I’m standing in the sanctuary of a Romania church waiting, waiting, waiting for my father to arrive. He was the last one to see me off in Dallas and the first one to see me after these impossibly long, yet incredibly quick, nine months have flown by.
Excited and nervous. Can’t decide which emotion is stronger, but in equal measure they build and build and build until I’m almost vibrating, nearing a point of complete overwhelmedness in the waiting.
So I check my watch… and we still have two hours.
Okay, okay, breathe. It’s okay. Stay busy.
I’m busy, I’m coloring, I’m journaling, I’m practicing lettering. I’m busy and I’m okay.
Right?
All of us from M-squad with parents are equally twittering around the room trying to stay busy, trying to say everything is fine and that we’re all excited. I think we all knew we were lying to one another and to ourselves, but, in a rare bit of not calling it out like we see it, we let it slide and swell together in emotion as the clocks tick on.
Walker, finally, a godsend, takes the stage to practice for worship later that night. The songs play and a refocusing occurs. We are M-squad and wherever our feet our planted geographically our hearts are always planted in The Lord. So we turn back to Him, come home together, and we worship.
We worship and soon, I’m crying to Nano and Ruby about how I’m feeling and they say they feel it to. And I’m shout-singing “YOU ARE GOOD” with Jac, both of us bouncing on the balls of our feet. And I’m praying with Andy sending those nerves far away.
And we see them, their bus, their awkward unloading. We hide in the church watching them from tinted windows, none of them knowing how close we are. Jeremy, the world’s best squad mentor, is distracting them with a fake welcome. We see him raise a thumbs up—the signal—and we run.
Then I’m in Dad’s arms. Nine months. Oh gosh, the tears. Silent, we shake, we sob.
—
Eventually, we end up back inside, sitting in the church, and I don’t know what to say. Nine months. Where do you begin after nine months? How do you even begin to talk about everything that’s happened to you and around you?
I don’t know. So I do what I do know how to do and I introduce him to my squad by pointing and quietly telling him about all of them around us.
“There’s Ashlyn. She’s logistics, so she books all our travel. But she’s so much more than that. She’s out body’s eyes, always looking to really see everyone. And that’s Michaela. She keeps me laughing, keeps all of us laughing. And she’s really one of the boldest people I’ve ever met. And that’s John. He’s our warm heart, doing all he does with love and gentleness.”
I feel worried Dad won’t get it, that he won’t understand that I start here because this journey would be literally nothing without this community, without these people. He listens and nods, probably just glad to be near me. Soon I stop talking and lean against his side, realizing he won’t ever really be able to get it and I should take the advice we’ve been given since day one; rest in the moment.
So, I rest.
—
It’s the afternoon and it’s raining. We sit together at the small table protected from the rain by a sheet of plastic held up by a wooden lattice. Grapevines grow in the spaces between the wood of the structure and the plastic, framing this little picnic table perfectly.
I’m crying again, this time for a different reason.
I started making a list back in Malawi of things I needed to talk to Dad about when he came on the Parent Vision Trip to see me. Starting the conversation is one of the more difficult things I’ve had to do on the Race. My family, frankly, isn’t the best about talking about things that happen. Usually we let things build until they explode, sweep up the explosion, and go on pretending everything is fine.
We had one of those big explosions right before I left to go on the field. An explosion so big, I actually thought that I needed to stay home instead of leaving on this adventure.
And we’re talking about it in an uncharacteristic move for us. I keep my eyes firmly focused on the wooden fence behind Dad, watching as a hole in the plastic cover lets a single rain drop drip, drip, drip staining the fence ever darker.
I don’t know if I have answers, but I’ve run out of words that can be delivered in love.
Exhausted, I remember pre-Race Kayla and the conversations she imagined, the ones where she got to rage, yell, accuse, and throw back all the hurt she held inside. I remember the people she hurt with words, the conversations she avoided, and the times she threw words like firecrackers, just seeking reactions in any and every form.
I remember her here, at a picnic table with my father in Romania. And from my lips came words delivered honestly, in love, and vulnerably. I am hit square in the eyes with just how much I’ve grown since leaving, just how much I’ve learned about communicating and loving.
The tears are still flowing, the hurt is still raw, but deep inside all of that, I see the transformative power of God.
And Dad… he listens. It’s all I can really ask for.
—
We’re at children’s ministry—the whole squad reunited plus thirty or so parents. Two hundred children and one day of fun and Jesus— my bread and butter of ministry.
I’m looking around, thoroughly impressed with the organization of it all and I smile down at the ten children Dad and I are watching for today. We help them rotate through ten different stations, our role being little more than cheerleaders and children herders. The day goes on and we play, we sing, we recite bible verses.
I’m loving it—all of it. Dad… he seems okay. A bit flushed, a bit out of breath, and a bit anxious but… okay a lot of anxious and, wow, the anxiety rolling off my father is so high that I can no longer ignore it.
“Dad, you okay?” I ask.
“This is just the most disorganized thing. I don’t even know what’s going on. What in the—why is this—it’s so disorganized!” He says, the words tumbling out of his mouth in frustration.
I try not to giggle and I try not to be sassy but… “Dad, would you believe me if I told you that this is the most organized children’s ministry event I’ve participated in since coming on the Race?”
He rolls his eyes, sighs heavy, and wipes the sheen of sweat off his face. Out of his comfort zone, indeed. But still here, still smiling at the kids, still trying his best.
Today, I got blessed by watch my Dad do the most World Race thing imaginable—despite it all, he said yes.
—
Suddenly, it’s our last night in Draganesti. The time has gone quick, and I find myself totally and completely ready to sit at the feet of Jesus for a little while. It’s classic M-squad acoustic worship—Haley and Hanna singing, Walker on guitar, and Andy drumming on an empty guitar case.
We started with worship and here we end too.
Off to the side of the room, a plastic plate and bowl sit, holding holy elements of salvation. We sing “10,000 Reasons,” the song of my soul, and then I pull Dad over to take communion in the midst of my community, declaring our salvation side by side.
After the bread and wine, we held each other and cried.
I cried because I love him and in this moment I realized that while he is my father—and he will always, always be my father— I’m not so little any more. I realized, for the first time, my father is also a brother in Christ. A strange new shift in our relationship, but here we are.
Growing up, I guess.
—
The time left me exhausted, joyful, hopeful, and more prepared to step into this next phase of post-Race life than ever before. Dad jumped in feet first, ready for conversation, ready to be challenged. Gosh, I love him, and I know that going back home I have an advocate that, while he nor anybody can ever completely understand what this last year has held, gets it just a little bit more than he did before.
