A few summers ago I went on a trip with my mom to Mexico (I
know, right? Who goes on a trip to Mexico in the summer? Did you know your
shins can sweat? Yeah, me neither.).
Midweek, we spent a day in the middle of the Mexican jungle. The night
before the tour, we read the fine print on the itinerary and realized that in
addition to the activities listed on the brochure—kayaking, swimming in a cenote, and visiting Coba—we would also be zip-lining and rappelling into a
cavern. To many people this day might sound like fun, particularly the last two
things we had somehow overlooked. For me and my undeniably chicken-hearted
mother, the day had turned from fun to terrifying. For the record, I wasn’t
just a little intimidated by the unforeseen addition of a few activities that I
might have mild phobias about; my mom has successfully broken her leg skiing
(on a bunny hill), somehow drove a dirt bike through a barbed wire fence, fallen
off a ladder, and had a variety of other random accidents that cause most of us
to seek shelter far, far away from her person in a thunderstorm. She tries to be safe, but still ends-up in the hospital.
Mom went on the balcony to have a cigarette, and then we had a
drink and discussed whether or not we still had time to back out. When you’re
in Mexico on vacation, backing-out of plans just means that you stay at the
resort in the sunshine and lay on the beach; cancelling wasn't a terribly disappointing
option. What finally convinced us to do the unthinkable was considering our
family members—who know how much we hate heights and how completely
unadventurous my mom is—and their shock when we showed them the pictures of
our adventure.
Thinking about it today, I am still surprised by her decision to
go. And go we did. We bought the pictures—for way too much money—because
no one would have believed us if we just told them about our adventure. We both did at least 3
things we were terrified to do that day, and with dignity I might add; no
panicking or hysterics. I was so proud of her. It was one the best days I have
ever had with my mom.
I have done a lot of brave things this week, and I have to say that my levels of joy and adrenaline—which
are accompanied by a near constant feeling of nausea— are pretty much at an all-time
high.
The brave things I have done this week haven’t involved scaling
pyramids in the jungle, but they have made me feel sick with anticipation. My
worries have been over sentences and ideas, and butterflies have risen at the
opening of emails, and the reading of text messages. I have wanted to push this process to the side
at least once every day, to quit. There is no one telling me I must apply, write, revise, or connect;
there is only me. The brave things I have done this week have been about
pouring into my future – academically, professionally, and relationally.
Their commonality is that they have all involve hope. These seemingly insignificant
moments are made enormous in my own head because what I am required to invest is
much more costly than just my time. I don’t like to admit weakness in myself,
but hope within me is fragile and tentative.
Hope is intertwined with faith, which is “the substance of
things hoped for, the evidence of things not yet seen.” (Hebrews 11:1) As I
have rebuilt my identity this year I have walked into hopefulness without
realizing it; my rest is in the adoration of God and His desire for me, and
that love, the love we share, inspires me to hope.
When there is devastation, we rebuild, and rebuilding takes
time. I have already spent a lot of time on rebuilding; rebuilding identity,
rebuilding vocation, rebuilding faith, rebuilding my capacity to love and be
loved. I’m realizing while I write this that my moments of bravery have not
just been thrust upon me without warning. I have been walking paths to get here
for a long time, but I am terrified that who I am is not enough, that I am not
enough to love, that the work I have done isn’t enough. I fear the devastation
of failure.
When I talked with my friend Ted about my struggle with hope
and fear, he suggested that I should not be afraid of the possibility of
failure; failure means I’m trying and that I’m learning new things. He also
suggested that we celebrate our failures because they teach us things that
success rarely can. Unfortunately, I think Ted is probably on to something; the
most significant failure of my life is also responsible for more revelation
that any of the things have gone according to plan. Ted is a cup half full kind
of guy.
It’s easier to
consider reliving that day in Mexico—sweating shins and all—a
hundred times more than it is for me to relax into the possibilities I feel
stretching-out ahead of me. Tomorrow I will do another brave thing; that second
zip line jump was less terrifying than the first one.
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