Time for some vulnerability, people. Please, fasten your seat belts and keep your arms and legs inside. It's about to get bumpy.
I’m often a huge advocate for change. Change has radically defined my life these past 22 years and I am used to it. I know that things need to be altered and transformed. I know that in order to grow, things need to be shaken up sometimes. I know how detrimental stagnation can be; I know what languishing can lead to.
However, being comfortable with change came at a cost.
My greatest struggle, the one which I feel like I am continuously dealing with and fighting against and battling, has reared its ugly head once more. I’ll be honest and tell you that I thought I was done with it; I thought that the Race – the community, the people, the atmosphere – would be different. It somehow managed to follow me here. I'm not a fan. Deep breath.
I have a huge fear of being abandoned.
It isn’t physically being alone; I’m fine with that. I am filled with dread at the thought that I may never have a friend who will be around for the rest of my life. I do not believe people will stay. Consequently, I have a hard time opening up my heart and letting people in because in the back of my mind, it won’t matter a few years from now – they simply won’t be there, and therefore it’s unwise to put in the energy. Or, if I do put in the energy, it’s with the understanding that I simply will never have assurance of reciprocation.
The first night after getting our new teams we had worship on the roof of our hotel in Kathmandu. My day had been wonderful; I had spent it with Rooted and loved it. I had been excited and bubbly and full of energy. Despite that, it took but a moment of sitting by myself on that roof to completely freak out and lose it.
I hugged my knees to my chest and cried for five minutes straight. Now, let's be honest here. I don’t cry in public; I don’t like crying in general and honestly don’t do it that often. Yet here I was, getting mascara on my pants. I suddenly felt alone and ill-equipped; I felt as though I was suddenly incapable of creating bonds with people. So, I did the thing I tend to do in these situations. I journaled.
“Suddenly, I feel alone. Lord, is this team going to be hard? Will it be hard because I’ll constantly have to fight to feel included? I hate that feeling. You know I hate that feeling. It’s so familiar, an old enemy that comes back to haunt me. That’s unbearable Lord. Please, not that. Anything but that. I thought I was done with that. Aren’t I free from that? I was so excited even an hour ago. Why is this coming back?”
I often reflect on the years marked by location changes. I went into junior high as a new kid who had moved from sunny California to rainy Washington two months before classes started that fall. My childhood was spent in California; I lived there twelve years, and nine of those were in the same house, yet I’m not in contact with a single person from that time. The next five years were spent in the Northwest and life was peachy keen until, in the middle of junior year, my family relocated to the snowy Midwest. That was nearly five years ago. I cannot fathom or relate to you how many hours in these past five years I have spent thinking, wondering, crying, talking about that occurrence in my life and the ramifications that followed. I feel sometimes that it consumes me.
I tried to process through it via email with a friend back home. This was his response:
“Even if we know a person for a brief moment in our lives—even for a couple hours on a plane trip—they are worth investing in. We are citizens of an eternal kingdom; for us, all relationships in time will be as a blink of an eye, and each will have the potential to be as valuable as any other. I think if we take the world's perspective, and count on people for the ways they can be part of our lives in the future, we cheapen the moment. We discriminate based on who will give us back the most in the future, or even on who we can invest in. But each person is a unique and marvelous soul, individually created by God. Love is an eternal type of verb.”
I hit my palm to my head and stared blankly at the screen of my computer. I love and hate how he had the ability to call me out in less than 150 words. What the crap? You've got to be kidding me.
Sometimes the truth sneaks up on you, other times it blatantly hits you in the face. This was certainly the latter. His words rang true. I read it again, trying to figure out what to do with the wisdom bestowed upon me. I let it sink in. The thing about truth is that it often is something you know, but there's a difference (I've found) between knowing something and knowing something. And I need to work on believing and knowing something at my core rather than just nodding my head at it.
The children here sing a song, which can be kinda catchy (when not oversung and therefore tiring). It goes: "Your father may let you down, your mother may let you down, your grandpa may let you down, your grandma may let you down. The whole wide world may let you down, but Jesus never ever fails." Amen to that.
Lies have no place in my life. So I'll stare down Insecurity and Doubt and say that my Jesus never ever fails. That's the new plan. To give of myself until there's nothing left, caution to the wind. The good part? I know that my bff Jesus has always been there and will always be there. People disappoint, but I gotta dust myself off and try again. I think it's time to say goodbye to fear.
