I started watching the Tour de France for the first time ever last year.  I have a possibly unhealthy competitive streak shared by my siblings, and two years ago I talked my best friend into training for a triathlon with me.  We had a blast, and I learned that bicycle riding is not as easy as I remember it being as a kid, and there is far more technique involved in staying upright as an adult klutz.  I decided to watch the pros to learn about drafting and mountain climbing and making turns at death-defying speeds.  I spent about two days researching the lingo as I watched: peloton, breakaways, yellow jerseys and polka dot jerseys were all foreign concepts to me.  Every day I learned more and more about the team strategies and determined that the Art of War was perhaps the most appropriate primer for better understanding of grand tour competitions.

There are hundreds of dramatic moments in an epic race like the Tour de France.  As a compatriot competitive spirit, some of my favorite moments are the breakaways.  One man will start pedaling away from the peloton (the main group of riders; the word also roughly translates into “big stick”) and a few brave souls will join in.  These guys will ride ahead of the peloton for as long as they can, and a very few will actually stay ahead through the finish line.  Usually, though, the peloton lets them gain a lead of about 2 or 3 minutes until close to the end.  At 25k to go, the peloton goes into chase mode and brings the strays back into the fold; it’s like the Borg on bicycles, and it’s fascinating to watch.  I sit there, legs flexing along with the riders’ pedal strokes, half cheering for the escape artists to go all the way, half cheering for the peloton to catch up.  If you ever watch the last 30 minutes of a stage race, you’ll be hooked, too.

Last night I was watching the Stage 4 coverage on Versus, and they had this beautiful camera shot of the breakaway.  Three brave riders against the “big stick” holding bravely onto their shrinking lead.  Then the camera pulls back and refocuses; about a half of a mile behind the breakaway was the peloton looming closer and closer.  I could almost feel the dread these three men must have felt when they peeked over their shoulder.  It was inevitable that the peloton would swallow them – soon.  As creepy as I may have made the peloton sound, they have a brilliant purpose.  Most of the riders stay with the group because they share the workload; together they can maintain speeds a breakaway group can’t maintain without a LOT of pain.  The riders have a drafting system like geese flying in formation; the lead rider does most of the work while his teammates ride easier behind him.  They each take a turn at the front, and each team is protecting their best hope for a win, propelling him to the front of the line or helping him catch up with the group if he had to stop for a problem.  That process is just as fascinating to watch as a breakaway; there are riders on each team who will never win a race because their entire purpose is to get their best rider to the front.  Even though the breakaway group employs the same system of drafting, and they are fairly effective, they do a lot more hard work than the peloton will.

There are hundreds of life metaphors there, but the one that struck me as I watched that particular camera shot was that we are always stronger as a group.  Just like the peloton, the body of Christ allows for us to draft when we need a break and requires that we do our share of the work.  I was attempting a breakaway for the last few years, and it was about as succesful as most of the Tour de France breakaways.  It ended with me completely wiped out and desperately needing help more than ever, and, like a Tour breakaway, it was a misery of my own choosing.  Of course there were a lot of reasons – grief and depression are isolating emotions – but it wasn’t necessary.  I was letting myself drown when all I had to do was ask for help.  There is great strength in connection; we humans were created for connections.  If you find yourself in a horrible, lonely place, you have to make yourself reach out – talk to at least one person, even if you have to call your entire contact list before you get a live person.  Leave a comment here or on some other site so that someone can reach out to you.  Trust me, they won’t hate you, and you are not a failure for needing other people.  You are actually a more successful human if you can ask for and accept the help that you need.  Build yourself a team that will help pull you along, and someday you’ll find yourself in a position to pull another teammate back to the fold.  Just think of the peloton and rethink “Walk softly, and carry a big stick.”

I started this blog about two weeks ago, but I was too afraid to tell anyone – not my family, not my friends, not even strangers at the grocery store that I seem to be able to share oddly personal moments with.  But yesterday I finally asked about a dozen of my friends and my beautiful sister to read and give me some feedback.  I was instantly terrified.  I am racked with self-doubt all the time.  It’s a little bit crazy, but the second I say something or write an e-mail that discloses my emotional status, I immediately regret it sending it.  What if I worded it badly?  What if they think I’m crazy, or silly?  What if they hate me for my weakness or idiosyncracies, of which I have more than a few?

Yesterday, I was like a little kid waiting for Santa, constantly running to see if there were any new developments under the Christmas tree since the last peek – only for me, it was checking my Blackberry every few minutes to see if anyone responded, as if everyone I sent a message to must have immediately read my blog and responded.  And the most amazing thing happened: within an hour, I had a message from one of my dear friends, and she told me she loved it.  Reading her short and beautifully sweet message, I knew I would “go public.”  God used a few words to quell my crazy fears and prove that he has truly blessed me with amazing friends.  Their love for my (and mine for them) is just a tiny speck of the love that we’ll know in heaven.

It has been an indescribable experience the last two days.  Maybe somebody I invited to Mabbat really hates it but just won’t say it, but the people who responded already were so encouraging.  Your words have alternately caused me to grin like a fool, cry, thank God for putting you in my life, and laugh with joy!  You have spoken some of the most beautiful things I have ever heard, and I am still astonished at them.  And to my sister: you are the most amazing of all.  You have strength that I have always envied, both emotionally and physically, and your determination has always inspired me, no matter how much I picked on you!

I want to say, “I wish I had known I would get that kind of support when it seemed to hurt the worst,” but I realize two things immediately in saying that.  First, I was too afraid to ask for help, so I didn’t.  I’m not sure how much I’ve changed much in that regard.  I struggle to speak the right words unless I’m writing them, so most of the time I still find it incredibly hard to say, “I’m not okay today.”  I know without doubt that I could have had all the help and support that I needed, but I was in too dark and isolated a place to be able to ask for it.  This was entirely a black hole of my own creation, and it was the worst kind of self-centeredness I have ever known.  It’s also really tempting to fall into when I have a bad day.

Second, second-guessing and wishing to change the past are completely ineffective pastimes.  My second-guessing is the exact psychosis that made me afraid to share this blog with anyone.  We all find ourselves wanting to change some part of our past at some point, but we only have to read Ecclesiastes (or if you prefer, listen to the Byrds) to realize that every era in our lives has a purpose, some more obvious than others.  Focusing too much on the past and its pain is a large part of the depression that kept me from moving forward at all.  Not that I am running yet – I stumble a lot and daily – but I am learning how to let go of the past, a skill I know my husband will be ecstatically grateful for.

Weirdly, confidence has never been my strong point.  I’m guessing that a lot of my friends will find that odd because I know a lot of them think it is a strength I possess.  Good, bad or ugly, I often follow the fake-it-til-you-make-it maxim.  But really, I’m a wimp at heart, and it makes me even more thankful to be surrounded by such amazing people.

Nothing has marked the last decade or so of my life more than the feeling of inadequacy and confusion about what I’m even doing here on earth.  I know I haven’t found all of the answers, but I am more certain than ever that God gives each of us a calling of some kind – a purpose beyond ourselves that will somehow honor him.  Have you found yours?  While some of the imagery in Jeremiah can be difficult to understand, read the first chapter if you never have.  God calls Jeremiah, just like he calls each one of us.  Up until the blank, this is directly quoted from verse 5: “I knew you before I formed you in your mother’s womb. Before you were born I set you apart and appointed you as my __________.”  The verses that follow are a discussion between Jeremiah and God; Jeremiah immediately points out his limitations, and God rebuts him with, “Don’t say _______.”

I’m still trying to fill in my blank, and I know it has more than one answer: I am a wife, a leader, a volunteer, a writer…  I will no longer say, “I’m not good enough” or “I’m not talented enough” or any other excuse I throw at God.  I am what he created me to be, and that’s enough.  To deny his power and ability to work through me is to deny God’s character; every excuse I offer is really just a form of unbelief.  What fills in your blank?  It can never be blank; there is always a purpose for you on this earth, or you wouldn’t be here.  What should you stop saying right now?

For a really long time, I had two specific screen savers on my desktop at work and on my laptop.  One said “Jeremiah 29:11” which says, “‘I know the plans I have for you,’ says the Lord. ‘They are plans for good and not for disaster, to give you a future and a hope.'”  The other was a quote from a Tony Evans sermon I heard on the radio about that verse: “You’re still here.”  That was the answer to the question he posed, “How do you know God has a plan for you?”  If you’re still breathing, there’s something left for you to do here on earth.  It’s that simple: fill in the blank.