I’m not a runner, Lord knows, I am not a runner. I’ve never been attracted to that lifestyle. I’ve seen my sister walk through the door after an eight, nine, ten mile run, crash on the couch in the fetal position because she’s cramping so bad and then proceed to say, “That was such a good run, I feel great!” At which point I probably would have moved from my comfy spot on the couch where I’d been binge watching something on Netflix to get from the stench of body odor, fearful that her fitness nuttiness might rub off on me. But what do you know, one month into the race and I’m the fast runner on the squad.
I ran so fast through month one that Tokyo 2020 in is well within my reach. I blew past everything, never stopping to look back, only setting my sights on what lied ahead. I bulldozed my time in Lezhë at the farm, and the two, approaching three weeks, I’ve spent in the capital of Tirana are far behind me. I say things like, “It’s all happening so quickly,” and “I want it to slow down.” But I didn’t care were my feet were, stationary was uncomfortable for me, I was fearful that if I stood in one place to long that I might present God with the opportunity to actually make me reflect, so I kept running, only focused on where my feet were headed.
It wasn’t until last night, sitting in an Albanian church listening to a sermon that I didn’t understand, that I realized what I had done, or rather, the Spirit showed me what I had done. I glanced back at the warpath I had careened and I felt guilty. I left the States determined to make these next nine months, well eight now, the best months of my life so far, but the disconnect between my head and my heart left me scared, and between fight or flight, I chose flight, fast flight at that.
I woke up every morning at the farm, not excited for the work I was doing there, but the work I’d be doing here in Tirana, my motto became, “I’ll do that in Tirana.” And now that I’m here, I find myself focused on debrief in a week, sometimes the Philippines, that’s two months away.
Our ministry for the beginning of our time here in Tirana was to go out into coffee shops, stores, and community areas and build relationships with people around our age. But I couldn’t even slow down then, when I was dealing with other people, people that I knew were looking for something that I may be able to help give them. Instead I was always jumping to the next step, how do I get them to church? How do I get them to say yes to a life with Christ? I was coaching a race I wasn’t meant to be running and telling God to sit on the sidelines, that I could do this myself.
But He was patient, like He always is, He watched as I raced through my time at the farm, as I arrived in Tirana and again started running as soon as I stepped off the bus, as I left the entirety of month one in a cloud of dust behind me. He knew the time was coming when the scream of my cramping muscles would be louder than my mind telling me to keep going. It happened last night when I was sitting in church, He offered me water, and I didn’t realize how thirsty I was until I accepted it.
But four days into month two, I’m done. I quit. I refuse to run another step. I won’t let my fear of actually experiencing heartache or change or something outside of my comfort zone stop me from slowing down. Life isn’t a race, and the World Race certainly isn’t one either (the name is misleading, I know). It’s all about walking, stopping to smell the roses, retracing your steps. Steven Wright said, “Everywhere is walking distance if you have the time.” For me, the time is now, I’m going a good amount of everywhere this year, and after that, hopefully I’ll cover the rest of everywhere. And I’m not walking it alone, I’ve got a squad of 50 to keep me company, and team of seven to keep me accountable, and a God to pace me and show me the way. Tokyo 2020 will just have to wait.
