Squad
I’ve always been a little weird, a little strange. But I do have a strength in being able to hold my own in big groups. I think it’s partly because I’m highly extroverted, and can always find ways to slot myself into any situation. What I find trickier, however, is deep friendship with people who know my particular darkness and still choose to stay. Not that I haven’t had plenty of good people in my life. What’s been lacking is my ability to recognise their importance in my life before we parted ways. One day soon, I hope to be able to write about them without tears falling all over my keyboard. In the meantime I want to share about my current journey.
The thing about missions is that we are constantly living in a state of movement and fluidity. Teammates, colleagues and study buddies are constantly coming and going. It’s the same as normal life, except that when someone chooses to move on, they’re usually moving back across some ocean to some land far away. Moving on means I’ll probably never get to see them again, and that’s constantly playing in the back of my mind. And when I say constantly, I mean daily and even sometimes multiple times a day.
The part of me that never wants to be hurt always puts up a wall of a certain height to avoid this impending pain. This wall never reaches eye level, because I still need to see people and work well with them. That’s probably a part of my extroversion. But it definitely reaches up past my heart. Sometimes past my arms. Because reaching out and lending a hand or a hug would mean connection, which would mean closeness, which would eventually mean pain.
But what this journey has done is thrust me into a state of vulnerability. And I feel it keenly.
There’s nothing like vulnerability to really open up the lines of communication, and I’m bleeding everywhere on everyone. When I think of myself in this current situation, I picture myself lying on the pavement with a huge gash in my side, blood everywhere, unable to speak - I should probably get someone to psychoanalyse that haha.
But the insane beauty is that some of the faces peering down at me, who I am relying upon for survival, are some of the best people I’ve ever had the privilege of knowing. And I don’t want to overlook that and only notice it once we’ve parted ways. That would mean there’s been no growth, we’d all miss out again, and that would be incredibly sad.
These people have stocked our kitchen, cooked us meals, walked us through the basics for what seemed like the longest time. They caught buses with us, taught us how to slot better into society here, how to eat out. They have been solid shoulders to cry on, people who have hugged and cried and processed with us. People who have carried us when it seemed to hard, people who have been strong enough to argue with us, and gently persuade us to persist. People who have been gentle enough to hold our outbursts and our rebellions, who now hold some of the most vulnerable parts of us and still choose to back us and support us.
It’s so, so special and so, so painful.
They have broken past all my self-protection mechanisms and I know when we part ways it will be one of the most painful experiences of my life. While I lay on the ground bleeding out, they’re gathered around with a quiet confidence and practiced busyness that shows they’ve dealt with it all before. They’re firmly holding the gash in my side, stemming the flow of blood, keeping me conscious. It’s a dirty job, my blood is on their hands, but they’re there in the dirt with me, and I love them for it.
When we left Eastwest College at the beginning of 2021 I felt the same pain and support then. All the grace, all the input, all the trust. It hurt leaving it all. Knowing that it will happen again and keep happening in this incredible journey of missions sometimes makes me want to hide under my blanket and turn my heart into a concrete slab.
When we left New Zealand and said goodbye to friends we’d had for many years I almost couldn’t contain it, and goodbyes were always a messy, standoffish affair in the hopes I wouldn’t crack under it all.
But through it all, my friends are teaching me to pull the bricks out of my walls, keep my arms open, and embrace the fragility of it all. It’s incredibly tough, but also the most rewarding part of this journey so far. And I’m starting to think that’s what I want to share of Jesus to the world; the fragility and risk of pain, but the choice to walk into it all and love hard anyway. What I would give to control the narrative and keep my friends in my life forever, but somehow it’s all the more poignant knowing that it might not be forever.
So my encouragement for you this week is to love hard, hug your friends, appreciate their value before they’re gone, and sit in the present joy of being understood, even in a small way, by people who are walking with you in some way. I can’t promise it won’t hurt, but gosh it’s one of the most beautiful experiences of my life. Blood and all.
