I pace.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
Up my apartment hall, into the living room (my bedroom) and back.
On a loop. Over and over.
The Spotify station playing on my phone is filled with songs I don’t know. Apparently, it’s supposed to help me expand my musical tastes. Each of the songs, so much like the one before it, meld together to make a constant source of background noise.
It’s thundering outside. The usually bright blue sky is now gray, covered almost completely by clouds. We might get rain- rare for us, at least compared to the first couple weeks in Albania. Maybe it will help with the crushing heat.
I’m restless. I can’t sit for more than two minutes together. Twice, I have gone downstairs to see what my teammates are up to. Twice, I sat in a chair, legs crossed, bouncing my foot for a minute or two, and then got up and went back to my room.
I had planned to hike up a local hill to watch the sunset but I think the rain has other plans for me this Sunday afternoon.
Rain means the men next door with stop their renovating, I hope. They have been hammering and drilling on our shared wall since 7 AM. That was eight and a half hours ago.
I make another turn on my loop.
The hallway and living room floor is currently covered with all of my belongings. Earlier today, I decided to get rid of a bunch of my things (my pack is way too heavy) but I got antsy (hence the trips downstairs).
Normally a rather self-aware person, I’m not sure what I’m feeling today and that scares me a little bit.
On my latest loop, I realize the men have stopped their work, the apartment is quiet again, save the music blaring out of my phone, and I turn it down a couple notches.
I also realize: I’m on mile 23 of this marathon known as the World Race… and I’m done.
I’m done.
I’m tired.
I don’t want to do this anymore.
Last month, Romania, overwhelmed me, emotionally. I came into Albania stripped raw, attempting to hold myself together, failing miserably.
Every month is a fresh start- or, at least, I try to make it one. However, sometimes things carry over. Sometimes I don’t work through emotions, just put them on the back burner and try to forget.
It’s month 10 and I’m realizing the pots I’ve placed on the back burner are starting to boil over and make a charred mess.
I make another loop around the apartment.
I’ve known all along the Race is hard.
But… the hardest things aren’t the things you would expect.
The mosquitos, the squatty potties, the bucket showers, the long travel days, the heat, the humidity, the strange food, the getting out of your comfort zone- I knew all of that was coming. Yes, in the moment, those were difficult… but this is something else entirely.
The hardest part of the Race is the loss. It’s constant. I’m always saying goodbye to someone or something.
After the see-you-later to America, my first goodbye was at the end of Cambodia, where we said goodbye to one of the best, most kind-hearted women I know, and her adopted daughter. On top of that, we said goodbye to at least a hundred children and a dozen or so wonderful teachers.
Repeat for Thailand and the women I got to know in the bars. For Malaysia and our wonderful students and fantastic host family.
For the Philippians, Zimbabwe, Zambia, Malawi, Ukraine, Romania… soon to be Albania.
I have said goodbye countless times, and sometime, somewhere, I realized the gravity of these goodbyes. Unlike our “first goodbye” (to America), these are REAL goodbyes- I will, probably, never see these people again. At first, I made a joke out of it, but, as the process of getting to know and caring for people has become easier and more natural over the months, the act of untangling my heart from their lives has become increasingly difficult.
I love so many people I will never see again- and, while the pain of their loss serves as a reminder to keep them in my prayers, it stings acutely.
My biggest goodbyes are coming up.
Similar to how cool mornings and shortened days signal change is coming after a long, lovely summer, I see the end of this World Race season coming quickly.
God put my Squad in my life for a season and that season is ending. No longer the fresh-faced group of newbies we were at Launch, I have begun the process of letting them go. We joke about having “DTR” (define the relationship) conversations about how we plan on staying in each other’s lives after the Race, but I know that this specific community as a whole was only ever going to last 11 months.
In Thailand, our host asked us to fully pour ourselves into the work and relationships God had for us that month. We were not to focus on the past month but completely go hard for the time we had in Thailand- and then, at the end of the month, we were to forget her. When we left Thailand, we were supposed to move on, forgetting that season as we moved into the next.
The end is coming but, on the other hand, I know my 11 months aren’t over yet. I know there are still things God has planned to teach me through my teammates and my squad mates. I still need to go hard, pursue relationships, and love fiercely now.
But… I’m tired. I’m so tired and it’s hard to see how it’s “worth it” anymore.
Last month, I kept hearing “my yoke is easy, my burden is light” (Matthew 11:30). I was confused. The heartache I was experiencing because of the hurt in this world didn’t seem “light,” in fact, I felt like I was being crushed by it. I was angry at God- he PROMISED His yoke would be “easy,” why was I struggling so hard to carry it?
Back up a verse or two.
“Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.”
(Matthew 11:28-30)
Come to Me.
Learn from Me.
Come to Me.
For some reason, I missed that bit entirely.
I spent Romania fighting with Him, angry at the injustice I saw all around me.
I’ve spent the first two weeks of this month angry as well, this time at the future heartache and hurt I will experience. I have spent my energy rebuilding walls, long ago demolished, to protect myself, cutting people out, working myself up into a frenzy, driving myself to exhaustion… all because I have refused to come to Him.
Come to Me. I will give you rest.
That’s where I am, right now. Humbly sitting at my Father’s feet, asking for rest.
I’ve heard, countless times, “Worry is negative meditation,” I’m choosing to meditate instead on His goodness, His love, His mercy, His grace… everything else is going to have to worry about itself.
