Before I even went on the World Race, I heard all kinds of stories about re-entry and how difficult it was. I read blogs about meltdowns in the cereal aisle at the grocery store because there were just so many choices. I was warned about the colossal brain fart that would result from being asked “How was your trip?” as if you could sum up eleven months of your life with a quick response.
Yes, I did spent over an hour at a 7-11 deciding on a bag of chips because I could finally read all of the labels and knew what everything was, but just like no one’s Race is exactly the same as another, the same goes for re-entry.
From the first, and even second glance I did the re-entry thing pretty well. I came home, I unpacked, I went to Project Searchlight, I got a job… I did “normal things.” But I came home with a particular determination that would later return to bite me in the butt.
I was determined not to miss the World Race too much.
I refused from the get-go to be that stereotypical racer who posted on Facebook at least once a week how she missed some random aspect of the Race, one particular place, or some World-Racey thing that she probably didn’t actually miss but it was easy to wax nostalgic on… (I don’t care how “all-in” you were – no one misses ice-cold bucket showers.) I was determined not to be that Racer.
And yet somehow, my resolve to not unhealthily grieve the end of the World Race led me to unhealthily grieve the end of the World Race. Ironic, isn’t it? Trying to not do the thing made me do the thing anyway. But instead of being outward about it, I was holding it in.
I first hit upon this in September, months after returning home. The “lightbulb moment” happened when I realized that I had a lot of regrets about the Race. Regrets about not getting to know people as well as I should have, or not being “bolder” in ministry, or every time I said something insensitive to a teammate, and regrets about all of those days in Vietnam when I could hardly get out of bed in the morning… they were creeping into my mind and poisoning my memories of the Race, shoving aside all of the good things that actually happened.
As soon as I recognized this I knew something would have to be done about it – I hadn’t gone on the Race just so I could come home and have more regrets than celebrations, so I could look back and cringe instead of smile. I also realized that there was more to this than just asking God for forgiveness yet again for every transgression or missed opportunity. Instead I remembered a statement from my Squad Mentor at the halfway point of my Race that had changed everything for me:
“Sarah, I see you on your knees in front of the Father, begging for forgiveness, your eyes looking down at the floor unable to see that he has forgiven you already. You need to forgive yourself.”
The next step was for me to do something tangible, to rid myself of the thoughts that had taken the memory of the World Race captive. And just as ironically as the situation I had found myself in, I decided to do a cliche Racer thing.
I was going to set my regrets on fire.
First I took twelve pieces of paper. Then I took out my watercolors and painted each one to represent a country from the Race. Some looked like the flags, some represented a lesson I had learned, and some were just some a weird abstract thing because painting is not my choice art form.
On each sheet I wrote all of my regrets, big ones and little ones, everything I needed to forgive myself for. I wracked my brain to make sure I didn’t miss a thing, and made sure I wrote the ones that I really didn’t want to relive in my head. Finally they were done, and it was time to go outside.
I dragged our portable fire pit out of the shed and made a small fire, building it up until it had a proper blaze going. (I hadn’t spent my entire summer as a camp counselor for nothing after all). Then I took each individual piece of paper, prayed one last time for forgiveness, and tossed it into the fire, watching it satisfyingly curl up and turn to embers. I was free.
Fire refines, people. The little one in my backyard was nothing more than a symbol, but it was an important symbol.
