I got home from the World Race almost 6 months ago and since then, I’ve been trying to understand this new version of normal. A normal that was once familiar and has taken time for me to not feel so far removed from. The truth is though, I’ve missed the World Race every day since being home and each day feels like a combination of mourning and celebration. I’m still trying to figure out how to live in the middle of that mix of emotions. I hope that writing this brings some of the answers to questions I have been unable to find.
I am also writing this in hopes of encouraging those of you who have loved and supported me so well this past year and half and even longer. I write it for those who went with me physically as well as through this blog, those that helped send me financially and covered me and my team in prayer. I hope that you can hear the heaviness and gratitude the Lord has given me for each moment and for each of you. I also write it to the countless people I met along the way; the ones whose tears and laughter still echo softly with each prayer. I will carry them with me, always. I hope I can steward this life better, for you, for them, for my still-healing-heart, but most of all, for the One who’s voice speaks loudest in these words….
*****
Soaked. Covered. Full. This weight rests heavy, threatening to hold me down and keep me from moving forward.
Every day of being home from the World Race has felt this way to me. Like I’m soaked up in so much of something I can’t explain. Like a warm fog that covers, hovering over every thought. It seems like it should be light and free and yet, some days it feels so heavy I don’t want to breathe it in.
I feel soaked from my own tears. From the tears of my teammates. From the tears of those who feel a million miles away in rural villages and big cities all over the world.
I feel soaked from being drenched in my own sweat from countless hours of hard labor in the hot sun. The sweat from hard work and back aches endured for orphanages and churches and homes for people I will never see again.
I feel soaked by the beautiful heaviness of gratitude from such an adventure, and yet I feel a weight of responsibility; to make use of every moment of this experience. That burden lingers.
But, most of all, I feel soaked in a love I have never understood to the depth that I do now. I saw the heart of my Abba, Father in people and experiences all over the world. Strangers, with weird names and odd languages; cultures I didn’t understand and habits I couldn’t make sense of. And He was there in the clumsiness of my attempt to love despite such differences. He was there in the mess of struggles with teammates and leadership and long, exhausting travel days. I saw Him in food He provided and healing He gave. I saw Him in broken hearts and warms smiles. I saw Him in mud huts soaked in the sun of His incredible provision.
The Race didn’t change me; how I responded to being soaked in that kind of weight is what changed me and my life forever. How I responded to the screaming child with a burnt arm and the weak mother with AIDS. How I responded to the hundreds of feet of dirt that had to be trenched. Day after day. How I responded to nights of tears and heartache, shaking my fist at a God who I blamed for the hurting and hungry eyes around me. Those same nights that ended in surrender and awe at a Shepherd who is in control and a Creator who fashioned this all together for His glory. I will never be able to fully comprehend such Majesty.
The Lord didn’t always bring healing when we asked Him to. He didn’t always bring rest when we were tired. He didn’t always bring food right when we asked for it. But He always, ALWAYS remained in control and with each moment of surrender, fullness came and the lens of my heart gradually shifted.
If you’ve ever worn glasses, there comes a time that your prescription may change. Words that were once clear become fuzzy, reminding you that it’s time to return to the doctor for a new lens in order to bring clarity to your worsening sight.
Only clarity in life doesn’t come through seeing better. It comes through giving up sight and relying simply on trust.
The deeper we learn to trust, the more we learn to live open-handedly and the less we care about clarity.
The change I experienced didn’t come through the work of a missionary doing ‘good deeds’ overseas. It was all the work of the Lord on my heart, altering the way I see things, changing my perspective, and giving me drive and passions for the things He is passionate about. It’s why I’m in school to be a Nurse Practitioner; to bring physical as well as spiritual healing to those He will bring me to. Month 11 He put someone in my path who has become a teammate and best friend, someone I’ve prayed for my entire life and who will now join me for the rest of it.
The Race was constant gift after gift. A hug on a hard day, a tear of laughter when I wanted to cry. A song of praise when the hurt stung too deep. Or a pure white feather laying on a muddy trail, reminding me of His ability to make these burdens light. And now my blind eyes see that every single moment which I interpret as heavy are actually soaked in His sweetness and covered by His grace:
I can’t take a hot shower without remembering the countless cold ones I took using a bucket. I can’t eat a meal without remembering those we helped feed and clothe all over the world. I can’t sleep in my warm bed without remembering nights I shivered on the floor. A floor where I was never more comfortable in all my life. I look at my closet and see such wasted space as I compare it to the small bag I lived out of for a year. Heartfelt conversations with friends now remind me of those delightful people I shared this journey with: I miss my U Squad family. Every. Single. Day.
And that remains the gift of the Race; constant gratitude that weighs down moments and brings awe. Each moment feels soaked and like it brings closer that thin place where Heaven meets earth. For that, for Him, and for you I am eternally grateful.
