I have been in this college town for a week, officially this morning and have a bit of time to reflect on the past week of flurry - in getting here, settling in, and "facing up". Through the moments of "I don't want to be here", there were incredible moments of God's presence, comfort, and companionship. Though, it may come in two installments.
Already missing my mom, who had left for NZ two days before I was heading out on the road, the plan was to pick up Ms. NZ (my car mate who was completing her final semester of law across the road at the main campus from where I would be studying and leaving from the same prairie town) and be on the highway early enough to get us two provinces east by nightfall. With the rest of the family standing on the porch waving, I set out. Ms. NZ and I were on the road by 8:30 and because of a lack of student priced hotels, were forced to drive to the outer limits of the provincial "big city" and only got settled in a room beyond midnight. Note to self: for personal mood considerations, stop sooner next time!
Day 2 gets us to Thunder Bay. Up at a decent hour the next morning, I insist that we make a stop off at the Terry Fox Memorial. Never having seen it, I had a friend recommend that it would be lovely. So, packing up the car and getting directions from the lady at the gas station, we drive 10 minutes out of the city to the memorial. As a means of journalling our road trip, I was capturing pictures at various border markings of my teddy bear traveling across the country. So, it was in grabbing Booker that I realized I had misplaced my camera. I literally tore every bag out of the car and started going through them right then and there. Flustered, Ms. NZ offers to take pictures at the memorial for us. Very sweet of her, for sure, but that doesn't solve the fact that I've LOST MY CAMERA!! Her solution seemed slightly immediate rather than long term. Not good enough.
Throwing (not nicely) everything back into the car, we head back to the cheap motel. As we pull up, the cleaning lady is working on our room. Great! The room is unlocked and she'll know where it is!! "Have you seen a camera?" A bunch of words are spoken in a language I don't understand. Sigh. Making the hand gestures of taking a picture, the lady suddenly gets all excited and nods. This only makes her even more excited and the speed of her sentences is faster and definitely still in another language. Ushering me outside, she starts looking for something. No, I don't see my camera lying in the parking lot - but nice try! Picking up a rock, she bends down and simply writes "430" and begins pointing... around the corner? Discovering quickly that they don't have a room as high as 430, we start driving down the road thinking that it's been taking to a house with the number 430. Stopping off at the next motel we find along the road, I go in to ask the woman if she understands this any better than I do. However, English was not her first language either. Eventually we discern that the next motel down the road is also owned by the same people and its number is 430.
Getting there, it only took us to pull into the parking lot for the owner to come out and ask if I was back for a camera. Thanks be to God! She, slightly more English speaking, says that she'll meet us back at the first motel because that's where it was.
Camera in hand, we head back out to the memorial. Busy taking pictures with Booker overlooking the memorial and the water, it was a few moments before I got to read the write up they had. Now as an elementary student I have to be honest: I kind of secretly hated Terry Fox. I had never met him, obviously, but he was the reason that our first unit in gym class EVERY year from the time I was 8 until 18 was "The Terry Fox Run". We would all have to gather in the gymnasium one fall day, watch the outdated movie that was made of his run, and then head outside to do the cross country run. Everyone from grade 2 - 12 only got the option to sit out if they were personally deathly ill or had a note from their parents. Sadly, I never got a note and was never deathly ill (not for a lack of trying!).
However, as I stood there, still flustered from the morning activities... my life felt incredibly grounded quite quickly. Terry Fox was diagnosed with cancer right around the same age that I was first diagnosed and his age when he lost his leg to cancer was right around how old I was when I relapsed. And yet, the write up seemed to imply that he decided to run across Canada as a sign of hope, inspiration, and a sign of miracle - lighting the way for those who come after him. I could have read it wrong, but it seemed to say that he set out on this mission while still battling cancer. This would mean that he never had a chance to properly train, but knew that if he set out on this incredible mission, he wouldn't be alone and that when he was out of shape and couldn't run any further, God himself would bear him up and carry him. And yet, almost down to the month, at the age that he lost his battle, I was standing in the same spot physically. The difference was that, as our paths crossed, I was a two time survivor heading off to fulfill the plans that God had for my life in studying theology.
I can't explain the transformation that took place inside me at that moment of realization. My first inclination was to want to finish his run across Canada; that perhaps I was the person who always meant to fly out to Thunder Bay and finish running to the BC coast. Perhaps it was the realization that life in itself is incredible; a gift, a privilege, a precious piece of God himself entrusted to us to live in love, according to his will responsibly and fully. Or, perhaps it was the way that Terry seemed to understand the concept of "bigger than life" and that there was truly someone that would carry him through the darkest nights who was bigger than life; bigger than any pain, incline on the road, or weather condition. Or, maybe it the notion that he understood that his job was to point the way to the cross with his head held high - to emulate a presence of peace, hope, love and a looking forward.
Whatever it was, it was the inner overwhelming sense of peace that in reference to my journey, it would be ok. I would survive, and very much, already have. That if I truly believe, like those around me, that God is calling me to a specific journey in faith, there is much larger reason than I can see right now. That years from now, the family who think I'm doing it "all wrong" and all the small obstacles that seem impassable, won't be what matters. All that will matter is whether I've said yes and followed. God will make the rest possible - he always has, and always will.
