I wrote this on May 25, 2013, on the outskirts of Mwanza, Tanzania, while listening to Adele, AA Bondy, CC, Alexi Murdoch, Alex Clare, Amos Lee, Amy Winehouse, and Andrew Belle.
I just watched the sun rise over the biggest lake in Africa, Lake Victoria.
Before that, I said goodbye to two of my teammates, Michael & Veronica, with whom I’ve spent the past 6 months, as they went away for about 4 days to the Serengeti.
Before that, I woke up at 3:45 a.m. with thoughts of the future pacing up and down my cerebral hallway, keeping me from falling back to sleep.
Yesterday I said goodbye to two other teammates: Danny, with whom I’ve also spent the past 6 months, Nicole, who was on my first team for 3 months, now on my team for the past 4 months, and Tommy, the squad leader who had been spending the month with us, as they also left for a 4-day safari.
I cried at both departures.
Heith, my team leader for the past 4 months, hugged me and made me laugh about ridiculous things to distract me and lift my spirits. Megan, who was on my team the first 3 months and has been with me the past 4, is always smiling, so I knew I could count on her to be positive about things I’m naturally…not. After all, we were only going to be separated for about 4 days. (You can say it. “Calm down, Jen. Take a hormone pill.”)
This time last year, I didn’t know these people outside of seeing their name on Facebook. Somehow, through so many airports, buses, big dreams, prayers, frustrations, tears, laughs, laughs, more laughs, and one-bajillion card games later, they have become 6 of the most important people in my life. We have two months left of this thing called World Race, and it’s weird to think I’ll be saying goodbye to these people that I once only barely knew.
Soon enough, I won’t be waking up to see their faces every morning, laughing at how much butter I put on my bread. I won’t be having feedback with them as we all see things in each other’s lives to speak out, sometimes crying through the things we need to confess. I won’t be playing card game after card game because that’s our favorite past time, getting more and more competitive with each game. I won’t be having theological discussions on God’s goodness and sovereignty one minute, and laughing about our goofy habits the next. I may do these things, but it won’t be with them. It will be with people that I’ll have older and newer, but different, memories with. The people I will be with are the people I will need to be with. I will be exactly where I’m meant to be. These people will do things that remind me of the 6 I spent the majority of the last year with, and I’ll probably annoy them with repeating memory after memory, hopefully told in a funny way. But…
It won’t be the same.
And that’s okay. Expected, even.
I’m excited about the adventures and opportunities awaiting me when I get back to the states, including leaving it again. I know every bit of it will be good. But I also know that good doesn’t always mean easy and pain-free. Good sometimes means uprooting your heart simply because others need the fruit that's been produced. Good sometimes means letting the sun set to test your faith in it rising again.
This morning’s sunrise’s oranges, pinks, purples and greys spectacularly combined to breathe fresh air into my anxious soul, as if its sole purpose was to remind me once again that the sun always rises.
There is a morning to every night. There is an end to every beginning, just as there is a beginning from every end. And just like I put the day to rest every night, God tends to put seasons to rest in His ever-so perfect timing.
When I return to Georgia, after the welcome home’s and the catch-up lunches or coffee dates, when the newness of home wears away and I find myself alone in my room, where I once stressed over the “what to bring/what not to bring” dilemma, I can’t tell you what’s going to happen. Maybe I’ll break down in overwhelmed tears over loneliness or the responsibility for what God has given me. Maybe I’ll laze around and distract myself with the past two seasons of The Office while eating all the ice cream I possibly can. Or maybe I’ll have complete peace with letting the seasons in my life come to an end, as they’re meant to.
Though this I know for sure: the sun will rise.
Light is being shed on something new, something fresh.
Something wild, I’m sure.
So here goes nothing.
