The night started innocently enough. Half of Just Love was scheduled to take part in GOG (Girls of God) – a weekly meeting for teenage girls from the church we are working with – while the rest of us were set to spend the evening worshiping and evangelizing in the nearby Town Center. Just as we prepared to head out, thunder boomed overhead and before we really knew what had hit, all seven of us stood in front of our fourth floor window beholding the downpour of the century! Selfishly, I wondered, ‘Will we be expected to go out in this?’
God had mercy. Pastor Tudor came bounding into our “living area” and announced that the nightly programs were cancelled due to the storm. His parting words would ring in my ears for hours to come; “Ashlee, you are in charge.”
Amped up for our waylaid ministry, my team opted to head down the hall to the church sanctuary and have some impromptu worship together. Shelli cranked up the guitar, Laura beat on a bongo and I tried to tap out a rhythm on some sort of percussion box, while others sang, danced, testified or simply sat in reverence, and the thunder rolled.
Side-note: Normally, I despise storms. Rain usually makes me melancholy. A few too many close calls with tornados have left me just a bit jittery when wind picks up. But for whatever reason, as we watched rain splattering on the windows and pavement outside, I felt at peace.
I’d gone back into our living space to make myself some tea (NOT sweet tea, mind you) when it hit me. Karen’s bucket list. She wants to play in the rain. Well, what’s a team leader to do? I sprinted back to the sanctuary where my girls were still mid-worship. You should know, Karen and I have this uncanny connection. Sometimes it’s like we share a brain. In any given scenario, we so often have identical thoughts – appropriate or not – and we can usually count on one another to affirm whatever we are feeling. The same would hold true in this moment. My eyes met with Karen’s and we knew what was about to go down! Fun fact – while I’d been out of the room, she’d thrown out the idea to everyone else, but no one took the bait. God connection? You tell me.
Within ten minutes, Karen and I, along with Laura, Shelli, Monica, Andrei and Victoria (our translators and new friends) were bolting out into the downpour, squealing with delight as we splashed in puddles, laughing with glee as we spun around with pain pelting our faces and gradually becoming bolder in our sense of adventure.
Somewhere along the way, Liz emerged from our building with a tempting suggestion. “Anyone want to go mudsliding in the stadium?”
Again I looked at Karen. No words were needed. The rest of our gallant crew chickened out for this venture, but bound and determined to live every last moment of The World Race to the absolute fullest, Liz, Karen and I made the short trek to a nearby soccer stadium, well saturated after the couple hour downpour!
Liz is an old pro, so she was first in line, ready to demonstrate and teach us the “proper” technique. Karen is a quick study and rapidly followed suit. Both of them completely caked in mud, we laughed, slipped and slid through hilarious videos and photo shoots involving chest bumps and filthy clothes! Then it was my turn… I couldn’t help missing the glory days of softball, when most of my teammates will assure you, I NEVER slid feet first. Mom has washed plenty of disgusting uniforms thanks to my “Head First Only” policy! Liz and Karen provided stellar commentary as I prepared to go!
My bare feet squished against the slimy earth and I “ran” to gain momentum, until the moment when, in perfect form I threw my hands in front of me and hit the deck. You should have seen the distance! Olympic Record worthy, no doubt!
Satisfied. Covered in grime. All smiles, we headed out of the stadium. We’d stopped at a particularly large puddle to “rinse off” when we noticed a man approaching the gate. Not lost on any of us was the fact that this man donned a military uniform. I swallowed hard, threw up a quick prayer – ‘Jesus, please don’t let us go to jail.’ – and answered the man’s obvious inquiry to what we were doing.
“Um, English?” I questioned, plastering the largest smile I could produce across my mud-splattered face. He raised his eyebrows knowingly and started walking with me as we plodded for home, continuing his interrogation – in Romanian. I could hear Liz and Karen behind me, praying for favor with all their might. As I did my best to communicate with the gentlemen that we were American and we liked rain – stumbling over the multitude of languages we’ve all picked up along the Race – another conversation played out in my head – the one where I’d eventually have to call our Squad leaders and say, “Um… I’ve managed to get myself and two team members thrown in a Moldovan prison.”
The gentleman followed us right up to our doorstep, but instead of questioning us anymore, he either decided it wasn’t worth the translation effort or God assured him that we weren’t mud sliding terrorists with a plight to destroy soccer stadiums, and he bid us farewell, maintaining his look of confusion as he walked away. We returned home victorious. Muddy. Soaking wet. Happy not to be behind bars in that condition. Welcomed by open arms of our teammates anxious to hear of our adventure.
This is the life!
Be Blessed,
Ashlee
