I realized soon after posting last week that most of my blogs lately sound a whole lot like I’m struggling constantly. I feel the need to say I’m actually in one of the best places of my life right now.
I think I’ve reached a place with vulnerability where I feel the need to express myself honestly and loudly as I’ve seen its benefits in my own life and how my vulnerability about struggle can help encourage others. Thus, I end up writing about what hurts because that’s what’s true, hard, and impactful.
So here I am today. And honestly, this week has been bliss. Sure, the insecurity pops its head up now and then, but something about being able to name it, write boldly about it, and share with my team sent that beast far away. And that’s just the thing; I wouldn’t be where I am today if not for the team I get to spend every minute of every day with.
This blog is for them, my team, the five saltiest and brightest people I know, and some of the moments I get to share with them.
~~
We’re in the village’s only café meeting with the young men who our host, Elvis, disciples. They are arm wrestling, joking around, and just generally being boys.
As a team, we’re looking for new games to teach the guys. Thumb wrestling is met with confused stares, and Bliz’s suggestion of “let’s play ninja!” is met with a monotone chorus of “no” from the rest of the team.
Then I get an idea.
“Joshua! Finger joust!” I say. He grins and we join hands, only our index fingers sticking out. The point of the game is to poke the other person with the finger so that you win while also trying not to get poked.
So, here’s where the story I tell and the story Joshua tells differ.
According to me, we start this game, and I’m jumping backwards from his obvious bigger bulk and strength. I jump back to the table and somehow a chair gets knocked over. Next thing I know, Joshua is going down for my leg and I’m trying to jump over him while my arm holding his hand is being yanked down and—
A glasses lens goes flying across the room. For a moment of panic I think it’s mine and that I’ve broken my second pair of glasses on the Race. But then Joshua looks up at me, missing his glasses and with a small bloody cut on his cheek and I am filled with laughter and regret at the same time.
According to Joshua, we started this game and I viciously jumped at him, grabbing a chair and throwing it at him. He was simply trying to duck out of the way of my vicious attack when I slapped his face, sending his glasses flying, and cutting his cheek with my finger nails.
I’ll let you decide who to believe.
Either way, we found ourselves hunched over his glasses with superglue and duct tape, headlamps on as the power cut out, trying our best to fix his glasses before we head into town that weekend and can get them properly repaired.
Joshua brings me ridiculousness. With him, I find myself reflecting on the ridiculousness of the situations we find ourselves in and the entire improbability of our current lives.
~~
The question of Truth is one that’s plagued me for a long, long time. The idea that God hands us Truth and it’s up to us to figure it out what that Truth is, how to defend it, and how to live in it and in Grace at the same time, sends my head spinning in circles.
I’ve twittered on questions of Truth and Grace’s place within it all through university and all through the Race. The conversation came to a head one day in the quiet cool of an Albanian basement after ministry.
I’m explaining my journey with Truth to my team, the frustration of my quest boiling out in my voice, questions about black versus white spilling out from inside.
My discussion is met with a moment of silence.
Then Walker, wearing his tie-dye shirt, running his hand across his scruffy beard, and looking at me with his brow furrowed, speaks.
“Why does everything in Truth have to be black and white for you? Or even in gray? Think about how much color adds to the world. Black and white aren’t always the best choices in a painting to make it what it’s most beautiful form can be. It’s the same in life and in God’s Truth. It’s not always as hard cut as that.”
At first I want to reject his comment, but soon, I can feel something splitting in my head and it’s almost like part of my brain is leaking out of my ear and instead of saying anything to him, I’m frantically grabbing for my journal and pen so I can immediately write down what he said before it’s gone.
And there’s this slow unfolding as the team keeps talking about the comment he just made. I’m sitting staring at the words he just spoke and I’m wondering at a world in color, a world full of possibilities and a world where the answer to a question could be red for me, or blue for you, or orange for someone else.
I look up at Walker who is listening to Rashidat’s response to what he just said. I can feel my eyes wide in my skull and I wonder if he can ever comprehend how much he’s just blown the lid off of a box in my mind. And the thing is, this isn’t even the first time he’s managed to break my brain and shift my thought patterns.
He looks over at me and raises his eyebrows in a “you good?” look that he gives sometimes. I nod, eyes still wide, and this is why community conversations matter.
Walker brings me perspective and thought. I value his words, his mind, and the way he can simply speak, and change the way I view everything.
~~
It’s nearly eleven at night. I’ve climbed mountains, taught English, sung silly songs for kids, and played volleyball with the village teenager and I am exhausted. I lay down on my bed and turn my head to the right. My eyes meet dear Rashidat and we’re just lying there, staring at one another. Her kind eyes are open and looking at me, blinking in sleepiness.
Ah, this friend. I’ve spent most nights of the last year right next to her just like this. From steamy Cambodia, to mosquito infested Malawi, and icy Ukraine, she’s the friend who forever sticks close to my side. Literally and emotionally.
God gave me her for this year and oh how blessed I am by that gift.
“Wanna talk?” She asks. I nod and immediately after, the lights get flicked off, but I know she’s still there. Her cell phone light glows in the space between us, illuminating her face. Ten months together, this sweet sister, and as we sometimes do, we have a soft conversation in the dark.
We’re talking about dreams and plans, futures, wishes, tiny houses, and sailboats. Jobs and interviews, all the countries we want to visit, all the people we want to meet. We speak into one another’s identity easily, the culture of encouragement we’ve learned the last year ingrained as part of every conversation we have.
At the end of it all, I’m making shadow puppets on the ceiling in the soft light, both of us giggling quietly as the rest of the room tries to sleep.
“You’re such a cornball,” She says, slapping my arm. It’s her favorite name for me. I accept it with a wide smile knowing that if she’s calling me a cornball, I’ve done something good to tease her.
Rashidat, the friend who I love, my constant familiar thread through the entire shifting and changing last year of my life. She brings me love, comfort, dreams. She breathes life and I wonder all the time where I would be without her.
~~
I’m climbing a literal mountain with Bliz by my side. Some days on our long and hot walk to ministry we pray for our squad. Other days, we sing show tunes as loud as we can, probably scaring the locals who are out working their fields.
My favorite time is when Bliz tries to sing the big parts, but can’t remember the words. This day, it’s Les Mis.
“Drink with me! To days….” Bliz trails off on the song and looks at me, dragging the note out too long.
“gone by-”
“gone by!” She picks up, interrupting me emphatically. She hums the next bars of the song while looking at me with the “help me with the lyrics” look again.
“Sing with me-“
“Sing with me the songs, we…”
“knew-“
“knewwww!”
And we go like this back and forth, stumbling our way through the song. And she makes me laugh, filling my life with fun and flavor and random goofs.
On the way back home, Bliz and I start walking down the steep curving part of the mountain and she looks at me. She raises her arms and holds and imaginary steering wheel.
“Go-cart racing?” I ask.
“Go-cart racing,” she says with a serious nod.
I raise my arms, holding my own steering wheel, as Bliz counts us down. I hit my imaginary stick shift, and we start racing down the hill, legs flying down the decline, our mouths buzzing with fake engine noises.
“Winner!” We both shout as the curve evens out. Soon we’re laughing, dying at the silliness of it all.
Bliz brings me fun and when our goofy hearts meet, there’s no situation we can’t make funny.
~~
We’re upstairs again at the village café and it’s time for one of us to share a word of encouragement for the young men of the village. The room is decorated almost in a woodland lodge style. The wide windows are thrown open letting the cool night air in. We—six Americans and fifteen Albanians— are all gathered around one table with cake and apple juice.
It is in this upper room where we meet God together.
Daiva says she doesn’t like public speaking, but as she stands up to share, I watch her take a deep breath, deliver a beautiful prayer.
Like nobody I’ve ever met, Daiva walks wholly with Holy Spirit. She hardly lets a word pass her lips that isn’t encouraging or pointing us back to Him. And when she preaches, she captures audiences with her authentic words, open heart, and atmosphere of authority.
On the Race, I’ve heard her testimony easily a dozen times, but each time I feel encouraged and grateful for the saving power of our great God. Tonight she’s not sharing her testimony, but rather the simple truth of God’s word.
She’s speaking about how we become a new creation when we accept Christ into our lives. As she speaks, her eyes become like fire and her words flow forth from the depths of her heart, and I, in light of knowing her full story, am amazed and blessed to see her a true new creation.
And when she sits down, I just want to thank her for her story, thank her for her heart, and thank her for sharing.
Daiva brings me boldness, the ability to speak what is true, and the challenge to do so.
~~
This is my family founded on the verse Matthew 5:13-16, on the verse calling us to be salt and light. Yep, we’re the flavor and color of the world, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
