Somehow, I’ve found myself in Guatemala. I’m not sure exactly how that happened. Last I was paying attention, I was surrounded by Honduran tourists in the streets of Valle De Angelos. I remember the 14 hour bus ride and the two chicken buses it took us to arrive in Paramos, but it doesn’t feel real yet.
There are multiple reasons for this. The first is that Honduras was the first month on the Race that was hard to leave behind. It was not an easy month for me by any means. I struggled with the ministry and with myself. At the same time, I loved the kids we met at the orphanage. On our last day together, we danced for an hour trying to say goodbye. It was sad and beautiful all at the same time.
The other reason it doesn’t feel real is because we left Ashley behind. For those of you who follow my blog regularly, you’ve probably noticed the first episode of the Miranda and Ashley Show. Here’s the link for episode number two: http://youtu.be/iQiTapzXc6U
Ashley felt God call her to take a step of faith and stay behind in Honduras. While I support Ashley’s decision, leaving her behind was very difficult for me. I’ve been feeling called myself to really put my full trust into my team and the person I trusted the most left the team. The team is different now.
Yesterday, I found myself processing all this while out at our ministry. This month we’re working with Loving Arms. Jacie and I are spending the month helping them prepare their sponsorship letters for Christmas delivery. In the afternoons, we’re going out to villages to take pictures of the sponsored kids and help them write a letter.
While the kids were writing letters, their brothers and sisters were playing on the school grounds. Troy and Andrew were playing a pickup game of soccer with a couple six year olds, which they soundly lost. A couple of small children were sitting on the hill above watching and I decided to join them. As I sat there and tried to make small talk in broken Spanish, everything I was feeling about leaving Honduras hit me at once. For the first time since I began the Race, I was ready to hop a plane back to the States and call it quits. What’s the point in trusting my team if they can hurt me with that trust? I sat in silence with two adorable Guatemalan children on a hill, surrounded by mountains, watching my teammates play soccer, with silent tears sliding down my face.
Sometimes the Race isn’t just traveling from place to place and enjoying those things each has to offer. Most of the time, the Race is a struggle to listen to what God is trying to say. It’s a place where each person struggles to find out who they are in new and different ways. For my Seminary friends, it’s just as hard as those classes that challenge the very basic set of beliefs learned in Sunday School.
Not five minutes after leaving those children on the hill, a small girl named Dorcas, ran up to me with open arms, jumped up and gave me the sweetest kiss on my cheek. A God sent reminder that the hard times are often followed up by the most precious of moments. Rainbow after the storm. A glass of cold water after working in the hot sun. The bitter followed by the sweet.
My Race isn’t over yet!
