It was nearly a month ago that I woke up in Uganda, happy as could be and without a worry in the world. I rolled over and grabbed my phone to see a message on my lock screen from my sister. “Call me as soon as possible.” It was at that point where the most heartbreaking time of my life began. I had been told that my dad went unconscious at home and had been rushed to the hospital and that he had to be resuscitated several times. The doctors didn’t expect him to make it through the night. I was overwhelmed with shock and grief. I kept thinking to myself, ‘This can’t be happening.’ I kept praying, ‘No, God, not my daddy! When I asked to be broken, I didn’t mean this!‘ I began fasting, worshipping, and praying nonstop. I prayed and begged for God to heal my dad. Three days later, he passed away, and I was rushed home to be with my family. From Kampala, Uganda, Brussels, Belgium, Newark, New Jersey, and then to Nashville, Tennessee was a total of 23 hours of travel. That was 23 hours away from anyone I knew, 23 hours of barely speaking, for the first time in seven months. Without much time to process I was suddenly thousands of miles away from the only people I had known for over half a year, and I was going home to a situation I didn’t think I would be facing until I was old and grey. I didn’t think I would be facing the death of my father while I was 25 and overseas on a mission trip that my father had supported and was so enthusiastic about. I didn’t think when I walked out of my dad’s house on August 1st, 2019, that that was going to be the last time I got to hug him. A 25-year-old shouldn’t have to bury her father. She needs him for guidance, love, and support. She needs him to give his blessing to the man she’s going to marry someday, and she needs him to walk her down the aisle on her wedding day. She needs him to bounce her future babies on his lap and teach them all the cool things he taught her. And then, someday when he’s ready and his grandchildren have grown up, he’s supposed to go and be with Jesus after he’s 80 or 90 or even 100 years old.
Being at home felt odd after seven months on the mission field. It was like an out-of-body experience. I knew I had been gone for seven months, I knew where I had been and what I had done, but it felt like a dream. I knew it wasn’t, because I have the pictures and the scars to prove it, but it felt like I had never left home in a way. Reuniting with my family was a bittersweet experience. I knew everyone was happy to see me, but not under the circumstances that caused my homecoming. The next few days were spent planning my dad’s funeral with my sister, aunt, and grandmother. The time of the funeral approached, and I can’t explain to you how nervous and scared I was of seeing my dad’s body. I’ve seen other deceased family members, but this was nothing like those in the past. This was my daddy. This was the man I once thought was strong enough to lift a tractor, who I used to play catch with in the backyard. I couldn’t see him lying there in a casket at the age of 54. When I finally walked up and saw him lying there with his Bible on his chest and his favorite belt buckle settled on his hips, the reality sunk in that my dad was no longer here with me. He’s gone, and I’ll never get to see him again on this earth.
The funeral process was over in a flash, and I was finally able to take a deep breath. I could finally focus on healing, spending time with family, and preparing to go back out onto the field. The dates fell in a way that I was going to fly out to Romania with my mom for PVT, and we were both so excited. She had never been overseas before, and I was looking forward to getting back to my squad and to what I believed God wanted me to do. I had had two dreams on the Race of going home early and feeling like I needed to go back out to the field, so I knew I wanted to return to the mission trip. However, because of the pandemic the world is facing, boarders began closing and flights were being canceled. PVT was no longer possible, and my mom and I were both crushed by the news. I began to think about my squadmates whose parents were coming, and how excited I knew they were to see their parents. My heart sank as I imagined their reactions, imagined their pain and disappointment. I was soon contacted by Racers and parents who knew I was still planning to go out to the field to see if I would bring phones, clothes, snacks, and other items to their children they no longer got to see. Without a thought, I said yes, and within two days I had received multiple packages. I quickly began packing up my things, as my flight was scheduled to leave the following day.
When I was at my grandmother’s for dinner with family, I got an email from our squad mentor that after much deliberation, AIM had made the difficult decision to end our Race. It wasn’t just our Race that was ended prematurely, but every Race was brought to a screeching halt. The World Racers, Gap Year, Semesters, and all other programs were being ended all over the planet because it simply wasn’t possible to travel or conduct productive ministry anymore. I began to grieve all over again. The mission trip that I had prepared for over a year was suddenly over, and I didn’t even get to finish it. I was supposed to fly up to New York yesterday to welcome my squad back to the USA and debrief with them, but then debrief was canceled because hotels in NYC are beginning to close. I didn’t get to say goodbye to my squad because I thought I was going back to them. I didn’t get to greet my squad once they landed back on American soil because a disease is spreading like wildfire, and everything is shutting down. I don’t understand what God is doing. I’m trying not to be bitter. I’m trying not to point fingers. I’m trying not to be resentful toward governments. But I’m hurt. I’m angry. I’m confused. I’m grieving. I’m depressed. I’m disappointed. I feel like I’ve been robbed – Robbed of all the experiences and life I’ll never get to share with my dad, and robbed of the Race. I’ve been asking God, “Why?” since the day I found out my dad was in the hospital. I haven’t heard back. I know all the churchy things to say about situations like this. ‘God is in control of it all. God knew this was going to happen, etc.’ To be honest, those sorts of answers don’t help. I want to know why. But I also realize God doesn’t always promise to tell us why, which isn’t what I want. I. Want. To. Know. Why. I want to know why all this suffering is necessary.
And now that all of this is over, I want to know what in the world I’m supposed to do next. I wasn’t prepared to deal with job hunting, car shopping, or anything like that until July. I wasn’t supposed to be worrying about any of this for another 4 months. I’m not sure where to go from here. I didn’t think up a plan for any of this because I never considered any of this to be a possibility. I posted my updated resume on different websites today, and none of it feels right. It just feels like one big nightmare.
Through it all, I’m still trying to praise God. I’m still trusting in Him. Even when I feel like I’m going through this alone, when I feel abandoned and forgotten, I know He’s with me.
