I Love Roller Coasters

Joe Czupinski

I love roller coasters.  I love the speed, the thrill, the rush and the loops.  But there’s always that moment when riding a roller coaster for the first time.  It’s a moment of doubt: you’ve never been on this machine before and you don’t know what path it’s going to take.  You don’t know if you’ll like it or not.  You don’t know if it’ll be rough or smooth, fast or boring, long or short.  All you know is what you’ve seen of it from the outside, the screams of the people who are currently riding it, and the reports you’ve gotten from friends and family who have been on it before.  You really don’t know what it’s going to be like until you’re on it and there’s always a moment of doubt before riding it.

For me this moment of doubt always seems to come at the least opportune time, that is, not while waiting for two hours in line, nor while standing at a distance psyching myself up to get on it, nor even while buckling up.  My moment of doubt always comes fifty feet up that first big hill.  Great.

What can I do?  I’m strapped in, locked down in restrains designed to contain the Incredible Hulk and completely unable to turn to a ride attendant and say “Um, sir, can you stop this ride?  Now that I’m on it I not sure I want to be.” 

And I’d be lying if sometimes mission didn’t feel the same way.

You get very excited waiting for your preparation to finish, for the lessons of mission training to be learned, for the paperwork to be filled and for the wait to get on the plane to be over (some of these things take longer than others).  You get all worked up talking over the future with your friends in mission training; getting slap happy about helping people in the Third World live a better life in Christ and with each other.  You may need to learn a new language and can get all excited about that.  You learn about the culture you’re heading into, which often fuels your desires further.  And then comes that thrilling moment when you climb into a plane and lock your seatbelt and brace for a takeoff that could potentially change your life forever.

And then comes the moment fifty feet up the hill.  That oh-so-glorious moment when you realize you’re buckled into a straight jacket restrain headed up a hill that seems tall enough to have a snow line.  It’s the moment when doubt sets in and you start rethinking things.  You begin to wonder why you’re doing this.  You turn to your friend in the next seat and voice your doubts about it.  You may even try to lay blame on that friend for talking you into this harebrained ride.  You begin to think of all the security you had when you were sitting on that bench on the ground, which, by the way, is looking smaller and smaller (if you even want to look at this point).  And you begin to feel that maybe you should quit before it gets ugly.  But, oh wait, you’re buckled in.

I’ve been feeling this way about Iauareté.  From the reports I’ve heard over this last year of preparation for mission just about everybody feels this way.  .  It definitely doesn’t happen immediately, but it can come quickly and without warning.  For some it’s takes months for this moment, with others it happens immediately, others may never experience it.  But for most of us you hit a point in your mission experience when your excitement turns apprehensive.  Then your apprehension turns to doubt.  Then your doubt turns to worry.  Then your worry turns to regret.  It’s normal.  It’s not like this life is easy.  But you do have to reach a point when you decide to make the most of it.  Unlike a roller coaster, you are not buckled in with a five point harness; you can leave if you think you should.  But, like shutting down a roller coaster, it’s not easy either. 

I’m beginning to discover that at this point of mission nothing is easy.  It becomes hard to put one foot in front of the other in relating to people, in performing your work, in praying for strength, in studying your new language, in practically everything.  It’s kind of that moment when mission stops being a dream and starts being a reality.  And reality isn’t a pretty thing, that’s why we become missioners, to help change reality. 

But how do we make the decision to continue?  How do we work past that bog of emotions that holds us back from being our best self, the self that we want to see grow and thrive in the mission field?  The answer starts with “H” and rhymes with “umility”.  We need humility to realize that we can’t just snap our fingers and make it all better.  We need to work through that time one step at a time, reminding ourselves why we’re here, what God wants us to do, and that we have been called for a real purpose, even if that purpose looks very insignificant at times.  We need humility to ask for help at times.  Help can come from many places: each other, a friend in the mission field, your superiors, your directors and, especially, God.   God is, in fact, the first place to go.  He knows; He’s been there.  He knows the difficulty of adjusting to a new environment and leaving behind security: that’s what Christmas is all about, Charlie Brown.  If you recall Jesus spent a sleepless night in the Garden of Gethsemane praying for the strength to continue, even praying for another option for salvation “Father, if you are willing, take this cup away from me; still, not my will but yours be done.” – Luke 22:42.  This prayer is important: if even the savior of the universe had his moments of difficulty, how much more can we look to Him for an example, especially after he stuck through it? 

We are given people in our lives to help us.  There are over one billion Catholics on this green earth; there shouldn’t be any reason for us to feel alone, right?  Yet we all have those moments of trial when we feel alone and at times helpless.  That’s when we need to remember those God has placed in our lives to build and strengthen us, specifically those who have gone before us.  They can help a lot, having been there and done that and apparently survived.  These people can be a solid help in dark times.  But, if you’re like me, you need to find the humility to ask for help (there a few lessons I have needed to learn about community life after living in an apartment for two years by myself).  Ask them for help, they know the story, they lived it.  Find strength through their example and guidance.  Find the Lord’s strength through them.

Having a little self time doesn’t hurt anybody, either.  In a very low moment I needed time to re-energize.  I needed to withdraw for a while and not really participate in community life for a little while.  So I went into my room, shut the door and for two or three hours did nothing but write a very short and incomplete work of science fiction.  It was a simple, thought using, and re-energizing indulgence.  I am quite happy I did it.  I had to explain to my community director why I missed a really low profile outing, but the hours spent writing in my room gave me the enough of a push to not have a problem explaining this.  Little retreat times like this are fine and healthy if, like all things, practiced in moderation.

What I’ve been finding is that the longer I’m out here the more I begin to discover how to live.  It’s a constantly changing life, you and your emotions are never in just one place, they’re always up or down, left, or right, or just plain crazy and you can’t figure out where they are.  It’s cool, the Lord has many tools for helping us overcome these challenges, we just have to be attentive enough to find them and humble enough to ask for them.  It’s always a process and like all processes can be rough or smooth, tall or short, crazy or calm, loopy or flat.  Kind of like the roller coasters I love.  I’m fifty feet up and still climbing, let’s see what’s over the hill...