Writing on training camp has been a trap. The lie I have believed is if I don’t pen this eloquently enough or with enough detail filled with balance of symbolism and reality it isn’t worth writing. Yet, the time spent at camp was sacred and cost each future world racer something different. Camp looked different to all of us…
So, I surrender my expectations of this post. It probably won’t make you want to sign up for the race; it will most likely leave you with more questions than answers… I hope it does. This is not the whole story, this is just a very small look at the beginning of mine.
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I’ve mentioned before, the race itself doesn’t scare me. I respect the process, and am genuinely excited to spend a year living simply and simply living. What scares scared me the most, was the idea of finishing the race only to find that I was still the same person I was when I left. Still holding on to bitterness, still looking for promises that don’t exist on this side of Heaven, and still suffocating by countless attempts to earn grace.
I’m not afraid anymore. What training camp gave me, above anything else, was grace.
An elementary understanding of the reality::
I have done nothing and I can do nothing.
And a glimpse of grace in practice::
Grace that made forgiveness possible, grace that allowed for love of people I didn’t know a month ago. Grace overwhelmed and took the place of sarcasm on my tongue. Grace brought about tears of acceptance after three days of empty emotion. Grace made room for humility and my ability to admit the grief of leaving my comfortable life. Grace was spoken over constructive words and called forth greatness in feedback. Grace to declare brokenness without shame…
Grace looks different after training camp. Grace looks more like people and less like a tally sheet. But, grace doesn’t feel different. It feels like I’ve received just a small taste, enough to leave me longing for more… for more of Him. Enough to make me seek it out, because I know there’s a better way. It doesn’t feel how I thought it would…Grace doesn’t feel like forgiveness. I’ll say it again; grace (to me) doesn’t feel like forgiveness.
It doesn’t feel like forgiveness because my forgiveness…isn’t a feeling. Christ’s love for me isn’t a feeling. It is. I will never be more forgiven or less forgiven; I will never be looked upon, by Christ, with more or less grace. Grace isn’t a one time gift…I mean it is… but it isn’t, not when it’s lived out.
Pre-race, en-route, or post-race, I will never be able to tell my story and point to a chapter titled “grace”. Instead, I hope it reads redundantly:: grace upon grace upon grace [repeat]. I’m convinced, good stories aren’t possible without grace…and they’re the only stories worth living.
How is your story reading lately?
