It is 5:24 on a Friday afternoon.
I’m sitting Indian-style on my mom’s living room floor, with a mug of hot cinnamon coffee letting off steam next to my laptop, one hand alternating between running itself through my clean, fluffy hair, and then marveling at the recent deforestation of my smooth legs.
A part of me still doesn’t fully believe that I made it.
I survived World Race Training Camp.
One week ago, I was running down a narrow dirt road as the Georgia heat soared to 95 degrees, the sun beating down on me and my 40-pound backpack. My mouth was dry and sweat poured off my body when a local resident rumbled past me in her pickup truck, slowing down just enough for me to look up and catch a glimpse of her disgusted expression – probably wondering what on earth I was doing. Before I could wave, she sped up, leaving me in the dust behind her as uncontrollable laughter bubbled up inside of me.
What on earth WAS I doing?
What on earth would possess a single 23 year-old female with a college degree and job opportunities to sell everything she owns, drive twelve hours into the backwoods of Georgia, and spend ten days living in the dirt and drinking out of a hose – all in preparation to spend a year living out of a backpack while traveling around the world?
Jesus. That’s why.
And at Training Camp, I learned that Jesus isn’t just some guy who picks up the line when you bow your head and close your eyes in the middle of a darkened conference room as Oceans softly plays in the background.
Jesus is everywhere. And He’s a bit of a party animal.
Jesus loves to hang out in Port-a-Potties, under a wet tarp shelter in the woods, at the bottom of a bowl of beef broth, and in the emergency room when you lose a dance-off with a poisonous spider. He loves you when you’re twirling barefoot to African music on a floor littered with coconut rice grains, when you and your squad swing dance in a flash thunderstorm, and even when you accidentally fall asleep during morning worship.
He wants to hug you when you’re squeaky clean, but he really digs those embraces when you are so sweaty your armpits and surrounding arm skin slip and stick together like partially dried rubber cement.
Can I be honest for just one second?
Training Camp kicked my butt.
And I struggled every single day to confess that I was not strong enough to push through it on my own.
By setting my jaw and trying to shoulder the emotional and physical weight of Training Camp alone, I found a few days in that I was breaking myself down, and drowning in a silent fear that the World Race would be 11 months of counting down the days until I could be comfortable again.
But on day three, Abba opened my eyes to the beauty of living in authentic community with those around me – a community that could only be authentic if I was willing to shoot straight about where I was at.
So I confessed.
I confessed that eating only a baked potato for a meal and then working out for two hours reminded me of the days when I had an eating disorder, and that my body didn’t know how to receive and understand that this time, it was safe to do that.
I confessed that I had done things in my past that I knew I needed to repent of, but that I didn’t feel altogether sorry for, because wounds hadn’t yet been healed in my heart.
I confessed that I thought I had it all figured out.
And as I confessed, I was met with more love than I dared imagine.
I realized that I wasn’t alone. I realized that I wasn’t condemned. I realized that the very things that made me weak were the cracks that let the light shine in, allowing other people to raise their hands and say, “Yeah, me, too.”
“Each time he said, “My grace is all you need. My power works best in weakness.”
2 Corinthians 12:9
During Training Camp, I lost my sanity, and gained awakening. I dumped years of heavy baggage at the foot of the cross, never to be picked up again. I learned that this thing called the Gospel takes up more room in my pack than even my sleeping mat, and that the filler luggage of Shame, Unrequited Love, Unforgiveness and Pride would need to be dropped.
There simply wasn’t enough room for both.
I found Jesus everywhere I looked, but especially in the faces and actions of those 49 new men and women who I have the honour of calling my family.
Never have I ever met a group of people so fearless, expectant, rebellious, and servant-hearted. They are so willing to lavish love, understanding, kindness, provision, and support. (They also rock the colour orange better than any traffic cone.) They are my Jesus, with skin on.
Training Camp was hard. The World Race promises to be harder.
But I find enormous comfort in knowing that Jesus, my Jesus, makes me yet another promise: I don’t always need to be strong.
Because when I can’t make it, I don’t get to be the hero – He does. He is glorified in the midst of chaos. He helps me to make room in my heart so that I can carry the things that truly matter, and leave behind the things that don’t.
In my weakness, He makes me strong.
And that is something worth shouting about.
