I grew up reading Nancy Drew detective mysteries. For a long time, I actually thought I wanted to be a forensic scientist or maybe a criminal psychologist. Obviously, my life took a slightly different turn, and now I just write blogs.
But something every story had in common was this: the closer Nancy got to solving a case, the more frequently the bad guy would try to derail her or make an attempt on her life.
Evil starts getting frantic when truth makes too much progress.
Three days ago, I was sitting on the steps of our hotel at a Leadership Development weekend here in Siem Reap, Cambodia, weeping into the phone.
"I want you to consider the possibility...that it's time to be done. That you've done enough, and that God wants you to come home and heal."
Those words, spoken by my mom, were the permission I needed to drop the facade of cool, calm and collected Kayla that I've been struggling to uphold for weeks.
Because, you guys, I have not been okay.
For the past three weeks, there has been an all-hands-on-deck, every-man-to-his-weapon attack unfolding against my mental health.
I've woken up every morning by the internal thump of my heart racing. Not helping the matter is the fact that everywhere I've slept for nearly a month has allowed me to be woken up by the sound of a door slamming, locals loudly arguing, or a child screaming down the hallway. I'm (now, currently) struggling to breathe, to sleep, and my appetite has all but vanished (and this is really saying something, folks).
And then, there's that voice. Uninvited, intrusive, and undeniably evil.
The voice that says, You're a pain in the ass.
No one else needs what you need. Why are you so preferential?
Why are you always in the way?
No one cares about what you have to say.
You're not needed here anymore.
This can all be done without you.
Go kill yourself.
This is the blog that no one back home wants to hear - the blog where a Racer talks about spiritual warfare, about hitting rock bottom, about being tempted to cash in and go home.
We don't like to tell you about this particular thing. It makes us sound ungrateful, selfish, and over-dramatic. It's important that someone bring this up, though, because the alternative is painting a false picture of how oppressive the spiritual atmosphere of a country can actually be, and what it can do to the person unprepared.
Over the course of the Race, I've seen Satan try to repeatedly hit me hard in a specific area. Identity. Body image. Coping skills. And each time, I stood up and hit back. But at this point in the Race, it's the 29th round. All enthusiasm and personal strength was used up around intermission. I'm at the point where I've taken so many left hooks that I can no longer finish this thing unless someone gets in the ring and fights for me.
But God isn't tired. God isn't done.
So there we sat, mom and I on the phone, crying Kim-Kardashian-ugly-tears and asking God where to go from here.
And then, you know. The power goes out. Because, Asia. Our phone call drops, the stairwell I was sitting in was plunged into darkness, and I could hear the shrieks and scuffles of people on the stairs trying to get outside into the open air.
And it was there I waited, alone, letting the tears sit on my cheeks, staring into nothing.
Kayla, come talk with me.
This voice sounded so different from the other one, the mean one, that I almost didn't recognize it at first. I followed it to the rooftop, and started praying at the top of my lungs.
Every verse I've ever spent time reading about God's strength came flooding into my consciousness. I started walking back and forth, audibly speaking them into the humid air.
Those who wait on the Lord will renew their strength. They will walk and not stumble. They will run and not grow weary.
For we run the race marked out for us with perseverance, keeping our eyes fixed on Jesus.
Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.
Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven.
A broken and contrite heart, you, oh Lord, will not despise.
For we were not given a spirit of fear but of love, power, and a sound mind.
Surely he has borne our grief and carried our sorrows.
He restores my soul.
"God," I said aloud, "If I stay, I need you to promise me that this won't only be my victory. This will not be another item on the Series of Unfortunate Events that you've asked me to overcome in my life. I need you to let me touch someone with this story. You need to display Your glory through me. I won't stay any other way."
He promised me He would.
So I'm sorry, Y-Squad, but that power outage was for me. It was all me. God really wanted to get me alone. He loves me so freakin' much that he shut down an entire Asian city for an hour to prove it.
I woke up the next morning in more physical pain than any morning so far. Thoughts immediately came pouring into my head like hate letters, and my heart started racing all over again. I flopped over onto my back and looked up at the yellowed ceiling.
Jesus, I prayed, You've got mail.
This depression is not mine. This anxiety is not mine. I don't claim it, I don't want it, and it can go back to the pit of hell where it belongs.
There's gonna need to be some reworking of what my Race looks like in order for me to finish strong, but I'm not letting shame get a foothold there.
I'm staying. Because soon, this storm is going to break, and there will be a sunrise and a story more beautiful than any assurance of homely comfort.
Stay tuned for victory.