It’s been a while since my last blog post, which was filled with the pain, anguish, and turmoil I was experiencing when it felt like my life was falling apart. My dad suddenly died of a heart attack while I was in Uganda, which was month 7 of the Race. The day before I was supposed to fly back out to rejoin my squad in Romania, I received another blow. The rest of our Race was canceled because of COVID-19, which I had been preparing myself for since the beginning of 2018. The rug had been pulled out from under my feet, and I was left shattered on the floor with no idea how to put myself together. Over the next several months, I found myself in an utterly depressive state, and I was questioning whether I could trust God or not.
When I first got the news of my dad being in a critical state at the hospital with the likelihood of not surviving, I was in Kampala, Uganda. I had woken up to a message from my sister, asking me to call her asap. My dad being on his deathbed was the last thing that crossed my mind. While I waited for my sister to get back to me, I even went through my family’s Facebook accounts to make sure they had posted recently. I saw that my dad had posted just a few hours prior, so I didn’t worry about him. But as soon as my sister told me what was going on, that our dad passed out at home, was rushed to the hospital, had coded several times, and wasn’t expected to live, I thought back to the prayer I had prayed the day before.
“Father, I have become content in my walk. Please break me so that you can build me up again.”
I knew the prayer was dangerous. I was doing a devotional on my Bible app called ‘Dangerous Prayers,’ and that was one of them. I wanted God to break me. I prayed that prayer before in March of 2018 after a painful breakup, and He did what I asked and more. I came out of the refining fire as the purest gold. And while that process was hard, I knew I could handle something like that again. But I wasn’t expecting what followed. I begged God to heal my father, to save his life, to show mercy. I told God, “This isn’t what I wanted!” I fasted. I worshiped. But my dad never woke up, and two days later, on February 23rd, he departed this life to join Jesus in Paradise.
My dad was diagnosed with Type II Diabetes when he was around 30 years old, and he battled it every day. Diabetes can cause slowed healing, skin issues, and poor circulation to the extremities. A little over a decade ago, he began to form blisters and sores on his feet that wouldn’t heal. They would get infected, and sometimes he would have to have surgery to repair it. He was continuously plagued by these sores. They gave him a lot of trouble, sometimes even preventing him from being able to walk, and he struggled to cope with all that was happening in his life as a result of them. In 2017, he was in for another surgery, and this time he was left to remain at home with a tube stuck in his foot that was supposed to drain out the infection while pumping in saline to keep it clean. At his next appointment, he received the news that he had developed Charcot Foot. In basic terms, the repetitive infections in his foot had caused the bones to break down. This meant he had two options. He could either have reconstructive surgeries, which would have left him bedridden for 10 weeks. It wasn’t guaranteed to fix the problem either. The second choice, he could have his foot amputated. He chose the latter. His leg was amputated below the knee, and he walked around on a walker for a while as he adjusted to the prosthetic. Despite the circumstances, I think he was just happy to be on his feet again, even if one of them was fake. All seemed well again.
But then, earlier this year, another blister showed back up. It was on the same leg but on the bottom of his stump that was no longer fitting properly into his prosthetic glove. He underwent another surgery, and he was down again for another few weeks. The inactivity caused blood clots to form in his leg, which found their way to his heart when dislodged.
Attending my father’s funeral at the age of 25 was something I never thought I would have done. Seeing my dad’s dead body in his casket and giving his chilled forehead one last kiss is a memory that will forever haunt me. It was one of the hardest days of my life, and the following days I spent at home were just as terrible, but I had hope because I believed I was returning to the mission field. I thought I would get to rejoin my brothers and sisters, with whom I had spent the previous 7 months. I thought I would be able to heal, that I would have them around me to comfort me and walk me through the grieving process. But that wouldn’t be the case either.
I knew about the Coronavirus long before it left China. I read reports about it in January while we were in Kenya, and while we were in Uganda, Annie and I found out that we could watch Fox News on the little TV our host had. We watched as the numbers skyrocketed and began to spread worldwide, and I recall someone asking if we thought AIM would send us home. I said, “No. I think if they were to send us home, it’d have to get really bad. Like, global pandemic bad.” Well, it got global pandemic bad. I had my flight booked to go to Romania with my mom for PVT, but we were all nervous that things would start getting canceled. I was upstairs in my room, lying in bed and preparing to go to sleep when she came upstairs and broke the news to me in tears. PVT had been canceled, which meant I would be flying to Romania alone. I was brokenhearted and scared. I was hurting for my squadmates who were expecting to see their parents, and I was scared because I began to wonder if I would even be able to go back to my squad. Borders were shutting down across the globe, quarantine laws were being enforced, and panic took over. The day before I was supposed to fly out, I got the email from our squad mentor that they had decided to cancel all trips and bring everyone back home.
I was wrecked all over again. I was suddenly ripped away from not only my dad but also my friends, and so many things I had dreamed about for two years.
The months that followed are a blur to me now. It was nothing but day after day, sitting at home and watching countless TV shows and movies, trying to find some way to numb myself to the despair that had taken over me. I was still in the Word every day, but my heart wasn’t in it. My heart was in splinters, and though I didn’t want to admit it, I was angry with God. I didn’t understand why He was letting me walk through what I was walking through. I didn’t understand any of it. There were many days where I sat in front of my computer, unmoving and barely eating, trying to focus on a movie or show instead of the ache in my chest, the lump in my throat, and the sting in my eyes. I became bitter and irritable with everything and everyone around me. It was unrelenting. I finally spoke to my counselor in April and told her what happened. I barely remember the conversation because I couldn’t soak in what she was telling me. All I knew was that my dad was dead, the world was in pieces, and so was I. But I do remember that she told me to allow myself to feel it. Allow myself to feel the grief and the pain, break down for a few minutes, and then pick myself back up and do something productive. So I allowed myself to feel, and I shut everyone out. April and May went by. My 26th birthday in May went uncelebrated. I didn’t want to celebrate. How could I celebrate when my dad was dead, and the world was locked down? I was supposed to be in Albania, but instead, I was in Gallatin, TN, wishing life had taken a different turn. One part of me felt like I should have faked it, but I knew faking it wasn’t the solution. So I continued to allow myself to feel the pain and grief.
When June rolled around, things started looking up. I got a new haircut. My salon had finally opened up again, and I had enough money to go and get a big change. My church started having in-person services again with social distancing and mask mandates. I didn’t care about any of that. I was just happy to be able to be around different people again. I’m an introvert, but staying inside a house with the same people for 3 months got to be way too much for me. I had been in constant community for 7 months before quarantine, and I knew I needed to be around other like-minded Christians again. Being able to go back to church didn’t have a magic switch effect, though. It didn’t suddenly make me happy again. If anything, I began to question God once more. I began to question if He really was good and how everything that was happening in the world was possibly meant for His glory.
I tend to be a pretty political person, so I knew what was going on across the country. I knew of the tragedy that happened with George Floyd. I knew that peaceful protests were being turned into riots by the lawless. I just didn’t get it, but I wouldn’t let my heart be hardened by it. I truly believe that because I didn’t turn away from our society’s issues, God shifted my perspective. I began to look inward at myself instead of pointing the finger at all those around me like I usually would have done. I began to ask myself, what can I do in my own life to ensure justice, to display the love of God, and to not lift myself up, but lift Jesus? Putting a black square on my Instagram wasn’t going to help anyone, and I knew it deep down. I was only doing it because I wanted people to think, “What a good Christian.” I knew that if I left that black square on my Instagram feed, I would gain points from the world, but what did I have to gain from God if I didn’t treat those around me like they were my neighbor, no matter their skin color? I decided to take the black square down, and instead, do my good deeds in private while God transformed me in the secret place.
When July rolled around, I got to spend some much-needed vacation time with family at the lake. A couple of weeks later, I was headed off to Asheville, NC, for PSL with a few people from my squad. I was thrilled that I was going to be able to see them again after so many months! I rented a car and drove 6 hours (actually, Knoxville traffic made it 7), and I was greeted by smiles and hugs. I was overwhelmed with emotion, but I wouldn’t allow myself to cry before we even started talking. I was also starving, so I had to take care of that first. Going to PSL was something the Lord knew I needed. He knew I needed closure from the Race, and that’s what I received. We had hard conversations, the kinds that are raw and real, not skin deep like so many others. They were the conversations I desperately missed. We shared our pains, our burdens, and our struggles with each other. One night we got to spend time worshiping with other WR Alumni that were in Asheville completing their practicums for G42, and I’ll go ahead and let you know that I was ugly sobbing the entire night. Nothing could stop my tears because I knew God had created me for a community like the one I had. I knew I was made to be surrounded by missional-minded Christians, the type that lets you express your pains, sorrows, and griefs without giving “churchy” and unhelpful answers. That night was a gift from God because he allowed me one last night of worship with my World Race family.
Something that will always stick with me from PSL is the talk we had with our squad mentor, Tammy. She spoke to us about the pain she’d experienced from a great loss she suffered earlier in her life and how that pain became the catalyst for something incredible the Lord was doing through her. She began crying, I began sobbing and snotting into my shirt, and I think most of the others were weeping as well. She spoke about how much it hurt losing someone so close to her, but she wouldn’t change what happened because of what God did as a result of that. She challenged us to use our pain as a catalyst to start a movement for the Kingdom of God.
And that’s the whole purpose of this blog.
There’s so much I could write, but this blog post is already over 2,000 words, so I’ll share what God has shown me through the heartache I’ve endured this past year. He showed me that my identity is not in the plans I’ve arranged for myself, even the ones I believe are from Him. He showed me that though the World Race ended earlier than I wanted it to, it went on as long as it was supposed to and that my Kingdom Race is nowhere near complete. The World Race was not my purpose. It played a role in shaping me, but my purpose goes beyond a mission trip. He taught me to hold onto everything loosely because nothing and no one is constant aside from Himself.
I realized truths about my past relationships that I had not accepted this time last year. It was this spring that I finally accepted that I had been in an emotionally abusive relationship with a man I believed I was in love with and that my entire thought process had been warped by the trauma during those two years. It took two more years of being out of that relationship to come to terms with the fact that I had been abused. But God provided reconciliation there. The man I had been in that relationship with reached out to me a few times after coming home. It was in July that I was able to come clean about the realization I had reached.
I wasn’t the only victim in that relationship. I manipulated him, lied to him, and tried with every fiber of my being to fit the mold I thought he wanted. I followed my heart and not my head, and I fought for that relationship despite all the red flags. I played a part in all the hurt too. Neither of us realized we were in an emotionally abusive relationship. In July, when I presented this realization to him, he asked me when I recognized that. I told him I had finally accepted it two months prior. He said he realized the same thing a few months ago and had been doing teshuvah (a method of repentance through rigorous self-examination in the Jewish faith) incessantly, and he begged for my forgiveness. I began sobbing in my bathroom and felt a weight lift off my chest, and I asked for his forgiveness as well. We made our amends and said our final goodbyes. I’ll write more about recovering from emotional abuse in another blog post.
He showed me that people are not simply good and evil. Yes, humans are born with the inclination to sin, but it’s not as black and white as we would like to think. He showed me that there is a reason for everything that happens, a reason for everything a person does. He showed me that behind every violent action and every hurtful word, there is a wounded child who desperately needs the love of God. Behind every protestor, police officer, rioter, Antifa member, Republican, Democrat, and all in between, is a person bearing the imago Dei. Without God, we are all hopeless, pitiful, and broken, and it is His desire for all to come to His table. (1 Tim. 2:4)
Through the grief I endured, God softened my heart and filled it with greater compassion. I’ve noticed a trend that God fills me with a stronger love and care for His people when I’m suffering. God showed me new perspectives. He allowed me to see things from a new angle. One of the most significant sources of my sadness was the thought of how many experiences I would be missing out on with my dad. My dad will never get to see me get married or walk me down the aisle. My dad will never get to meet my children, and my children won’t know him. I’ll never get to see his hair go white, and I’ll never get to hold his withered, aged hand. The last hug I received from him was on August 1st, 2019, a day before I left for the World Race. Even still, these things bring me a great deal of grief. But I’ve learned over the last two years that gratitude is my best friend. I listened to a podcast that my counselor recommended to me (I forgot the podcast’s name), and she had a guest on an episode dealing with grief. He said the best way to deal with grief was to feel all of it but not get sucked into thinking about all that you won’t get to experience with them. He said to combat that thinking with gratitude because you had them for as long as they were supposed to be here. You were blessed to experience their life with them, and they were blessed to experience your life too. Be grateful for the time you had with them, and don’t dwell on things that were never meant to happen.
Through all that I’ve been through, God has restored my joy. He has blessed my life and opened doors to opportunities I never thought I would have. He has remained faithful. I have returned to school to earn a General Studies AS at the community college in my town, which should be completed by the end of the spring semester, and I have started working at Starbucks. I hope to transfer to Belmont University in Nashville in the fall semester of 2021 to earn a Business Degree. I know now not to expect anything to unfold the way I have imagined in my head, but I trust that no matter what direction God leads me in, it will be for His glory.
“As this dusty road now settles
And I see what lay before,
Every tear that held a broken dream
Is now shattered on the floor.
And now bursting forth in splendor
Are the blossoms of second tries
Because dreams that bear the mark of love
Are dreams that never die.”
Moving Forward – Colony House
