It’s the beginning of August.
I’m sitting here feeling the anticipation of starting a new school year, starting as a teacher from the very beginning for the very first time.
I have my calendar of necessities written out for the next 2 months, there are candles burning on my desk and worship music quietly humming in the background. Monsoon storms have been rolling across the desert all week and there are dark clouds outside…although the twilight sky is deceptively already dark for 9 pm at this time of year. It would be perfect moment of hipsterism and peace except my dog is incessantly barking at nothing and my roommate strumming her guitar in the room next door.
It’s month 9 of being home.
I’m sorry what?
Month 9?
Several of my squad mates are now married or engaged. Several have moved and bought homes, rented apartments, started new careers, entered into relationships…. Honestly I’m expecting one or two to retire in luxury by Christmas at this rate.
However, I’m sitting in my older brother’s childhood room– now my room, in our parent’s house, finally feeling like an adult because I filled out my calendar and my room is kind of tidy at the moment.
Is there shame circling the temptation grounds like a vulture waiting for its next meal? Absolutely. I’m 25. At the current moment I have 6 dollars and some change in my checking account and about 52 in my savings. I’m living in my parent’s home, without my own car. About the only adult thing going for me besides my calendar and pinterest boards is the fact that I have a steady job. And the fact that I’m trying to build my savings back up so I can adult a little more successfully. (PS: mad amounts of shame at this reality being broadcast all over the internet and to certain people I know are on my subscribers list… but hey…transparency. Carrying on.)
*About that steady job, let’s just ignore the fact that I’m fighting the rebellion of wanting to be the insolent employee who says “What are you going to do, fire me? Puhlease. Make my day. I’ll go back to bed” Because they don’t allow my nose ring at the moment.*
My adventurous heart still leaps and tears spring behind my eyes when I catch a whiff of curry or see a tuk-tuk in my dreams. I was doing a home visit today at an immigrant family’s small apartment and the fact that it was filled with traditional décor, simplicity, foreign language, and distinct smells almost made me lose my composure. I’m sure that would have been great. “Hey, I’m your kid’s teacher, I love your d-housing apartment, do you have a tissue and can I maybe hang out for awhile and just observe your family?”
It’s August.
I cleaned out my closet this evening (just the shoe department, let’s be real, it’s a school night). I have a trash bag full of old flip flops and weird shoes I got suckered into buying by my mom at some point in my high school career. As I sat there putting it all in the bag, I kept thinking “what does one do with shoes like this? They’re too ratchet to give to a thrift shop or resell, but they still do the job.” I mean honestly, I actually contemplated shipping a bag of misfit, broken-in shoes to Africa. Sitting in my cozy little room, vivid flashes of faces I befriended in so many places played across the screen in my mind like an old broken, sappy movie clip from a reel long lost. I distinctly re-lived a conversation with my house mama in South Africa when I went to get rid of a terribly ripped pair of leggings and a couple long dresses I no longer wanted to tote around in my pack. She took both with incredible excitement and told me her plans to remake them into work-out clothes and house dresses.
My eyes wandered to the countless bare feet I walked next to, tickled, and lived with for a year. Dusty, cracked…..storied feet. Feet that had purpose and went places. Feet that traveled and carried their owner through things you and I could not even read in most books.
And I have a stupid trash bag of shoes that would cover those feet. How do I get rid of them?
As an American, hoarding just doesn’t do it. And to be honest, as a believer, something doesn’t click right with keeping everything I touch out of guilt that another doesn’t have it.
Then my reasoning and justifying voice kicks in. “Rachel, you bought these flip flops from old navy when you were in high school. 7 years ago. They have puppy teeth marks in them. Those flats were from your first waitressing job also 7 years ago. These shoes have been worn and used and are well broken into. You do not wear them. You haven’t touched them in years. You know very well you will not wear the granny flats and you do not need 9 pairs of old navy flip flops that look like chew toys from a swamp monster.
It’s August.
I anticipate fall. My deep and covetous love of fall fashion threatens to take over my pinterest boards. But then I look at my Chacos and basic clothes I picked up in markets around the world and struggle to fit the two very real parts of me together.
It’s August.
After 18 consecutive years of schooling, a degree and several awards and honors later, my instinct tells me it’s time to go back to school and continue my education. My motivation dies a little more inside and my childish alter ego sticks a big tongue out at the idea of homework.
It’s August.
There are so many options for how my life can go. How do you choose?
It’s August.
I signed up for a beautifully do-able and Christ centered Pilates program that I pay for every month, but I haven’t worked out since April. My skin is breaking out, my weight fluctuates anywhere from 3-8 pounds a week. I’m pretty sure I’m slowly losing my sanity. And yet, I feel so adult and organized at the same time.
So what if I curl up in bed with a beer and “The Holliday”, “Pride and Prejudice”, or “Titanic” frequently, and shout how the writers stole my life script and never paid me for it? That’s a real thing 25 year olds do, right? I mean…I get out and adventure still and I have yet to buy a cat, so I think I’m still in the clear.
It’s August.
I grieve friendships lost over the last 3 years. I mourn memories that still hold on in the back of my mind like gum on the bottom of a shoe. I celebrate life and growth of new friendships. I blanch at the thought of being an alumni World Racer and what that actually means….where I’ve been, the dirt my feet have touched, the hands I’ve held, the hearts that changed mine, the adventures that called me into the open, and the intimacy that challenged me to stay and operate out of intention, vulnerability, and true identity in Jesus.
It’s August.
How can I have started a fast this weekend, and the same day I started, fall to a temptation of sin from days long ago? Oh, right. Rachel didn’t calculate the enemy into her plans of submission and spiritual growth. How inconvenient.
It’s August.
I feel so beautifully excited and content in this place. And not at all. This season. This heart posture the Father constantly feel the need to knock me t…I mean beckons me to. I hurt. I celebrate. I can’t seem to cry. But I feel like I should have wept buckets by now. I laugh. I watch. I listen. I feel.
It’s August.
And for all those who are wondering and messaging me, no, I’m not getting married right now. Yes, I do shower a lot more now that I’m home. No, I’m not getting married right now. No, you don’t have to hide your children from me because of your fear of international diseases. No, I’m not going for my Master’s right now. No, I’m not getting married right now. Yes, I am still traveling around. No I’m not getting married right now. Yes, I’m working full time. No, I’m not getting married right now. Yes, I want to move out. No, I’m not getting married right now. No, I’m not moving to Spain as I originally thought this year (God is funny, but stay tuned…who knows). No, I currently can’t keep my plants alive. No, I’m not getting married right now. No, I’m not fluent in 11 new languages.
Oh. And by the way, I’m not getting married right now.
It’s August.
It’s August and I find myself constantly in need of more Jesus. Daily, my relationship with him is different and beautiful and hard and horribly strained because of my brokenness, and yet it is excitingly something Jesus and I celebrate every day. It’s August and I deeply need coffee. I need fellowship. I have so many hopes and dreams. I’ve said “I” so many times in this blog that I feel like it shouldn’t even be posted…because ultimately it’s not about me. My God. My King. My Savior. He is my everything and it’s no longer me, but Christ who lives in me and deserves the glory. He is the ultimate truth sayer, comfort giver, sovereign ruler, gracious friend, intimate brother, tender lover, star breather, forgiveness shower-er, and so much more. I’m alive and it is August because of him. This is his season. His life. His vessel. His beauty. Let it be poured out as an encouragement into your life.
Our God is fighting for us always. In every season, He is still God. In celebration, in triumph, in tears, and in grieving. In certainty and in wicked uncertainty. He is trustworthy. Our brokenness meets his wholeness. When we live in the broken and mushy middle, we need the God-stories of the past to believe and hope for the God-stories of the future. There is evidence of hope all around us. His character and promises support us in every season, as no broken story can break His promises. Our messed up life is revealed as a mission that we can choose to live out. And our mission collides at the intersection of God’s plan, our place, and the world’s pain. That’s it.
#ramblingsofaracer
Or maybe it’s just #ramblingsofrachel
PS Be on the look-out for a new website! It’s happening folks. It’s really happening. Rachel is adulting.
