“The most difficult lie I have ever contended with is this: life is a story about me.” -Donald Miller
We’re in the trenches. Nobody told me that month 8 is the one where the thought of sitting (or laying, I’m not picky) on an actual couch or eating a meal at an actual table could potentially bring tears to your eyes.
There’s this cycle that begins when you discuss foods you miss from home, too. You get a little overly excited when you talk about pizza, Chick-fil-a, or the Mexican restaurant that’s a five minute drive (probably in your own car) from your house. Then you start to feel guilty for not being grateful for this opportunity, the people, the food, the sleeping on the floor, etc.
Someone once asked me what the point of the Race was. Well, friend, I don’t know. I can’t really answer that question easily. I will do my best to answer the way Jesus answered questions sometimes: with a story.
I am not the hiking type. I like living in the mountains because you can drive to beautiful peaks and look out. I rarely exercise my living privileges (okay, or my body) by hiking up a humongous hill and feeling accomplished. Not my thing.
When we first found out about our ministry in Nepal, we thought we’d be in Kathmandu (the largest city), distributing bibles and participating in other various forms of inner city ministry. I was PUMPED. I love cities. I love their energy. I love the bustle. I love that you can walk around all day and never smile at the same person twice. I really enjoy reliable electricity and Internet. We haven’t really been in major cities except for debrief thus far, so I mentally entertained all kinds of possibilities for doing ministry in one.
When we arrived in Kathmandu the situation swiftly changed. We found out that we’d be leaving the elevation of Kathmandu, taking a 15 hour bus ride to a village, and then hiking across a river/up a mountain with our packs. We were all encouraged to downsize significantly.
Now, we don’t carry a ton of stuff on the Race. We try to keep our packs under 50 pounds because some airlines only accept 45 pounds or so. Some even less. That being said, we do have clothes and supplies (tent, hammock, sleeping pad, etc.) enough for a year. Sometimes we receive gifts that we carry around, too. That tends to add up in the weight department. So I talked myself into two work outfits, two dresses, and three punjabis (traditional Nepali attire; needed for church). Only two dresses for an entire month is a MIRACLE from the hands of The Lord, no joke. Dresses are my comfort clothing (listen, I’m not denying it’s odd, but YOU can’t deny logic- it’s one piece of clothing versus two with pants and a shirt). At the end of the shedding process, my pack was under 35 pounds. Yet another miracle.
K, so, into the wild we ventured, five outfits, no sleeping pad, and no phone charger. The first river crossing started and the contrast of the temperature of the water to the temperature of the day was so fantastic it was hard to keep from smiling. The river crossings went by quickly; I think we finished the thirteen of them in under two hours.
Then came the mountains. I’m not kidding, y’all, a few of these hills we had to trek up were 90 degree angles. My teammate and friend, Luke, stayed in front of me the whole time, often offered me his hand as I walked up, and did not judge me for letting out a curse word when I thought I might lose footing.
We tented. We drank water that had to be boiled over a fire for 30 minutes and cooled down in our water bottles for hours before it was drinkable. It tasted pretty smoky, and while one of my squadmates says it was like bacon bits, I will have to disagree. I know bacon pretty well. We got to know our contact’s mother and father (who have lived in the village their whole lives) almost exclusively through smiles and hugs. We bathed and washed our clothing in the river. We met beautiful school children, church congregation members, and community members. I had lots of quiet time with my Savior and relented about some heart issues I had not been trusting Him with.
And yet the whole time my heart was dissatisfied. I was ungrateful. I had no desire to climb down a mountain to get anywhere and definitely had no desire to climb back up it when it was time for meals. I wanted to be reunited with electricity, even if it was unreliable. I wanted running water and Internet. I will say I actually preferred going to the bathroom in the woods to our hotbox of a squatty potty back in Ulavari. But man, was I ungrateful for everything else. I laid in my hammock disgusted with myself.
Here’s the truth: I came on the race to deny myself. Jesus told his disciples to take nothing with them, go from town to town preaching the gospel, and rely on the hospitality of fellow believers. I need a lesson in humility if I delude myself into thinking this is the same kind of sacrifice that was.
Setting aside the fundraising, logistics, and flights, though, there are certain similarities to the disciples’ journey. We don’t know our contacts until we enter their country. While we’re not supposed to cost them any money (we pay them for lodging and food, or if they don’t cook for us, food money is distributed to each person on our team), we are relying on them to meet almost all of our needs. House us- even if it’s an open field where we set up our tents. Make sure we have clean drinking water- and that we’re staying hydrated. Allow us a day of rest, etc.. We are relying on the hospitality of our hosts in a big way, and a lot of times that means eating the same meal three times a day, every day for a month.
The Lord has been patient with me. I am kind of a knucklehead, so it takes a while for me to learn lessons sometimes. In any situation, my attitude needs to be one of grace, humility, and especially of thankfulness. There are certain circumstances that make maintaining these attitudes difficult and as a human being, your flesh feels entitled to more. I would like a western toilet, sure. But in my host’s gesture of extreme hospitality, I have been provided with a squatty potty to share with 13 other people. I can choose to be thankful I have a toilet at all. I would like something other than rice for lunch and dinner, sure. But rice is what our food budget will afford and our host always has it prepared for us. I can choose to be thankful for rice.
I will choose to be thankful for a week in the mountains of Nepal where I met people who rely on God for everything and practice radical hospitality.
I will choose to be thankful for hiking, even if my asthma-infested lungs feel like they can’t catch a break (or, you know, ample oxygen). I will choose to be thankful for the opportunity to declare God’s goodness in situations that make me uncomfortable and somewhat crotchety.
Because I am choosing thankfulness, I am choosing joy. I am choosing to see my life as a bigger story than my life. When I handed over the reigns to Christ, it became about him, anyway. My minor inconveniences and discomforts can get blown out of proportion in my mind and in my heart, but they are nothing when faced with the glory of the gospel.
I came to be a disciple. That’s what the Race is about. Sort of. It’s also a story about Jesus, the gospel, confronting your sin, repentance, growth, community, gaining weight from eating only carbs, losing weight from getting salmonella, watching friends grow more like their savior, holding hands as you cry about missing your baby brother’s prom, hoarding chocolate, giving away chocolate because your teammate is having a hard day, learning to embrace squatty potties, begging the Holy Spirit to reveal in you what doesn’t reflect Jesus, and having frequent discussions about poop (rice can stop you up pretty good).
My teammate, Bobbi Jo (I prefer to call her Babs) got an awesome vision from God this week. You know in science class when you had those geometrical shaped magnets on one side of a table and shards of metal on another? When you held the magnet so that the shards would be attracted to it, they take the shape of the star, rectangle, pentagon, or whatever. It’s not the same, because it’s just broken pieces of metal, but you can mostly make out its form. We are those shards of broken metal, striving to take the shape of a Jesus-shaped magnet. And that, mainly, is what the Race is about.
Grace and peace,
Sarah
