I’m Not Okay And That’s Okay

Death is not something that I am familiar with. My only experience with death has been my grandfather when I was younger. Yes I was sad, but I didn’t necessarily grieve. For months now, my family has known that my pup Rosie has been on the decline. As I got accepted to the Race, I knew that my time was limited with her. She’s my entire childhood. Her death marks the end of that chapter of my life. I prayed to the Lord on multiple occasions in tears curled up next to her as she coughed and gasped for air in the middle of the night; I prayed that he would take her before I left for the Race so I would be able to grieve with my family. I don’t know death; I don’t know how to grieve. I wanted to be the one holding her as she took her last breath. I wanted her to go not wondering where her Erica went as she passed.

As the days for launch approached in August, I knew that He wasn’t going to grant my request. I knew I was going to have to grieve abroad, away from family, away from the comforts of home. I was going to have to bear that pain while surrounded by people who didn’t know my dog.

They didn’t understand that she and I have a soul tie, that she isn’t just some dog. They didn’t understand that we could communicate at just a look in each others eyes. They didn’t know how she “roo roo rooed” in excitement when I walked in the door. They didn’t know that when I lived in Spain for four months during college that I missed my dog more than my parents.

They just didn’t know. And they’ll never fully know. 

I knew that when I walked out of my house, –gear in hand to travel the world for a year– I knew that it would be the last time I would kiss her face and that she would kiss mine. But knowing doesn’t make it any easier. 

God told me not to talk to my family the month of October. I just had this feeling in my heart that this would be the month she passes. I told my parents that the only reason I’d break my fast of not talking to them is if Rosie passed.

And so October 21, 2017, God called home the very creation He made.

I called my family as we cried on the phone together, reminiscing the day that we first picked her up as a puppy. I was seven years old and I remember the excitement that buzzed in the air as my mom took my sister and I to get her after one of our piano lessons. 

The day after I got the news about Rosie we had a shift at the refugee camp. For about 20 minutes before we left to be picked up, I laid in my bed and sobbed. We walked to the corner and I silently wept as I felt this gapping hole, knowing that when I come home she won’t be there to greet me. That from this day forward she’ll just be a memory. I cried because I know how much I’ll miss her in my life. 

I could have stayed home from ministry that day, but I knew that helping at the refugee camp would be good for me. 

By the time we got to camp I was utterly exhausted from crying. Have you ever exhausted yourself from crying? I didn’t even have the energy to lift my head to look where I was walking. 

And for the fist time in my life when someone asked me if I was okay, I said “no, I’m not okay.”

I knew I had to stay distracted to make it through the day, so I took the first job assignment that came up. I went to New Arrivals to move a family somewhere within camp. I got to put a smile on faces, telling them that they had a place here. A place to call their own until they finish being processed to move out of the camp. As I was helping a family pack their things, one of their six little ones was wailing. I crouched down and got close to his face. His little eyes filled with tears, screaming with all of his might. I knew exactly how he felt. If I could cry out loud, that’s what it would have sound like. So I started caressing his face, cooing soothing words to him even though he didn’t speak English. As he stared at me, he began to calm down. I tickled him and he burst out in a giggle. He smiled as the tears started drying on his little cheeks. I don’t even think he was old enough to talk, but no words were needed to see the renewed joy in his eyes. 

And that’s what the Father does for us. He coos and soothes us, he weeps when we weep. He holds us and cuddles us. He wants to make us smile and let us know that everything is going to be okay. 

After moving a couple families out of New Arrivals, I went to help put tarps under some refugees’ tents. The tarps keep their tents from flooding in the storms that sweep over the island of Lesvos.

At one point I needed to go down the hill to grab another bag of tarps. I turned around to see Nathan emerge, carrying a child in his arms. The little boy of around 5 years old had blood stains on his shirt and on his father’s hand, who was following close behind with his wife. We walked down to the police station and arranged to send him in an ambulance that was already on it’s way to take a pregnant woman to the hospital. As we waited for the ambulance we took a look at the gash on the back of his head. One touch of his head and the little boy winced and cried in pain. When the ambulance arrived we carried him there and the paramedics treated him as they waited for the pregnant woman to be wheeled through camp. 

After leaving the little boy to be treated, I knew I needed to get those tarps back up to Level 4. It happens to be at the very top of an extremely steep hill that marks the main road of camp. I was already running on empty and I knew it. Yet, somehow I managed to arrange this huge pack of tarps that probably weighed well over 30 pounds over my back. Step by step I slowly made my way up the hill. Kids laughed and tugged on my shirt as they watched me struggle. People stared as they watched me struggle to keep my balance on the rocky, uneven surface. In that moment, the image of Christ flashed across my mind as He carried His cross. He had no energy, He had no strength in that moment. He was relying entirely on the strength that the Lord gave Him so he could do what God had called him to. And before I knew it, I was dropping the pack of tarps at the top level, completely out of breath. We spent the next hour tarping the rest of the tents on that level. 

When five o’clock rolled around, we finally walked down the hill to eat lunch. As I sat down to eat, I began to feel weak. I was sitting there trapped in my thoughts that couldn’t help but wander to Rosie and how much I missed her. I began to tear up. I couldn’t hold my head up anymore. I remembered how exhausted I was. I closed my eyes and I couldn’t move. 

“I don’t think I can finish my shift,” I said to a teammate. He encouraged me to listen to myself and take it easy. I was upset with myself in the moment though that I couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t finish my shift. I had gone five hours, couldn’t I make it just a few more? I laid down in a dark room where I could rest before someone offered to give me a ride home. 

Today I woke up for another shift. I’m still not okay, but that’s okay. I went to Humans for Humanity, which is where I worked all last week to clothe every single family in the refugee camp that holds 5,000 people. One of the first things they asked when we arrived on shift is “do you want to see the puppies?”

Puppies??

We went upstairs and they let out a litter of puppies, no more than a month old. I just held out my hands until one of them wandered up to me. I picked her up and held her in my arms. I pulled her close to my chest and stroked her soft fluffy coat. 

Oh how the Lord knows His children.

In the past two days I’ve been able to heal by helping others in need. I’ve been able to heal by holding a precious new life, just days after losing the life of my own fifteen-year-old puppy. I hugged and kissed this little life exactly how I would have to say goodbye to my own little one. 

And although I’m still grieving and healing…although I’m not okay, I know it’s going to be okay. I’m gonna be okay. And until then, that’s okay. The Lord knows He can do more healing here with me on the Race that He could have with me saying goodbye at home. 

Thank you Rosie for being my soul tie. I can’t wait to see you again one day. I love you so much. You’re a good good girl. I’m okay because you’re fully healed and with our Father.

Until we meet again.

xoxo,

Eika