When I was younger, I'd go on a camp in the summer or at Easter and it would be awesome, then I would come home and fall in to a horrid depression. We'd call it post-camp blues but I knew I felt it more intensely than others. I never quite knew what to do to cope through this time. No-one wanted to talk about camp after it was done. Apparently it's different when you go on mission. People want to talk about a mission trip for a while and it isn't until people stop asking that the struggle sets in.
This past week hasn't been easy. My mental health is rapidly falling off the cliff that I walk along the edge of on a regular basis. So maybe, just maybe, this might help me cling on a bit and remind me of the hope I learnt of while away.
End of disclaimer ;)
Lisieux
The first week in Normandy was hard, like insanely hard. My anxiety was at an all-time high despite taking medication. It was scary. I could not shake this anxiety and it is my overriding memory of the whole week. There were moments of joy: hanging out with the team every night, pastries for breakfast, going to see the city, praying for the city at 7.30am in front of the basilica (watching the sun rise, seeing the beautiful morning sky, sharing communion), the women's breakfast, getting really powerful words spoken to me that started a change, helping to set up a 24/7 prayer room and praying in it, sharing a room with all the girls, giving out Bibles on a university campus in Caen. Plenty of amazing things and yet, I remember so clearly the weight of oppression I felt the entire week.
What did I learn from that week though? Perseverance. I begged most nights to be allowed to go home, to just not have to do the things I'd been asked to do, to just give up. And yet, I didn't leave. I didn't quite do everything as planned, but I stayed. That was my biggest achievement. Not giving up. When things get hard I run in the opposite direction, I have no desire to stay and see if things get better; I have no control over the outcome so it's safer to run because I know what happens then. But I stayed. More than anything, I learnt how much others love me, and that God puts me in places for a reason. If I'd not gone, I would never have been told that a tunnel ends eventually, that God wants to turn me around significantly, that I shouldn't just hear of God's provision for others but believe it for myself too. If I'd have left, I wouldn't have heard a testimony that's changed my perspective so significantly. I wouldn't have gone to Paris and I wouldn't have gone to Madrid. Hold on, pain ends.
Paris
Paris was 100% about being brave in a way I never imagined. I never thought a city could trigger memories from a different city because of an association. I never thought that I'd tell anyone that part of my story (it was a silly teenage mistake, you see) or that it'd be relevant in my life any more. But it was and I had to talk.
I love Paris- the language, atmosphere, places to see. I spent time in my European happy place (the steps in front of the Sacre Coeur if you're wondering) and I spent time rocking back and forth in a corner of a church in absolute fear. But I was brave. I wouldn't have got to my happy place if I hadn't fought the thoughts. I wouldn't have made beautiful new memories if I hadn't told anyone why it was so flipping hard for me to be in that city. I learnt the importance of being surrounded by people you can trust that love you no matter what your mental state. I learnt the value of being hugged tight like nothing else exists. I remembered the need to persevere even when your world feels like it's falling apart because you just might be surprised.
Madrid
And after many, many hours in the airport we arrived in Madrid. I'm not sure I'm about to do this justice, but I will try. My life has been forever changed by spending 6 days in Betel. The women we stayed with welcomed us with open arms (quite literally) and loved us from the minute they met us. Nothing was too much trouble for them. The language barrier didn't matter, we're all part of God's family and that's what mattered most.
I spent several days working in the kitchen. It was comforting, familiar. I'm thankful for the opportunity to do something that was safe because it meant the "ohmygosh I speak no Spanish" was infinitely less scary. I got to hear the stories of the 2 women I worked with (yay for broken English!) and I shared a little bit of mine. On the 2nd full day we got to go out with the evangelism team to the slum. It was weird. I put up my mental wall and just accepted it. I had to protect others. I don't think I'll ever be able to totally recall what I saw that day- people desperate for drugs that they couldn't care who was watching when they injected, people asking to buy us girls as slaves, a guy who said he was too bad for God, another who was completely blind to where this habit would lead him. We were surrounded by darkness, and yet, for me not one bit of what I saw surprised me. What actually overwhelmed me was just how much God had redeemed those at Betel; how much love He's shown them and brought them out from utter destruction to a much more amazing way of life. And they praise God for it. Continually. I'll admit I don't believe that God can ever do that much in my life- how could he? I'm such an average person, why make me in to something better? Well that was my thought process before Betel anyway.
As the week went on I got to know one of the women more. By Saturday it made sense to share my testimony completely with her. The wisdom with which she spoke in to my life after that, the things that she shared to encourage me. I was taken aback. This woman who had known me less than a week knew exactly what I needed to hear. Only God could have told her to say some of those things. It was an amazing blessing to be able to have that conversation with her. I'd led the devotional time a couple of days previously on Isaiah 43:1-7 and she knew how much I needed to hear what I'd said to them for myself. She even said to me that in a few years time I'll make an amazing nurse again, that she can see me doing that. For the first time since 2012 I didn't recoil at this suggestion. That's big.
On the final morning the house leader asked to speak to me. She sat me down and told me her testimony. I am the only one of the group to have heard it and that will forever be a privilege. She told me she wanted to get close to me at the start of the week but I built a wall and wouldn't budge. I needed to hear her story, God made it happen. I truly am overwhelmed by God's healing power, His desire to redeem, His overflowing love for anyone who knows him. That I may not have been addicted to drugs, but I have been addicted to other things, I have looked for my identity and value in the world, I have neglected God while searching for something to fill the emptiness I've felt.
The mission trip gave me hope like I've never had before. A very real idea of hope. I don't need to be fixed by the time I turned 25. I haven't missed my chance. I am battling a different addiction but one that I can still be healed from. It doesn't have to be instant. I've learnt the power of telling my story. That it can be an encouragement even before it has reached a conclusion. That I am a work in progress, but it's God doing the work. I don't need to be fixed before I go to Him. And that He is the solid foundation on which I need to stand. I can't take good care of others until I've taken care of myself. But there is always more of God to help me, I'm never doing this on my own strength. I've seen things I never thought I'd see, I've heard stories I never imagined I'd hear and because of this I have hope. There are better things to come for everyone reading this, and for myself.
Don't just read stories of hope, believe it is possible for yourself.
We have this as a sure and steadfast anchor of the soul, a hope that enters into the inner place behind the curtain, where Jesus has gone as a forerunner on our behalf.
Hebrews 6:19-20
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