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I walked past the open door, my travel mug refilled, ready to once again plug away at figuring out how the next few months of my life would look after leaving Echo Ranch Bible Camp.
But the outside beckoned me. Maybe it was You. I don’t know what it was, but something told me not to go back downstairs, isolated, a slave to the Internet’s grand and varied offers for what my future could look like.
So I went.
This summer, with all my intents and purposes of growing, improving, and letting go, was exactly not that kind of season. It was a season of holding on. Holding on to what if?s in a recently ended relationship, projected hopes of a new Christian community, expectations of my stunning performance as a leader, and above all, the confidence that I would know exactly what I would be doing with my life once it was all over.
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I walked past the Purple Bench. I had originally intended on stopping there. Maybe sitting down and enjoying the view of… the bath house? Or maybe just the feeling of sitting in the sun. But I kept walking. I didn’t really know why. Maybe I would go lie down in the middle of the sports field. Soak up the rays that aren’t easy to come by during a summer in Southeast Alaska. The path there was a little to the left.
God had called me here. There haven’t been many times in my life when I could say that with confidence, but I knew it to be true now. But as the weeks progressed, I watched my expectations crumble before my eyes. I was a seasoned professional at this. If any experience should have hammered that truth into my brain, it would have been the Race. But I thought these were more realistic. Instead, loneliness seeped in when quality time and vulnerability were scarce. Feelings of failure abounded when my attempts to fulfill my role fell short. Uncertainty, anxiety, and depression crept up on me as I considered the possibilities and unknowns of my future again… and again… and again. And, to top it all off, nobody liked feedback.
I spent the summer being everywhere but here, and I knew it. I felt like I had already thrown away opportunities to make the most of it, and nothing had even come out of all my fretting about what to do next. I tossed, turned, and lay in a miserable heap of pity party in my bed one afternoon during the final few weeks, mulling it all over. I listened to Jesus music and asked Him what heck I was supposed to do next.
And then I saw myself, scrambling around and trying to devise all these plans for what I would do. But I wasn’t scrambling on the ground. I was in the palm of a very large hand, and I didn’t even realize it. I ran from one side of the palm to another, never noticing the fruitlessness of my efforts to do what I thought was best. Because the hand was attached to Someone. A wrist, to an arm, to a chest, to a neck to the head… of my Father. My Father who was watching me run to and fro and sort of smiling knowingly. As I looked in at myself, my scrambly little body, I thought, “If I were God, I would think that was so ridiculous. Why wouldn't I just trust Him, that He sees everything, and He's holding me, and He's in control? Why wouldn't I just rest, secure in His hand?"
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I turned right. Why, I really didn’t know, but I didn’t really think about it. Until I saw it and remembered. The tiny little camp house referred to as the Love Shack.
I had frequented this little home during my previous summer here because that is where my “camp mom”, Lyn, had lived. We had talked together of things that mattered as she mixed together our favorite lemon drink concoction. She told me her story. And I marveled at how a woman so formerly broken could now be so full of love, grace, and joy.
So often, my spirit’s response to a gentle Truth that sets it reeling is a simple, “Oh.”
I felt awakened. Affirmed. But not yet satisfied. I knew there was more to trusting Him than just knowing I should do it. It had to do with knowing Him. Loving Him. But what did that really mean, truly loving God with all my heart and soul and mind and strength? I had seen others live that way. I had been reading about it recently in one of the many books hailed by my World Race leaders. I knew God was trustworthy, and I knew I loved Him. But did I love Him like that?
I smiled as I walked up the porch steps and opened the door. After making sure it was actually vacant, I settled into the couch where Lyn had shared her life with me four years ago. Glancing around me, I noticed a book on the side table. The Art of Loving God.
I read the whole thing. I cried. I thanked. I prayed.
I released.
I'm still processing through these kinds of things. Intimacy. Trust. Love. But in those still, sweet moments, I knew my Father was reaching down to me -- for me -- and saying, "Here, let Me help you understand a little better." Maybe the point isn't me knowing all the things or being enough or getting it right or, you know, in control. Just give. it. up. (And haven't I already written like 56 blogs about this?)
What about you? What kinds of things has God helped you understand in the midst of your own Crazy Land?
