Holding On for Dear Life

I cried in the car on my way home from our end-of-the-school-year celebration.

The tears surprised me.

They weren't tears of defeat. They weren't tears of disappointment. They were the tears of someone who had just crossed a finish line.

I felt victorious.

Not the kind of victory that comes easily. The kind that belongs to a fighter who has gone several rounds, been knocked down, questioned whether they could continue, and somehow found the strength to get back up again.

This school year took so much out of me.

As I drove home, one Scripture kept echoing in my heart:

"If you'll hold on to me for dear life," says God, "I'll give you the best of care. If you'll only get to know and trust me. Call me and I'll answer, be at your side in bad times; I'll rescue you, then throw you a party. I'll give you a long life, give you a long drink of salvation." Psalm 91:14-16 (MSG)

Those words felt personal.

Because this year, there were many moments when all I knew how to do was hold on to Jesus for dear life.

And He did exactly what He promised.

He answered.

He stayed beside me in difficult moments.

He rescued me from lies that had followed me for years.

He upheld me with His mighty right hand.

Looking back, I realize that while I thought God was simply getting me through a difficult school year, He was actually pruning things that could not come with me into the next season.

Fear of rejection.

Old thought patterns.

False identities.

The need to fit in.

The need to be understood.

The need to prove myself.

Somewhere along the way, God was shaking those things loose.

At the time, I couldn't see it.

In fact, there were moments when I questioned God's plan altogether. I grieved the loss of familiar roles and wrestled with assignments I never would have chosen for myself. Looking back now, I can see that God was far kinder than I realized at the time. While I was grieving what I thought I had lost, He was preparing me for what I could not yet see. What felt like disruption was actually discipleship. What felt like loss was making room for growth. What felt like an ending was quietly becoming a beginning.

As I reflected on this victory, I found myself remembering another moment in my life when I felt this same mixture of exhaustion, gratitude, and triumph.

I was a sophomore at Lane Tech High School when I volunteered to join my church youth group's first missions trip to Santander, Spain.

I was thrilled.

Our team, Soul Purpose, was going to complete portions of the Camino de Santiago—a pilgrimage route stretching across Spain. We would ride bicycles and share the Gospel with fellow pilgrims along the way.

I trained faithfully before the trip.

Every weekend I rode twenty-five miles along Chicago's Lake Shore bike path, convinced I was preparing myself well.

I wasn't.

Nothing could have prepared me for what that journey would require.

If I had known then what I know now, I probably would have talked myself out of going.

I wasn't prepared for the terrain.

I wasn't prepared for the heat.

I wasn't prepared for riding eight hours a day.

I wasn't prepared for the rain, the dirt roads, the steep hills, or the mountains that seemed impossible to climb.

We traveled in groups, but there were moments when I would stop several times a day just to cry.

I was physically exhausted.

My body wasn't conditioned for that kind of endurance.

I felt weak.

I felt overwhelmed.

I felt like quitting.

My team would gather around me and pray for strength. Then I would wipe my tears, climb back on my bike, and keep moving.

Day after day, I repeated the same pattern.

Cry.

Pray.

Ride.

Cry.

Pray.

Ride.

Through rain.

Through heat.

Through grasslands and flowing creeks.

Up mountains.

Down mountains.

Forward.

Always forward.

When I finally reached the end of the journey, I cried again.

Not because it had been easy.

But because it had taken everything I had.

And somehow, by God's grace, I made it.

As I sat in my car this week, I realized this school year felt remarkably similar.

No, I wasn't biking through Spain.

But the journey required all of me.

There was dying to my flesh.

Dying to my pride.

Letting go of my identity as a resource teacher.

Letting go of my identity as a worship leader.

Releasing the versions of myself that felt familiar and safe.

Embracing new assignments.

New responsibilities.

New ways of trusting God.

The struggle was real.

There were moments when I sat in my car and wondered if I could do another day. Moments when I questioned whether I belonged where God had placed me. Moments when obedience felt costly and surrender felt unfair.

Yet here I stand.

At the finish line.

Victorious.

Not because I was strong enough.

But because I held on to Jesus for dear life and chose to trust Him.

And He got me through.

I don't fully understand everything that was cultivated in me this year.

I suspect some of those seeds haven't even broken through the soil yet.

But I do know this:

I am less afraid.

I am more curious about coming out of hiding.

I am beginning to see that much of my life has been shaped by the belief that hiding was protection. If I stayed small, stayed quiet, stayed unnoticed, then I couldn't be rejected. I couldn't be hurt.

Yet God has been showing me that hiding was never His design for me.

Jesus said:

"You are the light of the world. A city set on a hill cannot be hidden." Matthew 5:14

A city on a hill doesn't strive to shine.

It shines because of where it has been placed.

The light is not something it creates; it is something it carries.

For years, I tried to hide behind performance, behind fear, behind perfectionism, and behind titles. But a city on a hill was never designed to disappear.

Its very purpose is to shine.

And perhaps that is one of the greatest lessons this season has taught me.

God did not create me to fit into the environments He sends me to.

He created me to influence them.

To bring His presence.

To carry His light.

To reflect His goodness.

To shine.

As this school year comes to an end, my heart is full of gratitude.

Not because the journey was easy.

But because God was faithful.

The same God who met me on the mountains of Spain met me in the hallways of my school.

The same God who strengthened my legs to pedal one more mile strengthened my heart to take one more step.

The same God who carried me then has carried me now.

And if this season has taught me anything, it is this:

When we hold on to Him for dear life, we discover that He has been holding on to us all along.