I have really enjoyed blogging this year. Admittedly, I have never been very up to date on the latest trends in social media, and don’t really consider myself as part of the hashtag generation, so my love for blogging is not so much a product of being up with the times. Rather, I think that there is something thrilling about trying to use the English language—insufficient as it is—to craft pictures of noble themes. I feel like I can identify with the Psalmist when he says, in Psalm 45:1-2:
“My heart is moved by a noble theme as I recite verses to my King; my tongue is the pen of a skillful writer. You are the most handsome of men; grace flows from your lips…”
This should be my last blog of the World Race, barring any sudden new revelations. It makes me sad to think about that fact, and I still haven’t decided whether or not I will write after the race. There will probably be a blog or two about being home, though I will give myself some time to rest first.
We are now at “Final Debrief”, a nice three-day stay at the beach to wrap up our time with our squadmates, relax, and to celebrate what God has done this year. About a year and a half ago, I was showering after a long run, and for some reason a thought popped into my head, unprovoked. I felt that God was calling me to take a year away from school and serve as a missionary. It was clearly placed there by the Holy Spirit, because I had not previously felt even the slightest inclination to halt my studies.
Now, it is almost surreal that this crazy journey—nay, pilgrimage—called the World Race is coming to a close. God has taken me for a ride wilder than any of the more creative crevices of my brain could have ever fashioned. I have laughed until I’ve cried and cried until I’ve laughed, loved until it hurt and hurt until I loved. God has been sovereign through it all, yet involved me—infinitely and personally—in the unfolding of his plans. I’ve seen abject poverty and unmistakable joy—which I previously thought were opposed—share the same roof, and seen happiness and joy—which I previously thought were synonymous—duel, like Hamilton and Burr, on the battlefield of my own soul.
I’ve stood in awe in solemn Eastern Orthodox churches and listened to the chants of bearded Serbian priests. I’ve ridden in gypsy’s wagons in Romania, all to far from home, yet still comforted by the twangs of my homeland (Zac Brown)—“I’ve got a gypsy soul to blame, and I was born for leaving.” I’ve smelt decay in Delhi and hope in Bangalore, as the voices of Indian Christians challenged the oppression of the caste system—“everlasting, your light will shine will all else fails.”
I’ve woken up and looked out over the snow-covered Himalayas, stationed around the Nepali capital like a counsel of old kings, and laid my head down on my pillow—a balled up jacket—at night with images of orphans rapidly coming to the knowledge of the Lord.
I’ve danced my way through Eastern Africa, as dirt roads and brightly colored dresses vibrantly set forth a culture so deeply loveable that the only viable response was to do just that—dance. I’ve put my hands behind the shovel one day and my words behind the pulpit the next, one day a laborer, the next a preacher—though the two aren’t contradictory.
God has smashed my worldview to pieces with his divine hammer and the fire of the Holy Ghost, and taken maniacal pleasure with every blow and flame, knowing the result will always be something more beautiful than what preceded it. Yet with all his tearing down, God has staunchly affirmed what I thought I heard his still, small voice whispering, pre-race—namely, that moderation is the enemy of passion.
In that light, God has let twin emotions—though opposed—burn equally hot this year. Love and hurt, utter courage and utter fear, strong health and weak sickness, rock-solid confidence and cloudy uneasiness—all have reared their sometimes beautiful, sometimes ugly heads this year and all, when viewed as a conglomerate from thirty thousand feet in the sky, are far better than the daily mix of both, the safe path which, though safe, leaves life’s marrow untouched.
The sun beat down in Southeast Asia, as I taught, farmed, and ministered among the palms. I know more now than I’ve ever known, yet know less than ever of what I’ve realized there is to know. From jumbo jets to rickshaws, the world has proved itself to be both smaller than I thought it was and larger than I thought it was, and from Genesis to Revelation, God has proven himself to be both bigger, yet more knowable than I thought he was.
I’ve heard worship rise from tongues around the world, all praising the ageless God. “For the earth will be filled with the knowledge of the glory of the Lord, as the waters cover the sea.” (Habakkuk 2:14). I’ve thought about going home for hours, yet after minutes of prayer realized that I am at home. I’ve gone to sleep in houses, hostels, tents, trains, busses, floors, churches, chairs, and closets, but been woken up in the morning by the same God throughout.
I’ve loved people, but I’ve also hurt people. I’ve told the truth, but I’ve also let lies slip from between my teeth. I’ve shared things I’d have never thought myself altruistic enough to share but also hoarded things I’d have never thought myself animalistic enough to hoard—truer pictures of human nature are exposed in community. It’s been the best year of my life, but also the hardest.
What conclusion is there to all of this, what grand and transcendent truism? What wraps these frayed ends neatly together, sufficiently capping this eleven month season and allowing the next to be ushered in? Honestly, there is none—as the very rambling nature of this blog suggests. To try to manufacture one, I feel, would be to simplify the beauty of my Maker—to turn the Mona Lisa into a coloring book.
I’ve worn my life on my back and my heart on my sleeve, and now, eleven months later, I can present you—faithful supporters—with a pile of frayed ends, crumpled and un-orderly. I dump them on the table and say, “make of them what you will.” The World Race is finished, but this is only the beginning…
