God keeps asking me to use this platform to be transparent. So. Here we go.
This past week I needed to clear some dust from my soul, so I packed my gear, grabbed a friend, and headed to Tyler State Park in the Texas piney woods for some camping and hiking.
I learned a while ago that nature is just about the only thing that can calm my heart when I begin to feel overwhelmed by anxiety. For me, it’s a step outside of my expected, artificial, routine life and into a state of nature wherein I find God in ways I can’t anywhere else.
But this trip, the biggest lesson didn’t come from the woods.
About thirty minutes outside the state park, I saw a historical marker sign and insisted we stop. It pointed down a tiny FM road that quickly transformed from asphalt to gravel and dried red clay, tapering inwards until it was only wide enough for one car to pass.
We twisted by small houses, wooded areas, and the backs of ranches where cows huddled together under trees avoiding the afternoon heat, all eventually falling away until it was just us and the road. It felt like we’d left the highway behind hours ago and sneaky anxiety slipped into my heart, asking if we had somehow made a wrong turn on the road which had no turns.
What if we pop a tire and there’s no cell service and we can’t call for help? Or maybe the road is too small for a tow truck and we’ll be stuck here. What if there’s a creepy person waiting back here and we get kidnapped and nobody would even know because we weren’t supposed to be here. What if this place doesn’t exist and I’m just driving around like an idiot in these back woods?
Then, the road emptied into a clearing at the base of a small sparsely wooded hill. A rusty chain link fence protected the cemetery that, here in the middle of the Texas wild, lay silent and peaceful and alone.
We got out of the car and approached, my heart still thrumming anxiously. I opened the gate for my friend and together we stood before the historical marker sign we’d devoted so much time to finding.
The cemetery had been established in the 1850s. It was quite small but too unique of a find for me to not want to wander through it solemnly a little bit. Many, many confederate soldiers were buried there as well as persons who passed away in the recent 2000s. As I walked the quiet grounds, I marveled at the one hundred and fifty year span of humanity that had all found themselves resting here.
As I considered this, I approached one of the older family plots, dating to the late 1800s. Four rectangular raised graves sat on the surface of the Earth. One was in poor condition, having collapsed in on itself leaving little more than a pile of rock and a sagging headstone. Most of the headstone was illegible… except for the bit written at the very top which read clear as day.
“Farewell Annie”
That’s what it said, “Farewell Annie.” The sentiment seemed so kind and honest. I thought about how this woman went to where none of her loved ones could go and of all the words in this language they could have used to send her off, they choose “Farewell Annie.” That’s all that’s left of this woman, and one day, that’s all that will be left of me. I desire so much out of this life I have been blessed with. Fear of Farewell plagues me because I want to do it all despite time constantly nipping at my heels, creating anxiety.
Right now, life keeps throwing blows at me and I am doing everything I can to keep far away from the dark hole of depression which I only managed to crawl out of a year ago and I’m living in a moment where even the good things -the Race, friendships, fundraising, and family- keep weighing me down to the point of where I’m so anxious I cannot sleep —
But, Holy Spirit whispered to me, I’m still here, today, on this side of farewell. I don’t get to know or choose when my farewell will come, but I do get to choose how to spend my time before then.
Standing at the grave of a woman named Annie, who I am sure has been long forgotten by the living, God reminded me of how far I have come, and how much further I must go. Depression and anxiety try to convince me that my farewell is something to fear, but my God tells me otherwise (Joshua 1:9, Isaiah 41:10, Psalm 94:19, Matthew 6:34, Romans 8:38-39).
God’s doing work in me early to start putting these long held anxieties to rest, as I am here at only 98 more days until launch, 45 until training camp, about to step away from everything that makes me feel comfortable. He’s got a whole dang World Race planned for me; I refuse to let fear of farewell hold me back from wholly trusting in Him.
