Fearless Craziness

Sometimes I think there is a very thin line between fearless and crazy, one which often gets blurred. My husband, whose tagline for life is, Live Dangerously, believes a person isn’t truly living who doesn’t stare down danger on a frequent basis. On one of the very few snowy mornings this past winter he got himself up early and drove to a mountain in New Hampshire, which he climbed.

By himself.

In ice and snow.

I don’t usually worry about him when he takes risks like this, primarily because I don’t allow myself the luxury of thinking about what he’s doing. I also know he’s in good physical condition and has planned ahead to have the necessary clothing and equipment for his adventure. He has calculated both the risk and reward of his climb and decided the effort was worth it.

 

When Bonnie at Faith Barista suggested the word fearless as a writing prompt I thought about my husband, and others like him, and wondered how they got to be the way they are. My temperament tends toward the other end of the emotional spectrum. I am prone to be more fearful than fearless. Someone once pointed out to me how often I begin a sentence with the words, I’m afraid.

As I was mulling this idea of fearlessness I found myself loitering at a car dealership, waiting for an oil change. I could hear the voice of Dr. Phil in the background, going about his business of fixing people’s lives on TV. I found myself starting to pay attention as a woman described her debilitating fear of riding in cars. She spoke of experiencing physiological symptoms such as nausea, sweating, and shortness of breath every time she got into a car.

The good TV doctor explained that fear is the body’s healthy response when in the presence of danger. Human beings are wired with a fight-or-flight response, an automatic adrenaline rush signaling when it might be a good time to head on out of Dodge.

An unhealthy response, he said, is one which is disproportionate to the danger present.

I thought about fear being a healthy, God-given response. If I am created to react in the presence of danger, then isn’t fear a gift given for my protection? Perhaps, I thought, it’s unrealistic for me to think about aspiring to fearlessness.

Unless this instinctive response is a defect in the way I was originally designed.  In the beginning there was nothing to fear. There was only God and everything he created, all of which was very good. And in God’s presence was perfect safety.

But that’s not the world I live in. Christ calls me to follow him through a world filled with very real dangers, toils, and snares. But he also promises to equip me for the adventure. He offers his perfect love which casts out fear. And he promises never to leave me or forsake me.

Christ asked his followers to do some things that sounded downright crazy. Trust him for daily bread. Lay down their lives. Jump out of a boat. He asked them, and he asks me, to live in this world; to engage it, risk getting my heart broken, and live dangerously.

I doubt I will ever become fearless in this life, but in God's presence my fears can begin to assume their proper proportion. The danger of wind and wave, and the cares of this world, diminish in comparison to the one who bids me to follow. Fear reminds me that I need Him.

Joining Bonnie at Faith Barista:





And with KD Sullivan at Painting Prose:

Introducing The Beloved Swede

I was going to take this week off from my blog. My son is home for Christmas break, and I expect my daughter and her husband to arrive mid-week.

However, my husband sent the following to our pastor in response to his sermon last Sunday evening. The text was I John 2:7-11, Paul’s admonition to love one another:

Beloved, I am writing you no new commandment, but an old commandment that you had from the beginning. The old commandment is the word that you have heard. At the same time, it is a new commandment that I am writing to you, which is true in him and in you, because the darkness is passing away and the true light is already shining. Whoever says he is in the light and hates his brother is still in darkness. Whoever loves his brother abides in the light, and in him there is no cause for stumbling. But whoever hates his brother is in the darkness and walks in the darkness, and does not know where he is going, because the darkness has blinded his eyes.

The Swede isn’t a writer; he’s an engineer. But both my pastor and I thought he had some good things to say, things worth sharing. Besides, posting his words here gives me the opportunity to show you a picture so you can see just how good-looking he is. So, as this week’s offering for Michelle’s Hear It, Use It Community, meet the Beloved Swede:

I mentioned the movie Gran Torino last night–in the context of Frank (I think that was his name) allowing himself to be subdued in order to subdue his enemies. That ending was unexpected and powerful in many ways.

It has been a long time since I saw that movie, so some of the details are fuzzy. But, I mean to watch it again.

Real sin is ugly and disturbing. Gran Torino deals with real sin. It also illustrates real sacrifice and redemption—which is why the movie is so powerful. I think it also does a decent job of illustrating real-life hate and love, and the often-times difficult path between them.

Frank probably really hates his Hmong neighbors—at least because they remind him of his real war enemies. Frank is a lost soul. A life already ended. Setting aside what initially motivates Frank, (a beer I think) he ends up taking small steps of being near these people he thinks he hates—but, really does not even know. The edges start to come off as Frank simply spends time and learns about the struggles of these people. Simple knowledge turns to investment. Investment leads to caring. It is an imperfect process. In the end, Frank gains back his life and sacrifices it so that former strangers might simply have the chance to live their lives in relative peace.

Frank is a complex character, sometimes ugly—so are we as sinful people. I think the process illustrated in that movie, however, while extreme in its circumstances, is not far at all from the way it works for all of us. We can’t simply command ourselves to love others. We need to stand alongside, invest, give; sacrifice. It is in these actions that we learn how to love. Christ did these things and we need to practice them. In doing these little things, we are loving—even if the real caring does not come until later. I think we have a tendency to think that loving always starts with a warm fuzzy feeling – or that it should. So, we wait around for the warmfuzzyfeeling before we make our move. I think more often it starts with an uncomfortable feeling and awkward steps.

The darkness is passing away. The true light is already shining. May God give each of us grace to love one another well as we gather to celebrate the One who surrendered Himself.

Linking with Michelle @ Graceful:

And with Jen and the sisterhood:

Also look for me at Michelle's place again on Wednesday, where she has graciously invited me to guest post.

Relevant Gifts

When I visited England with my daughter several years ago, I found this version of a Russian nesting doll in a gift shop at York Minster:

The outside doll represents King Henry VIII, and nestled inside are dolls representing each of his wives in the order they were dispatched: Divorced, beheaded died; divorced, beheaded, survived. I thought I desperately needed one of these quirky dolls until I flipped one over, saw the price tag, and calculated the conversion from British pounds to American dollars. I decided I’d be satisfied with just a picture.

Attending The Relevant Conference was, for me, like receiving the gift of a nesting doll. I didn’t receive a single gift at the conference; I received many, layered within one another. The outer shell, the gift holding all the others inside, was the extravagant one my husband gave me. In paying my registration fee, picking up my expenses, and agreeing to sacrifice the presence of my delightful company for several days, the beloved Swede encouraged me to continue writing and telling my stories. He is a good man, and so much better than I deserve. And as all the ladies at Relevant who saw pictures will attest, he is one good looking Swede.

The next layer, the gift I was most anxious to open, was that of meeting friends I’ve known only through online words and pictures. Hugging Bonnie, our gracious hostess here at the Faith Jam, was a highlight of the conference as was meeting Michelle and Deidra. I met Mary, a new friend in real life, and am now looking forward to getting to know her through her words and pictures online.

We shared stories, laughter, and tears together as friends; we prayed with and for one another. I listened to others, those who have lived stories similar to mine, and I heard their encouraging messages, “Yes it is hard, but God is faithful. All will be well.” I sat with these women and shared meals; we joined our voices together in singing praise. And I know we will do this together again someday.

Layered deeper inside the conference I found the gift of challenging, thoughtful words from so many. Like so many others, I’d come to the conference eager to hear from Ann Voskamp, she whose life-giving words I’d found during dark days in my life. As humble and gracious in real life as she appears in her writing, Ann eschews the very notion of fame. Yet in response to God’s call to sacrifice the quiet anonymity of Canadian farm life, she offers to Him her words for the feeding of many. Blogging, she reminds a room full of women, is not about us, but about “washing the feet of your sisters.”

Singer and songwriter Shaun Groves, who organizes trips for bloggers on behalf of Compassion International, spoke about the power of words to keep God’s mercy in view, even amidst the reality of devastating poverty. Shelly Noonan, in telling her story of walking through pain, reminded us that “even our pain doesn’t belong to us,” but can be offered for the healing of others. Laura Booz encouraged us to believe, “You become passionate about Jesus when you understand His passion for you.” Tsh Oxenreider spoke about “finding our sweet spots,” the intersection between our skills and our passion.She also showed us some pretty happening tools for navigating the world of Twitter.

I unearthed layer after layer of gift during my weekend among fellow bloggers at the Relevant Conference and also received a hefty gift bag filled with books and other treasures. I’m sure I received gifts I have yet to discover as I read back through my notes and chew on words I heard. I came home from the conference deeply convinced of the power of story. My stories matter, and so do yours. They are gifts we offer to one another.

Linking with Bonnie and high-fiving her on the news of her new book contract!

Also adding my link over at The Relevant Conference Blog.

Precipice Trail

There are reasons visitors flock to New England in the fall.

When my children were young, Acadia National Park in Maine was the annual fall leaf-peeping destination for our family each Columbus Day weekend. As the only national park in New England, Acadia is consistently ranked as one of the top ten most visited national parks in the country. Acadia offers gorgeous views of rocky Maine coastline set against a stunning mix of evergreen and deciduous trees. The foliage in Acadia is usually at its peak of autumn color near Columbus Day, and the vibrant reds, oranges, and yellows in the trees contrasting against the cool blues and grays of the shoreline entice visitors from all over the world.

My kids and me, circa 2000. Notice how our fleece jackets match the reds, greens, and yellows in the trees?

The park contains an extensive carriage road system which passes through stone-faced bridges, near waterfalls, streams, and hiking trails. My family and I are well-acquainted with many of the trails, having kicked over familiar granite surfaces multiple times throughout the years. The Beehive trail, a short climb up a granite cliff via ladders and iron rungs, became a family favorite. I remember the year my daughter pouted because I would only allow my husband to take her halfway up the trail, fearing it was too dangerous for her. By the time my kids were in high school, they scrambled up the Beehive as though they were mountain goats.

One year, the beloved Swede decided that the kids were ready to conquer Acadia’s Precipice Trail. Described as a strenuous hike climbing 1,000 feet up the face of Champlain Mountain, the trail requires the use of many iron rungs and ladders. Warning signs posted at the trailhead indicate that the route should be attempted only by hikers who are physically fit and have no fear of heights. The warnings state that, in order to reach some of the iron rungs, hikers should be at least five feet tall or else they will slip, fall and bounce their way down the granite cliff, becoming food for the endangered peregrine falcons which nest on Mount Champlain. Or something to that effect.

My son, who was nine years old at the time, may have measured all of four feet-ten the year the beloved Swede decided to conquer The Precipice Trail. He assured me our son would be fine; he was an experienced hiker. Besides, he told me, a friend of his had hiked the trail not long before and said it wasn’t that bad. The language on the warning signs, he told my husband, was just there on the advice of the park’s lawyers as protection against claims of liability.

Did I happen to mention my husband’s friend was a lawyer?

Not long into the hike, I began yelling at my husband, “I hate this trail! I hate your friend!” It had rained all night long before the morning of our hike, and do you know what is more slippery than wet granite? Not much. Each time I heard the slip of a foot or the crunch of gravel being kicked loose, I had visions of my children tumbling down the slick, granite rock face, plunging to certain death; all while under my supervision and with my consent.

We reached the summit of Mount Champlain where the wind, I was certain, was about to carry my four-foot, ten inch son off the mountain and away.

My husband wanted a picture of the kids and me enjoying the view from the top. Do I look like I’m enjoying the view?

Without a word, I turned and started making my way down the back side of Champlain. I wanted nothing more than to get off that summit. That blur of yellow behind the trail head sign is me heading for the car, trying to put as much distance as possible between me and the Precipice Trail.

During dinner that evening, my son asked, “Mom? Do you still love Daddy?”

I may have answered him something to the effect of, “I will always love your father. Now shut up and eat your buttered noodles.”

Despite the unpleasantness of the Precipice Trail hike and dinner that evening, we enjoyed a memorable weekend together. Thunder Hole--a rocky inlet which, when tide conditions are right, allows air and water to collide in an explosive crash--put on a spectacular show for us.

Just as the kids had decided they were done viewing Thunder Hole, my husband climbed up on some granite and asked us to pose for pictures. From his vantage point, he could see out what was out in the ocean and headed our way:

Believe me; the waters of the waters of the Atlantic along the coast of Maine can get pretty darned cold by Columbus Day weekend.

My kids are now grown, and my husband and I are together at home this Columbus Day. But I have photo albums filled with pictures and a heart full of memories of the fall weekends shared, through the years, with our children along the coast of Maine.

I will always love my children's daddy. And them.

(Click here for a video of Thunder Hole doing it's thing)

Sharing a Columbus Day playdate memory with Laura:

 

And with L.L. Barkat for On, In, and Around Monday:

What Happens In Texas

Is it what you expected?

I was never quite sure how to answer the question. Throughout the weekend, several people asked whether or not the writing retreat was turning out to be what I had expected. Truth was, I hadn’t known what to expect.

I knew what I feared. I feared I would have to sit down in front of a blank piece of paper and try to write something that wouldn’t sound awful. I feared being surrounded by a circle of talented writers who would whip out their pens and bleed red all over my amateur efforts. I feared that the generous gift my husband had given me, investing in me as a writer wannabe, would turn out to be an unwise decision on his part.

So much of what happened at Laity Lodge, however, was neither what I feared nor expected. I didn’t expect that meeting so many for the first time would feel like a reunion of old friends. I was surprised to learn that a lovely, talented photographer from South Africa would, with a glimmer in her eye, dare to flip a colleague into the Frio River. I had no idea that a grown man with a frog puppet could move so many to tears.

Unlike many of the talented photographers present, I hadn’t packed a camera. The snapshots I took, I carried home with me in my head and my heart. With a fistbump, I was given honorary dude status. I was introduced to the best cookies one could make using four simple ingredients. During a workshop, I used the phrase “merry band of crazy.” (and am right here and now, on the internet, forevermore claiming intellectual property rights to those words) I was assigned a roommate who couldn’t promise she wouldn’t try to kill me in the middle of the night. I found people who get me.

We talked together, my writer friends and me, of our lives at home; and we wept and prayed together. I worshiped alongside a woman for whom I had prayed online. I had a meltdown in an art studio. Throughout the weekend, I received small affirmations. Before heading home, I was invited to consider pain as something to steward well.

Not real writer-ly stuff. Or maybe it was.

I’ve been reading all week, posts from others who participated in the retreat, and I keep thinking about how alike and different our experiences were. We shared in many of the same activities and broke bread together, but we’ve each come home with different stories in our back pockets. My kids’ high school youth group leader used to say that each kid who went on a mission trip had the exact trip God intended for him or for her to have. I think something like that happened at Laity Lodge last weekend.

I need to pause here and say, “Thank you,” to the beloved Swede for sending me to Texas last week, for believing enough in me to invest in me as a writer.  Truly, you are the lingonberries to my Swedish pancakes. As for return on investment, I’m not sure I come home to you a better writer. But I believe I’ve come home a better person.

And while what happens in Vegas may stay in Vegas, the lessons of Laity Lodge, I believe, will continue to echo far beyond the walls of the Rio canyon. Even in the airport, as many of us were queuing in security lines, the conversation and the friendship continued. In an airport restaurant I shared a table with David before we went separate ways, he home to steward pain of his own.

Before leaving the restaurant, I happened upon Kathy, the artist-in-residence whose studio I’d fled in tears. She’d been wondering, she told me, what had happened as I sat surrounded by water colors and ink. We shared a table, and I was given the opportunity to fill her in on the rest of the story. I’d had a painful experience, I told her, but one I needed to have.

As it turns out, few things about the retreat were what I expected. And perhaps that’s the greatest lesson I brought home from Texas.

Witness

When I hear the word witness, several images come to mind. I think of actress Kelly McGillis sitting on a bench at the 40^th Street train station in Philadelphia, dressed in Amish garb which was useless in concealing the beauty of her striking eyebrows. I think, too, of the time I sat in the backseat of my dad’s blue Chevy Impala after he and my mother had gone inside an unfamiliar house on one of our church’s weekly visitation nights. I wasn’t sure who they were visiting or why. The folks inside may have needed to hear about Jesus, or they may have already known about Jesus but backslid. I just knew my parents had responded to a call to go out witnessing.

When I was a freshman in college I, too, was sent out as a witness. I had joined a campus fellowship and, on one night for no reason that was apparent to me, the leadership decided to pair up the men and women in the group and send them out to share on campus. Armed with gospel pamphlets I, with my partner who I’d never before met, set out to do our modern-day Paul and Silas thing. We descended on some poor student in the engineering building who, on a Friday night, was doing what he had paid considerable tuition dollars to do. My partner began his sales pitch for Jesus, but the student politely interrupted to tell him, “No thanks.” He already had one.

True story: Years later, after I started going to a different fellowship group--the one the good-looking guys on campus attended--I met and married that dedicated engineering student.

Witness. According to Merriam-Webster, the word witness can mean a number of things. It may act as either a noun or a verb. As a noun, it might mean one who has personal knowledge of something. As a verb it can mean to testify to, to furnish proof of, to have personal or direct cognizance of or, to bear witness.

During TheHigh Calling writing retreat I attended at Laity Lodge last weekend, I heard and thought quite a bit about the idea of bearing witness. Author and speaker David Dark encouraged us to write and tell the truth about the things we see, “to expand the space of the talk-aboutable.” As we engage in the call and response, he said, of telling and receiving one another’s stories, we bear and receive witness about truth. Artists and writers who are followers of Jesus  bear witness through image and song and story to That which was from the beginning, which we have heard, which we have seen with our eyes, which we have looked at and our hands have touched. (I John 1:1, NIV)

Over the course of the weekend, I sensed an expansion in my ideas about the meaning of the word witness. My thinking was drawn away from memories of paperback pamphlets and sales pitches toward the awareness that I am at all times and in all places bearing witness to something. As a writer, I have the opportunity to bear witness through my words to my redeemer, the One toward whom all stories flow. And I don’t have to do it, in fact it might be better if I didn’t try to do it, through crafting sexy sales pitches.

At times I have, as I assume most writers do, wrestled with doubt and insecurity about whether or not I should be writing; whether or not I am any good at it. It is important, Dark said, to receive the witness of others, to believe and accept their little affirmations. If they tell you your words have helped or healed, or pointed them toward all that is good and true, believe them. Tell your stories. Receive those of others. The world needs them.

I make no promises about this kind of witness helping you find a handsome husband like I did, but you never know. But maybe telling your stories might help you, or someone who reads them, fall more deeply in love with Jesus.

David Dark is the author of The Sacredness of Questioning Everything. He blogs at Peer Pressure is Forever.

Joining Jen and the sisterhood:

A Harvest of Words

Yesterday I needed to vacuum my house and pack for an upcoming writer’s retreat in Texas. Instead, I engaged in a heroic effort toward avoiding responsibility by looking back over some old sermon notes. At least if I’m going to behave irresponsibly, I ought to do it in a responsible-looking manner, right?

I came across these words from my pastor, preached in the context of a sermon series on parables:

• When waiting on God’s promises, we need to think in agricultural terms, not technological ones.
• Seeds do not work quickly.
• We need to be patient, humble, and submissive to God’s powerful ways while always believing.
• Don’t judge the progress of the kingdom by appearance. Don’t conclude that it is pointless.

Several of my blog world friends have featured posts and pictures related to the season of harvest, here and here. In this season, so much of creation seems to echo and amplify those things God would have us see in the pages of his Holy Word.

At a time in my life, and perhaps in yours, while waiting for the fulfillment of God’s promises, I find great comfort seeing the world about me bearing witness to the words of the Promise maker.

As I mentioned, I will be away for a few days on a writing retreat. While I’m gone, please take the opportunity to introduce yourselves to several new voices I’ve discovered in blog world:

Patsy and Megan @ Sunday Women: Mother and daughter blogging about what it’s like to be married to the pastor

Sharon @ TheMoon is a Liar: Thoughts from a friend who is building her family and the kingdom through adopting, including many with special needs

Debbie @Faith, Art, and Farming: Beautiful art, Wendell Berry quotes, reflections on life with ADHD. What more could you want?

By the way, I did get around to vacuuming.  I can now leave for the retreat with clear conscience, knowing the beloved Swede will be surrounded by clean carpets.

Assuming I get my packing done.

(I'm not really sure what the rules are for citing works of others in a blog post, but thought I ought to at least link to my pastor's sermons so I can give him credit for his fine words above)

On the Eve of a Hunt

When I was a child, I often came home in the fall to find dead deer hanging from my swing set. Western Pennsylvania, where I grew up, is hunting country and my father was a meat cutter. He used to process deer for local hunters, and many gave him packages of venison in return. Venison burger, steak, and bologna were staples of my childhood diet.

I always assumed the first day of hunting season was a national holiday as all the schools and many local businesses were closed. I didn’t know there were people who didn’t hunt. As I grew into my cynical teen years, however, I began to announce my distaste for deer meat.  I started regarding hunters as camouflage-wearing rednecks and hillbillies.

So of course I grew up and married one.

New Englanders, in general, cast a cool eye toward hunters and hunting. Most seem to prefer the dignity and civility of buying meat at the local Stop and Shop, that which has been processed in mass slaughterhouses and packaged in Styrofoam. Many in the Northeast are proud to trace their ancestry to the landing of the Mayflower. Yet these same folks seem to forget how Squanto and his merry band of Wampanoag saved their forefathers’ puritanical butts from starvation by teaching them how to roast a loin of venison over an open fire. In our quiet New England neighborhood, my husband and I keep his hunting activities to ourselves.

My husband is a hunter in the same way he is both an engineer and a Scandinavian. It would be easier to stop a mariner from going to sea or separate a teenager from his cell phone than it would be to keep my husband from the woods in the fall. Hunting is not merely something my husband does; the need to hunt seems encoded in his DNA.

I recognize it in him as the summer starts drawing to a close, the far-off look he gets as though hearing a siren call from the local Cabela’s. He begins disappearing into the woods after dinner, stealing away with his mistress, his Matthews hunting bow. Packages begin arriving filled with things like skin care products designed to mask human scent. The garage becomes a staging area for sorting, testing, and organizing all manner of hunting equipment, some of which defies description and my ability to comprehend.

My husband brings to the sport of hunting the same level of planning, care, discipline he does in every area of his life. Not only does he want to increase his chance of success and fill our freezer for the winter, he recognizes there is something of the sacred in taking the life of an animal for food. The idea of shedding blood that others might live has been offensive since Adam and Eve were first clothed in animal skins. Few things torment my husband like the knowledge that an animal died slowly and painfully because a hunter made a careless shot. He is committed to ethical hunting and to mastering his sport, working to make shots which are efficient and swift.

My husband enjoys every aspect of hunting, from the planning stage to the hours of sitting still in a tree stand to the preparation of gourmet venison dishes. He butchers his deer with my father’s knife, the one he used back in his days at meat cutting school in Toledo, Ohio. In so doing, my husband both carries on a family tradition and honors my father’s memory.  He prepares cuts of meat with the kind of care which optimizes flavor and minimizes waste. Though I claimed as a teenager not to like deer meat, what that man can do with some olive oil, garlic, homemade peach chutney, and tenderloin of venison is pure magic. Because my husband, like Nimrod of old, is a mighty hunter, I eat local, organic, and well.

So on the eve of a new archery season, I want to wish my husband an enjoyable, safe, and successful hunt. After all, he’s the best-looking redneck hillbilly I know.