This past weekend was a whirlwind of new: new locations daily, new friendships, new insecurities, a new vantage point (from our precious nephew who traveled with us) and new life. We began in Alabama, where we, and I use the term “we” loosely because I still wasn’t at a place tophysically help, aided disaster relief efforts and documented different teams for my husband’s work at Adventures in Missions. Pulling into the road where most of the damage took place, I couldn’t help but question the odd selection system that nature appears to employ in the madness of a tornado. One house was torn down to the foundation yet their neighbors front yards had perfectly arranged flower beds and un-chipped paint on their untouched houses. It seems like the worst kind of unfair-ness. The heaviness of it was almost too much to bear, so I awkwardly made a comment about how these tornado’s must have been Calvanists, with how oddly choosy they were. Daniel actually asked me if I heard that somewhere or just made it up. I don’t know whether I’d be proud or frightened if I found out someone elsethought of something as odd as that. I fussily told him that of course I made it up and vowed to actually share more of my “deep thoughts” with him in the future instead of just silently wondering about them.
I suppose that is a constant battle of mine: how to live in community with others while still keeping myself “centered” by taking time alone. I have such a deep desire to truly learn how to love others, but I also have a deep desire to do all things really well. And I have to admit, truly loving-in-the-grit-and-grime of life and being loved in the depths of the struggle is not something I can always do well- so I don’t do it at all sometimes. When it all comes down to the heart level, I want to love others perfectly and handle my own life well. This polished way of living directly contradicts with the whole concept of community, as it is formed and nurtured in the mutual sharing of broken places. I’ve recently come to realize that community is also the space to rejoice in the gifts of others. Interestingly enough, if I can’t let others see my weaknesses (not just admit them, but actually invite others into my life toexperience them with me), well then there really would be no rejoicing because there is no contrast involved in a “perfect” life. The line is flat when you’re dead—it’s the constant transition that proves life.
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The first victim I met at the tornado site lost his house and family and he was thrust into an ever-changing community, almost instantly. Suddenly, his world was torn to pieces and his family was gone and all these strangers began to come from around the United States to help him rebuild his home and his land and his heart. As I spoke with him, I felt sheepish, almost, telling him I was sorry for what happened. His world was flattened, his mother and brother killed before his eyes, and all I could muster up was “I’m so sorry”. But I am thankful I said something. As I recently learned, in hard times it’s often better to just say something, even if it’s fumbled and doesn’t sound profound. The heart has a way of speaking in ways that simple syntax cannot. So I said something.
With the bright sun reflecting and baking us to a crisp, we talked for a while about what could only now be described as his “old” life, as construction volunteers secured new nails into new wood and built him a new world. I thought of my dad’s death as we talked, and how it was one of the only times I could clearly pinpoint a dramatic shift where everything before that moment was stored in a file in my mind labeled “before the plane crash”. It’s a tough season, the beginning of the “after”. It’s filled with a thin fog that makes the days seem like years and yet when you look back on it, it’s hard to remember anything about that time except how you felt. I tried to share some compassion, to provide this man a moment to feel something other than grief, a moment of relief. I pray he has many more moments of relief, bright buds of life springing up from the cold concrete of his current circumstances.
When we left the tornado site, we spent a night at a campground in Tennessee, near the next destination, the World Race Training Camp. My husband and his team were studying and filming these young adults who have embarked on an 11 month journey around the world, called The World Race.
I spent the first day at training camp somewhat secluded, at least in my dealings with people. I met a few people that my husband works with and had a few conversations, but for the most part, I stayed in my head. And as I began to try and write about my experiences, I realized that the most meaningful times were the moments I reached out, even with my sheepish, thought-to-be cliché words. They brought me into a state of unity with the brokenness and wholeness of the people around me. Although scary at first, those moments of risk were the ones that made their bright mark on the gray backdrop of my day-to-day life.
And wow have these “racers” lived in a state of risk. They have contracted malaria, slept in tents and huts and on the bare earth with the bugs, served individuals from different cultures, different skin tones and different faiths. They have learned about true community by being forced to interact with a small team non-stop every day for 11 months.
Visiting the world race training camp, I felt rather small and a bit spoiled at first. In many ways, it was as if I was suddenly awakened to the childish perspectives I had adopted over the last season. With all the health problems and transitions and sickness around me and within me, I subtly believed that I had the right to throw a temper tantrum about my circumstances (figuratively speaking, of course, although I may or may not have stomped my feet a few times- ask my husband. Or, better yet, don’t :)). I was focused on me in the middle of the whirlwind, and I failed to look upor around me to see the faces of people I loved wanting me to rest, or the face of God asking me to trust Him. My self-preoccupation was highlighted to me at the training camp when I realized I was incessantly worrying about the allergic reaction that made my face and neck break into a minor rash and whether my husband’s team would think I was “interesting enough”. The speakers were talking about selling their condos and cars and braving malaria and I was avoiding conversation because of a few bumps on my face. It was a major wake- up call for me.
In fact, as the weekend unfolded, it began to show me just how insulated my life has become over the past 9 months. When I was in full-time ministry, I felt a sense of purpose, a sense of impact. I was making major sacrifices daily. It has all got me to thinking that maybe sacrifice is like a muscle, and when you stop using it for a little while, things start to get a little flabby in some places like “eating preferences” or “sleeping quarters” or “being around people in the summer sun when you’d rather sit in the air conditioning…alone.”
The conviction I felt for the few days I was at camp was the best kind, the kind that sets you into motion. It brought me back to a life of sacrifice and deep faith, a life of purpose and meaning that is so far beyond what my EKG says or my ever- changing “mood de jour”. It brought me back to hoping for something new.
The last night of the training camp, some good friends prayed for my healing. Their prayers began simply but within the first few seconds I was crying. Not just tearing up, but crying a deep, chest thumping, breath-taking release of pent up tears about my future and my faith and why I felt like my body was continually betraying me. They prayed powerfully and fervently and by the end of it I really needed a mop or at least a few well-functioning tissues ( the inside of my shirt just had to do at the time); yet I knew something had shifted. They prayed in faith that God could take my heart, beyond what the doctors said and what the tests showed and what I currently felt, and make it fresh and completely restored. They said it was beautiful and pure and created to function perfectly. And now, as I write this two days later, I haven’t felt better since the beginning of the whole ordeal that began over a month ago.
The weekend was filled with opportunities for all things ‘new’. The building of new homes, new relationships, new perspectives and new life punctuated the entire trip. It was truly a weekend of relief efforts—around the table. And I’m thankful for the opportunity to be on both sides of that table as we were nourished together in what I’m beginning to understand as community. I may not do it “well” yet, but I’m content with the fact that I’m simply doing it.
