
I don’t entirely know, but it seems to me that there was never a time in the Bible when Jesus’ investment in people, a moment, or a goal wasn’t intentional.
Jesus didn’t ever, really, choose the easiest path.
Jesus chose to be devoted to us.
So I make a choice.
To be devoted to Him.
And to invest in Him.
To be engaged with Him.
And I sprint towards the finish line.
With all of me.
