The other
night I was tossing and turning – my mind was a whirlwind of fond memories and
future plans – 3 a.m. rolled around and I couldn’t take it anymore. I sleep in
a room with nine other girls, and multiple times it’s been said that we should
wake each other up if needed (even if it’s just because you want to cuddle.) At
first I didn’t want to bother anyone, but then I remembered how my iPod would’ve
passed away if I had never opened my mouth about it to my team. So I tiptoed
over to Anna’s bed. She had been awake sometime earlier, and she was rolling
over when I approached. “Are you awake?” I whispered. “Yeah, sure,” she said. “What’s
up?” I sat down on her bed and pulled my knees up to my chin. “My mind is going
crazy and I can’t turn it off.” She listened as I verbally processed the mumbo
jumbo in my brain, and patiently helped me sort through it all. She prayed
peace over me. I walked back to my bed, put Phil Wickam on my iPod, and fell
asleep soon after.
Well, it’s a few nights later, and again
I can’t sleep. I tried every trick I know – from imagining every single part of
my body relaxing to listening to calming music to counting sheep. I’ve learned
the best thing is to really not fight it, so I gave up the battle and started
writing in my diary. It’s 5 a.m. now, and I’ve decided to share with you what I
wrote…
I booked my plane ticket home. I’m
starting to think about the future and it’s haunting me. I’m incredibly
excited, but terribly sad for all this to be over. As much as I’ve disliked
certain aspects and time periods of the World Race, I’ve loved it all a
bajillion times more.
Everything must come to an end. The end
of my first week of summer camp as a kid left me in tears. As Mom drove farther
and farther away the harder I cried.
Dance had to end – all those years of
tights and leotards and bright red lipstick – most people don’t even know that
I used to dance, because it ended for me long ago.
That summer I spent living on the beach of Florida ended – we were college students from all over the country who wanted to make God’s name known. We worked as lifeguards and ministered to our coworkers; we befriended people on the beach and told them about Jesus. The last night we had together we spent on the roof of a storage building – we watched the sun rise over the ocean and said our goodbyes. I was the first to leave – it was the first time I cried in an airport.
The end of my first entire summer working
at camp – I could hardly imagine life without those people. When I left them
and stepped onto the escalator in the airport I began to cry. I cried all the
way through the airport and on the plane.
When my best friend Grace got married, I
knew our friendship wasn’t over, but it would never be the way it was when we
met as college freshmen. As I drove away from the reception in my bridesmaid
dress I cried so hard I could barely see the road.
There was the end of college, the end of
another summer working on the Californian mountains, the end of my two-month
stay in India. I had so desperately wanted to leave India, and spent most of my
time counting down the days. But when the hour finally came, and the Indian
girls I had only known for a few days placed their hands on me and prayed a
farewell in their language, I lost it. I cried the entire taxi ride to the
airport.
There was the end of my time in
Nashville, where I lived with five of my best friends in a house with wooden
floors. That was such a special time in my life – a beautiful transition in
which we worked part time jobs and tried to figure out grownup life – we ended
up building a huge fort in our living room and sleeping in it for a month. At
the end of July I packed my car full of Starbucks’ boxes, and we ate one last
meal together at IHOP. We hugged and said goodbye, and when I got into my car
my eyes were dry. But, as with the end of my first week of summer camp as a
child, the farther away I drove the more I began to break down.
We’ve had plenty of endings and goodbyes
on the race – when I hugged my host dad in Romania for the last time I felt
like I was really saying goodbye to my dad. In Turkey I left the family that
became like my own. I’ll never forget our last night in Mpeketoni, Kenya, when
we held hands with everyone in the church – they closed their eyes and sang the
most poignant song I’ve ever heard. The following morning, right before we
departed on our bus, the Muslim woman I had been visiting appeared at the
church. She hugged me and sobbed into my shoulder. In Tanzania, when we left
the Maasai village after only two days, I felt like I was leaving my best friends.
When we left the children’s home in the Philippines, no one spoke a word. We
climbed into the van and avoided contact as the tears fell – girls and guys
alike.
And now, in 11 days, I’ll be saying
goodbye to this journey I began 11 months ago. How do I do that? Do I shed a
few tears and call it a day? This experience has been massive – I’ve met and
fallen in love with the people of this world. I’ve become more myself than I
ever have been. I’ve stepped into an unshakable commitment with God – what He
says goes, and I’ll always give him the benefit of the doubt. I was not this
way before. I’ve lived, slept, breathed, pooped, worked, played, laughed and cried with the same 41 people – we’ve become interdependent with each other. And soon our connection – at least in a physical sense – will be broken as we disperse once again all around the United States.
What’s waiting for me in the future is
all good – a sister who moved back to the States after living abroad for two
years, my 7th month old niece whom I’ve yet to meet, our family cat
that is about to pass away. I have old friends to reconnect with and new life
stories waiting to be written.
I keep thinking about what I wrote nearly
two years ago after a number of goodbyes:
“I will remain forever torn from the old people and
places that make me who I am, and the new ones that will change me into who I’m
supposed to be.”
Welp, that’s it – that’s all I wrote. The night has ended; the sun is rising and the birds
are chirping now…the beginning of a new day.
