FRIENDS IN THE JOURNEY

You may grow weary of the story, but I cannot stop telling it. The memories are burned too deeply into my mind and body. From the years of 1994 to 2001 I fought a battle with back pain. When I was 29 my youthful strength was taken from me. I walked with a cane. I experienced three surgeries on my spine. But like those strange fellows 2,000 years ago my life changed and I cannot stop repeating the rumor. The Lord has been kind to me. At the age of 40 I have both gray in my beard and my youthful strength. With my five kids maybe the Lord saw fit to give my youth back to me for a season. I know both humanity’s and my own story well enough to know that eventually age will catch me so for this season of life I must celebrate the Lord’s goodness.

Thus most mornings when I arise I go for a quick run or bike ride. The scars still leave me a little stiff and the exercise gets me through the day’s pain. However, this is more than just coping. This is celebrating joy. As former Olympian Eric Liddell said, “When I run I feel the pleasure of God.” Besides the Lord’s grace in my recovery he gave me friends in the journey.

A few weeks before I moved to Kigali in 2005, a friend in the journey gave me a treasure. His father had passed away and with his inheritance he had bought a racing bike. It was beautiful, light, and fast. He had used it for bike races and enjoyed the journey, but for some reason he believed he needed to give it to me. I was shocked, but could not say no. So as a grown man I received another man’s favorite toy. My friend on the journey gave me his treasure and off I rode.

As the Lord gave my youthful strength back to me, I could not help but seek out opportunities to publicly celebrate the Lord’s goodness. A couple times per year I do some race. I usually hang to the back and enjoy the journey. I am in no way a competitor. I am just man on a journey.

My wife, Jana thinks I am crazy. Occasionally, my boyish brain finds a challenge to ponder. A couple years ago, I pondered what a bike ride from Kigali to Butare would be like. I don’t know where the question came from. Was it my ambition, celebration, or the Lord’s leading? Maybe my grandchildren will understand my strange explorations. For this season of life I will just take the challenges as they come.

This year as I checked the www.projectrwanda.org web site and saw a pastor’s dream – a Saturday road bike race to Butare. This would fit my schedule. It was marketed as for “professionals,” and I double checked that a 40 year old muzungu would be welcome. Thankfully, I was welcome. So on Saturday, 8 September I gathered with some others at Bourbon Coffee to begin the journey.

It started with thrilling ride through Kigali. However, within 10 kilometers I could no longer see any more competitors. I was near the back of the race. This would be my own quiet journey and challenge. Could I make it to Butare on a bike in a day? If possible it would only be made with the help of friends both known and unknown on the journey.

Next I began the climb to Gitarama. For the wananci along the way I must have provided quite a bit of comic relief. Two young women saw me climbing a hill. They had a bucket of water in their hands and a smile on their face. To my surprise they threw the water on me as I passed by. I did not know if I had been the victim of a practical joke or a sincere attempt to help; but the cool water was delightful and I secretly hoped I’d be met by another bucket carrying munanci.

To my surprise Gitarama came relatively easy. It was almost all uphill, but it seemed my training had done all I needed for it to do. My struggle to Gitarama was just to get enough water. Thankfully, I had some more unknown friends on the journey. I had two water bottles to start on my bike, but it did not take long for them to be empty. I don’t know how it was done, but just when I was at my last drop of drinking water someone in a support vehicle found me and gave me another bottle of water.

A little past Gitarama I came to the only food station on the journey. I ate my fill of bananas, grabbed some water, enjoyed a brief visit; and began again. A few kilometers later my day almost finished. My front tire tube blew. I had no extra tube or repair kit with me. I began walking towards help and assumed this journey was over. Instead, a support truck with a known friend pulled up. Within his truck was a new tube. So I drank some water, ate some food, and allowed my friend to repair my bike. A friend on the journey brought me closer to completion.

As I neared Ruhango, a truck with two friends from Kigali found me. I had asked for them to find me near the end and bring me water and food. It was great to see them and my two Kigali friends strengthened me for the journey. My body still felt strong, but my end was nearing.

As Nyanza approached my knees were in great pain. I had 30 more kilometers left to go, and the joy of the journey had left. If it was up to me Nyanza would have been the end. However, there is strength to sharing a journey with a friend. So for 30 kilometers more I went. The joy was gone. In fact, I found myself no longer thanking God for the beautiful hills of Rwanda, but asking him to remove every hill between Nyanza and Butare. The Lord ignored my prayer, but gave me two friends. My friends told me I weaved continually. I remember being dizzy and a little confused. I had passed the point of my body hurting, and now it was my brain.

Finally, I reached Butare. I was almost thankful until I realized the Lord had created one long final hill. I saw a couple more friends on the outskirts of Butare. They assured me I was almost there, and I continued.

By the time I reached the Finish Line it had been taken down. From all appearances the race was over. No one was waiting for me. In fact, I rode about 200 meters past the finish line until an unknown friend told me I had finished. There was nothing glorious in the end. Only the satisfaction of knowing I had met the challenge.

So what’s the point? No glory. Could an enjoyable journey be full of pain? Why? Somehow, I found joy in the journey. The lesson learned was that I could not make this one alone. Maybe, that’s the point of this story. We only finish painful journeys if we have some on to travel with us.

Come run with me.