The World Race is finally getting to me. This is hard. As a month 4 racer, I think I have earned the right to say that. I’m here to be honest about the whole dang thing—I want this blog to be nothing if it is not vulnerable. The truth is, it’s easy to have grandiose ideas about the World Race. It’s 11 months of traveling the world, chasing the Kingdom with a few dozen incredible individuals who share your love of Jesus and His people, living in cool places, trying new foods, and bungee jumping on the weekends.
So with all of those good things, why do I sit here in my favorite Cambodian coffee shop amidst trying to form a lesson plan for teaching Cambodian children the English alphabet, crying? Why does it feel like something deep within me has finally reached its breaking point? Why do I feel so heavy? How can I keep going for seven more months?
It started early last month when a moment of vulnerability from someone else triggered pent up bitterness and anger in me—things I didn’t even know still lingered. With the goal of deeper healing, I went there. I went back to painful memories, purposely reliving them, asking the Lord where He was in those moments. Let me tell you, soul work is exhausting, it hurts, and it never ends.
Next was Christmas. My third Christmas away from home in a row, my third time FaceTiming in from hundreds or thousands of miles away trying to feel like I’m there, like I’m still a part of the traditions and memories. It gets old. As much as I loved Christmas in Vietnam, I think I still would’ve preferred to be in snowy Minnesota. I’m homesick. Sometimes desperately.
And then came the goodbye. The third goodbye, actually. The nature of the World Race is to show up somewhere, build relationships, empower locals, serve in whatever way we can, and then leave. I’ve read the blogs about how the goodbyes are hard. I didn’t think it would affect me, really. I’ve always been pretty good at goodbyes. And now with only three under my belt, I’m over it—how can I continue to make friends and push into new places when its all so temporary?
Suddenly I’m thrown into a new country, a new city, a new ministry, a new leadership role. I’m exhausted in every sense of the word, struggling to see my strengths, finding it impossible to find true rest, and unable to hear God’s voice in a city that’s just so dang loud.
In the midst of it all, the pain of the world has become commonplace. A child sleeping on concrete on the sidewalk of a busy street in Vietnam, clutching to a tattered blanket. I can hardly peel my eyes away. An elderly woman in Nepal, scribbling circles onto page after page in a notebook for hours on end, day after day. Walking through the empty hallways of an old torture prison in Cambodia, realizing nearly every person we meet in this country has been profoundly impacted by the genocide that occurred here only 40 years ago. God, you see this stuff, right?
Being a World Racer means constantly feeling the weight of the world on your shoulders. You go, you see the brokenness and meet the people living in it, and then move on. It’s a terrible feeling. It’s heavy. I sit here wondering, how much more can I carry? This is only the beginning, isn’t it?
God, I get you are teaching me things, but where is this “fullness of joy” Christians keep talking about?
I page through my journal from the last four months as I wonder what I would do if someone walked through the door and offered me a free ticket home with no consequences. Would I take it? Would I get on that plane to return to all things good and comfortable? Though my answer may change day by day, I can tell you right now, as I sit here emotionally wrecked and exhausted and tear-stained, my answer is no. I would not get on that plane.
Hear me now: the World Race is hard. Maybe one of the hardest things I’ll ever do. I know this is only the tip of the iceberg, but I can tell you it is worth it. And even as I struggle to see truth in that on the hard days, I know it is a promise God has made to me.
Re-living the hard parts of my life brought me revelations about God’s faithfulness and steadfastness. Christmas in Vietnam brought special memories of exploration and sweet friends that could never be recreated. Hard goodbyes mean the relationships I’m creating with locals are meaningful and life-giving. Transitions every month mean I have been blessed beyond measure with the opportunity to see so many new places. Aching for other people means the Lord is answering my prayer to see the world through His eyes.
On the pages of my journal I find the joyful moments that are easy to forget about when the going gets tough: when I sat on a mountain with my guitar singing worship songs and an Arabic man sat down next to me to sing a song he had written as he listened; skirting past guard towers on the beach of Vietnam at night to take a late-night dip in the Pacific; watching my students in Cambodia “get it” and throw their hands in the air to answer my questions with a big smile on their faces. Pages upon pages of moments that remind me how worth it it all is.
There is pain. There is joy. There is growth. There are tears from sadness and from laughter. I continue to seek what it truly means to have fullness of joy and to find the Lord and rest in Him on the good days and the bad days. The truth is, Jesus stands by my side through all of them.
“So we’re not giving up. How could we! Even though on the outside it often looks like things are falling apart on us, on the inside, where God is making new life, not a day goes by without his unfolding grace. These hard times are small potatoes compared to the coming good times, the lavish celebration prepared for us. There’s far more here than meets the eye. The things we see now are here today, gone tomorrow. But the things we can’t see now will last forever.” 2 Corinthians 4:17-18 (MSG).
