We all knew it was coming. There had been whispers of team changes at month 8 debrief for a couple of months now, but we all tried our very best to not think about it and we were actually doing a fairly decent job compared to the first time, when we went as far to make our own rosters of teams we thought would be likely (and not that it matters, but I'd like to mention that we were pretty dang close that first go around).
This time though, when someone mentioned doing the rest of the race without each other, trying and failing to hide their fear, someone else usually changed the topic. We needed to stay present and focus on the time we did have together. And for the most part, we did just fine, but sometimes, when I let my guard down, I'd think about how devastated I would be if I was separated from my people. Even with those worried moments though, I think I must have expected that I'd have one of the three girls that became my sisters. Surely I could handle the last quarter of the Race if I had just one.
Here's the problem with expectations though- they tell you not to have them for a reason. Because when expectations are broken, so are you. And being broken freaking hurts.
That's what it felt like when Rachael read my name at the end of her new team roster-like I broke into pieces right along with my expectations. Heat flooded my body and I tried to hold back tears as Chelsey sat down next to me and put her hand on mine. And as soon as the meeting was over, I found the first empty space I could, up some stairs leading to a fire exit, and I lost it.
I balled my eyes out in sadness and fear and anger and anxiety. And one by one my people found me and sat down without a word. I tried to catch my breath, but let's be honest and say the whole building could probably hear me crying. I had so many questions that I just rattled them off through my tears without even waiting for an answer.
Why did God keep taking people away from me? (my community back home, R Squad, Jill, and now 3 of my best friends in the whole world, 2 of whom I'd spent every day of the last 8 months with).
Why did they all get to stay together and I had to be alone? Will we still be friends? Will they stop loving me when I'm not with them every day?
Can I just go home? Is it worth it to stay? Could I handle another change in a year so full of them?
Do I even have anything left to give another new community?
Do I have the strength to fight for myself, coming out of one of the hardest months of the race, with all new people?
Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?
I felt like a child throwing a tantrum, but I didn't have the energy to care. And it may seem a bit dramatic, but in the state of depression and anxiety I was already in, losing my people-my last source of earthly comfort-was enough to throw me over the edge.
Finally, when my squad coach came over to the four of us and held my hands, trying to comfort us as best as she knew how, I looked up and saw that I wasn't the only one falling apart. I looked at my family sitting around me and every single one of those girls were crying right along with me. I wasn't just loosing them- they were loosing me too.
For the next hour we tried to pull ourselves together and did like girls do in any good tragedy and ate a pint of chocolate Ben and Jerry's that seemed to have come down from Heaven itself. They tried to answer my questions and reminded me over and over again of God's great love for me and that we would be friends all of our days. And I tried my best to believe them.
The next few days are a little bit of a blur. I was so sad it physically hurt and still had about a thousand questions for a God I didn't really feel like I could talk to. I was realizing more and more, coming out of a pretty dark month in Northern Ireland and still reeling from the thought of the next 3 months with people I barely know, that I still have a lot of lies about who God is and who I am to uproot. And frankly, I was absolutely certain I didn't have the strength to keep fighting.
But, because I had to get my unrelenting cycle of thoughts out of my head, I started journaling. I didn't talk to God like I usually do when I'm processing and I definitely wasn't prepared to listen. All I wanted was to write down what happened and what I thought, so I could deal with it later. So, I angrily wrote down every loss I've experienced this year and ranted about how hard I'd fought for vulnerability and community and how hard I'd loved all these people just to have them ripped away from me. And as I finished writing how alone I was going to be, God spoke.
"Did I ever take anyone away? Don't you still have them? Did you ever think that I was just giving you more?"
Let me tell you, I did not want to hear those words. I wanted to sit in my unbelief, because it was easy and fighting to believe truth is hard. So, I tried to push them away, but over the last week they haven't left my mind.
I arrived in Transnistria scared to death to face this month alone and afraid to talk to God about my doubts and the place I'd been in for the last month. I was afraid to tell Him that somewhere between every day being the best day in Swazi to arriving in Coleraine, something shifted within me. I was afraid to ask Him to dig up the roots and lies that entangle me so quickly when I let my guard down. But, I was more afraid of staying where I was.
So, when I got all settled into my little space in the far corner of our room, I took out my Bible for the first time in too long and I read a verse I had written on an index card in Vietnam.
"Then they cried to the Lord in their trouble and He delivered them from their distress. He brought them out of darkness and the shadow of death and burst their bonds apart. Let them thank the Lord for His steadfast love, for His wondrous works to the children of man! For He shatters the doors of bronze and cuts in two the bars of iron." (Psalm 107:13-16)
Then, I took out the note Chels wrote me in the airport. She ended it with the same thing she tells me every time she sees me slipping into my old patterns of thought: "Don't let it win."
After I read it, I just sat there, headphones blaring, eyes blurring from my tears and taped the verse and that note to my wall. It wasn't a huge dramatic moment and it didn't change all of the hurt and the fear, but it was something. It was claiming the tiniest bit of the victory He has already won for me. And now, everyday, I continue to pray for the faith to believe that He is who He says He is; to believe that He wants to talk to me, because He fiercely loves me; to believe He won't take away the incredible friendships He has already blessed me with, but that this is all His divine way of giving me more.
More reliance on Him. More faith. More strength. More friendships. More joy. More peace. More fight. More clarity. More truth. More love.
And that's exactly what I'm getting.
