The Weight of the Journey
Lux Coffeebar in Phoenix, AZ.
THURSDAY, APRIL 17TH | 11:25am
We had coffee at Lux this morning with our friend and intern, Justus. He asked Kendall and me how we’ve been feeling, now that our big move is just around the corner.
I was tempted to respond with the usual: “Good! Great! We’re excited!” But the truth is—that’s not really how I’ve been feeling.
It’s more like a heavy cloud that I can’t quite explain.
There’s a deep sadness in my body—a weight, a darkness, maybe even a hint of depression. I haven’t been able to shake it, and I’m not entirely sure where it’s coming from.
After many conversations with Kendall and lots of time reflecting, I finally realized this morning:
I think what I’m feeling might be something my ancestors once felt too.
When they migrated from Mississippi to Chicago in the 1950s, I imagine they asked the same questions I’m asking now:
What if this doesn’t work out?
Are we making the right decision?
What if we lose everything we have?
What if we regret this?
What if this isn’t what we thought it would be?
Is it really worth leaving behind all that is familiar for something new? Something unknown?
This journey hasn’t gone as smoothly as we hoped.
We thought we would have raised the full $500K by now for our work with BLK South. We’ve raised a little over half—which is still a blessing—but it’s not where we expected to be at this point.
We also thought we would’ve sold our condo by now, but the housing market, the economy, and even this current administration aren’t what we envisioned when we first began dreaming of this reverse migration a few years ago.
A path we walked at the Santa Rita Abbey in Sonoita, AZ.
We recently spent a few days with Neighborhood Ministries at their annual Silent Retreat at the Santa Rita Abbey. Through prayer and stillness, we both felt God gently reminding us that what we have has always been meant to bless others.
Kendall was especially struck by the scripture in Matthew 19, “…sell your possessions, and give the money to the poor…” But this time, it landed differently—not just as a call to sell, but to steward. Maybe this condo wasn’t given to us solely for profit, but for people. Maybe we were entrusted with it so that we could be a blessing in someone else’s story. That perspective shifted something for us.
And then, just a couple of days ago, another curveball came our way. The trunk of our Toyota RAV4—our only remaining vehicle since we sold my car—suddenly locked shut and wouldn’t open. With a 3,000-mile road trip ahead of us, having a fully functioning vehicle isn’t optional. So now, we’re facing an unexpected $600 repair. The motor that operates the back door latch stopped working, and the part had to be special ordered.
These kinds of interruptions and uncertainties have made me pause and wonder:
Is this how my ancestors felt?
Did things go wrong for them, too? Did they encounter expenses they couldn’t plan for, or moments when everything felt impossible? I imagine so. And still—they went.
They moved forward because the possibility ahead was more promising than the reality they were leaving behind.
I imagine they felt like they didn’t have a better option. That maybe, just maybe, this was their only real chance to live a fuller life—to be more fully human, to reclaim a part of their dignity, their heritage, and their future.
As we prepare for our journey to Durham, I find myself turning inward. I’m not particularly eager to go out, to be around lots of people, or to celebrate a countdown.
Instead, I feel the need to reflect.
To take in each moment.
To cocoon myself a little—so that my mind, body, and heart can prepare for whatever is next.
And in the midst of all this, Kendall reminded me of something important. He said he’s been looking to the Mystic Activists—a phrase popularized for us by Kit Danley and the book she’s finishing—people like Sojourner Truth, Howard Thurman, Oscar Romero. These were people whose expressions of community development were deeply spiritual and deeply costly. Their work wasn’t easy. In fact, they likely endured more difficulty than we are facing right now. But still—they carried on.
In moments like this, we have to look to those who have gone before us, to remember we’re not the first to do this. And one day, we won’t be the last.
One day, someone will look to our story the way we look to theirs.
So the question becomes: What story do we want to tell?
