There are a few things on the Race that most everyone is afraid of:
1) Going to the hospital. No one wants to get sick on the field, but needing to go to the hospital sends you into a whole new kind of panic. As someone who forgets literally everything, the responsibility of making sure I ask for my hospital receipts so as not to lose the possibility of insurance coverage is almost scarier than any actual sickness or injury I could acquire (except for maybe Japanese Encephalitis).
2) Losing your passport. At training camp, it’s all but drilled into you that your passport is your lifeline. It’s your entire identity, the breath you need to keep your Race alive. Losing it means going through the entire passport process again and potentially being held back from travelling with your squad. To lose your passport is to, in simplest terms, walk through hell and back.
3) Last but not least, the thing I was most afraid of coming onto the field: Lice. And, if you’ve seen my hair, you’d know why.
It’s something I’ve been able to, up until this point in my life, avoid with a surprising amount of ease. I’ve only ever heard the horror stories, never lived among them or had my own to share. However, after only a month on the field, it’s become increasingly evident to me that getting lice is not only highly probable, but an experience I need to accept as inevitable.
Because my team and I are working everyday in kid’s ministry, our likelihood of getting lice is exponentially greater than that of our squad-mates, and we’ve already had several scares. With each scare, we have “head-check parties,” during which we all sit anxiously on the floor of our bedroom as one of our more experienced teammates examines each of us, our anxiousness increasing with each unsure hum or double-checking of certain parts of our scalps. We lather ourselves in Tea Tree oil (in case you’re wondering, future racers, this is a pro-tip) every morning before ministry to try and prevent it, but there have been several days of ministry where our hosts will tell us which kids are notorious for lice after we’ve already spent hours playing Duck, Duck, Goose or letting them jump on our backs and braid our hair, and we’ll wonder and worry for the rest of the day whether or not we’re going to have to spend the next week isolated from the rest of the squad and washing our hair exclusively with lice shampoo.
I realized, though, after one specifically big scare two weeks ago, that there was something looming over me that was much more terrifying than the possibility of contracting lice. As we were on the bus heading home from ministry in the slums, my team leader asked me anyone had told me one of the kids I’d been playing with—letting on my back, hugging tightly, and taking selfies with—was well-known for having lice. And, obviously, I thought she was kidding. Why would my team let me continue playing with this boy if they were aware of what he could have and could be giving me? Turns out, she was dead serious, and, in all honesty, I was angry at first. I was confused as to why my teammates would willingly let me stay so close to this thing we’d all been so afraid of, and I couldn’t understand why they wouldn’t have told me.
It was strange, though, because as my teammates and other squad-mates who were also riding home with us talked about checking my head that night and how almost certain they were that I had it, I was filled with a kind of peace and my immediate reaction subsided. I prayed and asked God to tell me if I had it, to tell me if I should prepare myself for it or if I could release the worry. He told me directly that I was okay, that I didn’t have it and not to worry. So, for the rest of the day if someone brought it up to me, I was quick to tell them I was fine. I chose to believe my Father’s words over the assumptions and reactions of my squad-mates.
It was in this moment I felt the Lord tugging at me, revealing to me what I really needed to be afraid of. If I had been preoccupied with one L word, I would have missed out on the other, more important one: Love. If I had given into the fear of maybe getting lice, I wouldn’t have given nearly as much attention and love and friendship to a child that was in such desperate need of it. I would have looked at that child and felt fear over something he couldn’t control, something that is so minuscule when compared to his position as a child of the Most High. So, looking back, I’m grateful my teammates didn’t tell me, not because it was necessarily the right thing to do, but because not knowing meant I was brought into a stature of love and joy, rather than one of fear.
Now, obviously, I’m not looking to put myself in a position to get lice; it’s still the least appealing thing about kid’s ministry and I don’t have any desire to check that box off on my World Race to-do-list, but my perspective on it has changed. I’ve realized that I don’t fear getting lice as much as I fear not looking like Jesus, that I’d rather spend time looking for lice in my hair than looking in the mirror and not seeing the Hands and Feet. So, when someone else’s afflictions cause you to pause and wonder if loving them is worth it, ask yourself this question:
In terms of urgency, where does the Gospel stand in comparison to your comfort?
