I feel tears run uncontrollably down my face as I sit back-to-back against our tuk-tuk driver while we weave through the crazy Cambodian traffic. Mopeds crowd around us and curious faces stare at me unabashed as I try and grasp that this might be one of the last days of my race—over 3 months too soon. I had just opened a manilla envelope in a tiny Cambodian clinic that held my x-ray of my foot and even though I have no medical training, I knew what I saw could only mean surgery. I had been told it would heal and been crutching around for over a month and was expecting to get the doctor’s okay to start walking again. Instead, I got a ticket home to the States.
He’s from Yemen and is a Muslim; I should have guessed the Muslim part from his beard because it’s a really great beard. We talk about God happily for a long time even though we are of two different religions and we ask each other a lot of questions about why the other believes what we do. He is very nice and helps me get my crutches whenever I have to get up on the long, Pacific flight. He is going to California and shows me where the mountains meet the beach and the ocean as we start to descend and will soon land in America.
I’m sitting in a silly gown with my leg marked in purple marker and an IV stuck in my hand. It feels weird to have my foot free from the sweaty boot I have had on for so long and I don’t like looking at my injured foot; it doesn’t look right. “We’re ready for you!” a cheery nurse says and wheels me away to the operating room. I’m asked to hop over the the cold, stainless steel operating table and I pull myself up and lay down. I exchange friendly banter with the anesthesiologist until everything stops.
It’s night, but I can’t tell what time it is anymore because my mind is fuzzy and I sleep a lot. There’s so much pain and it takes me a moment to even remember why, but then I remember the surgery and being in and out of the ER because of drug reactions. Lots of concerned strangers’ faces, needles, and tubes. I turn over and my face is at the window and it is dark out. I can see the clear, black sky with a billion stars and the greenish glow of the northern lights at the horizon over the tree line. “Home is good,” I think and I fall back asleep to the hum of the fall insect sounds.
She’s a little copy of my sister with big eyes and a pouty mouth and I hold her close and study her as she studies me with a serious face. This little 6 month old human is my niece and shares my blood, but I haven’t met her until now. When I left she was just an anticipation, but now here she is holding my finger and sitting up with a voice and a personality. I am filled with happiness at getting to share this moment with her earlier than I had hoped.
There’s so many warm embraces from people I left behind. They have missed me and lives have changed; moves, marriages, pregnancies, graduations, and new seasons abound! We talk and talk trying to figure out how to catch each other up after such a long time and we laugh about silly things and spill the serious as well. I have missed my people and am excited to feel the familiar comfort of family and friendships that have lasted all the transitions.
Driving in a car, real internet, tacos, a warm kitty at your feet, a closet full of clothing options, movies that I haven’t watched a hundred times, my favorite corner booth in my hometown coffee shop, my abundance of art materials, a soft bed, and normal hygiene routines. These are the things I was looking forward to about getting home and they are pretty much just as glorious as I imagined. The simple freedom of independence and the option of a peaceful place that is silent are newfound gifts I will never take for granted again.
And finally, I miss them- I miss them so much. “You can’t travel in this condition,” the surgeon said, “it would be crazy and you could risk never healing.” I was expecting this, but all I can think of is a hodgepodge of strangers I met in Georgia who all traveled the world with me for Jesus and quickly became my family. I think of saying goodbye to them as they all piled onto a bus that would take them to Vietnam— a bus that would leave me behind so a plane could take me home. So many tears both happy and sad as I hug people who were beside me through so much; who changed me as a person and a Christian, and who I got to see radically grow too. Hugs, and faces, and prayers, and others wiping my tears and whispering truth into my ear as they hold me. It was beautiful, and perfect, and so, so hard. It was also my last goodbye— I am no longer a World Racer.
Lately, my life has felt this way: broken up little scenes that hold so much substance in a tiny space. There has been incredible moments, confusing moments, painful moments, dark moments, celebrations, laughter, loneliness, joy, and everything in between. I always thought that the change of seasons would hint before the big switch like the colored leaves and crisp breezes that usher in fall, but it turns out that sometimes it’s more of a light switch kind of a deal. It was a big surprise to me, but not to God— He knew of this the first time I even heard of the Race. And yet He still called me, guided me, changed me, used me, and provided for me because His plan doesn’t usually fit into the limits we humans like to use such as time.
God told me that my race wasn’t ended prematurely, but that I have finished as a victor and fulfilled the goal He had set before me.
As I fill out the last of my supporter thank you cards and send out my very last e-mail newsletters, it’s been so weird to watch this chapter flip closed in a very unexpected way. A wise woman recently said that as Racers we are constantly asked to let go of any expectations we have, but one expectation we forget about is that this will be an 11 month trip. This year I have learned the lesson of letting go of what I want or the plan I have in favor of what the Lord has for me. I’ve learned that He can use me in any ministry, in any city, on any team, and in any role if it is His will. If I give him that tiny mustard seed of faith, He will grow it into something so grand and beautiful that points straight towards His love and glory.
I think now I’m learning to let go of things I love and give them to God, knowing that He has something better in store that I will love even more because God always gives good gifts.
