“I go east, but he is not there.
I go west, but I cannot find him.
I do not see him in the north, for he is hidden.
I look to the south, but he is concealed.
But he knows where I am going.
And when he tests me, I will come out as pure as gold.”
Job 23:8-10.
I almost gave up my job as a squad Storyteller yesterday.
(all photos: AnnaKate Auten)
Until a year ago when I first began chronicling my journey from suburban mitten state girl to world traveler, writing was something I did purely for my own enjoyment. Last autumn when it became a World Race requirement, I found an unexplainable joy inviting people into my journey, and my confidence grew as the months passed and I realized that not only did I like creating stories on a public platform – it seemed like I was actually pretty good at it.
Here on the Race, it’s my job to produce content that draws people into the story of our squad, to paint pictures of our surroundings, to talk about the people we meet and to give you reason to care about them.
But what happens when you, the Storyteller, feel incapable of telling the story?
There were four emails in my inbox this morning from our marketing team, asking for more stories and photos in order to better involve you in Greece and the refugee crisis. The emotional disconnect loomed, the space between the Lesvos shore and the United States a galaxy wide. The worst part was it was partly my fault. The size and scope of what Y-Squad is doing in Greece is definitely a World Race first, but the task of communicating to any party not involved here is very nearly equivalent to explaining sight to a blind man. And as we were all being encouraged to process and share what we were seeing, somewhere, the gears in my processors stopped working.
I used to think the worst feeling in the world was having wet socks; it’s not. The worst feeling in the world is seeing someone on the brink of death and knowing that there is nothing you can give them.
I’m also aware that I am not emotionally dealing with everything that is happening around me, but that if I were to let myself really feel the weight of this situation, it would crush me. My hands shake constantly. Often, it’s hard to sleep, and when I do sleep, I see the same things in my dreams that I do when I’m awake. Even my face looks different to me, an idea that I’m still not completely sure I believe to be possible – can a face change when a heart knows fear?
Twenty-three years’ worth of learning about God tells me that in times of heartache and insanity, He is still sovereign. My understanding of His plan is not necessary. Telling stories about Greece to people not here requires phenomenal effort and a belief that you will still listen, even if what I say is hard to hear.
Can I ask you, dear reader, to consider something with me for a moment? Consider that in order to fully understand God’s character, you need to understand sadness as well as joy. Consider the way we appreciate the contrast of a humid Michigan July against the biting cold of December, or the reason behind why you crave the sweet/saltiness of a Reece’s peanut butter cup.
God does not require us to be joyful all the time.
This might be a radical concept – but I’m guessing that if you’re old enough to read this, you’re old enough to have experienced some amount of personal loss or deep emotional pain. The Bible tells us to “rejoice with those who rejoice and mourn with those who mourn” (Romans 12:15).
This last week in Greece has been an absolute crash course on the subject of mourning, complete with several pop quizzes and at some point, probably a final, too.
On October 28th, eleven refugees lost their lives in five separate instances.
My squad-mates and I have held and undressed several freezing children that we initially thought to be dead.
Young men who paid up to 1,000 Euro to cross the four-mile stretch of Aegean Sea stand in line for up to three days at processing points along the island, their feet and ankles rotting from the mud and standing water.
Surrounded by constant noise, despair, chaos and insecurity, my understanding of God’s goodness and faithfulness is a flame able to burn brilliantly against ever-increasing darkness. Even still, I’ve become increasingly overwhelmed and unsure.
And in spite of how brave and profound it would be to share that I am totally trusting that the Lord has this one under control, the truth is my faith is being tested with fire.
One of the site coordinators is a mid-thirties, chain-smoking Orthodox priest named Father Kristos (but better known amidst the group by his alias, “Reverend Badass”).
The man is a force of nature. The first time I saw him in action, it was a night when the camp was overcrowded by about 400 people. Nobody was coming in or going out. Men and women stood queued outside the camp, trapped between the storage trailer and a chain-link fence, the crowd of wet and agitated refugees pushing in on them from behind. People were screaming, random fires began popping up around the parking lot, and I darted back under a break in the fencing, 300% sure I was about to watch someone get crushed to death. But Father Kristos stood at the head of the line, speaking as calmly as if he was ordering a pizza.
Perfect peace, complete faith.
I lay on the couch for a long time that night, thinking about it, the words of our unofficial squad song Give Me Faith replaying in my head.
“Give me faith to trust what you say;
That you’re good, and your love is great.
I’m broken inside; I give you my life.
I may be weak, but your Spirit’s strong in me
My flesh may fail, but my God, you never will.”
This may not have been the blog that was wanted, but I’m alright with that.
Even though things are not okay now, they will be. The good work that’s begun both in me and here is Greece WILL be completed – God promised.
Even when I can’t find Him, even when I don’t believe, even when it hurts – He is faithful.
“I may be weak, but you Spirit’s strong in me
My flesh may fail, but my God, you never will.”
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God’s spirit is here in Lesvos. It’s been here since the beginning of time, and it will remain here when we leave. The cost of our squad being in Greece far exceeded our Race budget, and we traveled here in faith that the extra funds would be provided. You can give to the World Race’s refugee effort and learn more about why we are here by following this link: http://aim.gift/1147bcab
