Being Brave

“Here’s a secret that not many people know. Fear and bravery are partners. You can’t be brave without first being afraid.”

— From A Boy Like You by Frank Murphy

There is no accounting for fear.

The tiniest of things can trigger the biggest of fears. Take a spider for instance.

For reasons beyond reason, one of these eight-legged arachnids flood my otherwise fierce daughter with the kind of fear that once landed her on her kitchen counter for three hours as she waited for her boyfriend to return home and hunt down the long gone culprit.

That was years ago.

Fast forward to this morning. Her dad and I were sitting on the porch with our coffee when she tried to reach us on FaceTime. I didn’t answer, thinking I would call back in a little while. When a phone call immediately followed, my spidey sense kicked in and I picked up. A Black Widow spider was crawling up the side of her kitchen counter. Blinded by fear, she couldn’t see the forest for the trees. That same boyfriend is now her husband, and it has always been his job to deal with the inevitable spider. A tough situation when he is gone on a business trip. I mean a girl can only stay on a kitchen counter for so long.

Her: (Shaking) There’s a Black Widow climbing up the side of the counter and I don’t know what to do.

Me: Get a roll of pater towels. The whole roll.

Her: (Shaking) I don’t think I can do it.

Me: Yes. You can.

Her: (Still shaking) OK

Me: Get close to it, and smash it with the roll of paper towels.

Her: (Still shaking) OK…It’s done.

As those words came out of her mouth standing in her kitchen a hundred miles away, a herd of elk burst out of the pine woods and across our snow covered field. Heads held high, their steamy breath creating little clouds in the air, we’ve been waiting for a rare closeup glimpse of them all winter. They chose that precise moment to show up. The moment when her seedling of courage burst out of an old-growth fear.

Her: (No longer shaking) I did it!

This is a fear that has gripped her for years. This morning she loosened its grasp and will never be the same again. That’s what happens when we choose to be brave. Sometimes a herd of elk even shows up to celebrate.

Ash Wednesday and Rush Limbaugh

Today is Ash Wednesday.

It is also the day that Rush Limbaugh died.

I was not a fan. Ever.

Mr. Limbaugh, in my opinion, used his ultra-conservative pulpit to disparage and devalue people and perspectives that I deeply value. However, my 80 year old brother Peter, who passed away recently, was one of the faithful. It was hard to fathom. And yet Peter and I deeply valued many of the same things, including this country and our democracy. I don’t think my brother and I were unique in that way.

Today, it saddened me to see gleeful messages on social media at the death of this human being, who, say what you will, was a hero to many. And someday when my hero, Barack Obama, dies, there will be many who will dance on his grave.

This must stop.

Hurling insults at those who don’t agree with us only fans the flames of hatred, widens the political divide, and pushes our fragile democracy closer to the edge of a cliff of our own making. Disparaging comments and casting blame, whether circulated publicly online or contemplated privately in our own hearts, only further feeds the beast that threatens to devour us and our democracy. Every time we indulge in the habit of fueling that fire, we are brought closer to collective ruin in our polarized country. Like a drug, it is a political habit that gets harder to break the more we engage in it.

Today is Ash Wednesday.

It is also the day which marks the beginning of the Lenten Season and continues until the night before Easter Sunday. Lent is a period of repentance and reflection, during which people often commit to a time of fasting and the denial of certain luxuries. It is a time of preparation for the ultimate transformation, when out of the ashes of death 2000 years ago, Love was reborn.

It could also be the day which marks the beginning of a new season in this country. A period of repentance and reflection, during which we commit to a time of fasting from the political junk food that is poisoning our souls, and a refusal to indulge in cheap and hateful shots across the aisle. A time of preparation for the hard work of raising up a country of Love out of the ashes of death.

May it be so.

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Who Gets To Do This? And Why?

Fourteen years ago when we first set foot on the five acres we now call home, we were smitten. Mt. Adams, the 12,281’ high volcano sat directly in front of what was to become the site for the house. Pine woods on three sides gave the property a tucked in feel, and would provide protection from the winds that can frequent our valley. Sitting at just under 2000 feet, we were guaranteed all four seasons. Standing together and taking it all in, we began to envision building the home that we had first imagined over a bottle of wine, on the back of a cocktail napkin, the year our youngest daughters went off to college.

It was hard to fathom that we might actually be able to realize our long held dream of building a rustic home, east of the mountains, where we could live and that we could share with family and friends. I mean who gets to do that? And why?

Slowly the house took shape as we split our time between the city where our jobs were, and this piece of ground where our hearts were.

Sitting on the porch with my coffee 13 years ago, I continued to wonder, who gets to do this? And why?

2008

Thirteen years later, sitting on the porch with my coffee, I continue to ponder, who gets to do this? And why?

2021

Living here, having created the place that we hope to call home for years to come, is an unbelievable gift. I’ve never felt that we owned it. It is ours to steward, share, and make use of for the good of many. A safe haven and refuge for all who come here, and a place from which to imagine and work for a more just, loving, and inclusive world.

After this past year, I am starkly aware of the immeasurable, culturally inherent privilege granted to us that has made this dream of ours possible.

And to whom much is given, much is required.

Love Changes Us

“…love is an invitation to growth, a call to responsibility, and a hope for all that could be.”

(From the Opening Prayer, February 14th, 2021, Zoom Church, Bethel UCC, White Salmon)

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It was May 28th, 1994.

“I have a question for you.” he said.

On a snowy hike into the Indian Heaven Wilderness, and we had just stopped for lunch. I was pretty sure his question wasn’t whether I wanted the turkey or the ham sandwich.

“Will you marry me?” he asked.

“Yes!” I answered.

Hiking back out it hit me. On the trail going in, life had looked one way. Walking back out, life as we had known it had changed.

Because that’s what love does.

It changes us.

Whenever we say yes to love of any kind, we are committing ourselves to something bigger without knowing how it will all turn out. Love isn’t about certainty, but a commitment to continue to show up and say yes even when it’s hard. Especially when it is hard.

Before we say yes to love, our life looks one way. After we say yes, life as we have known it, will change.

Because that’s what love does.

It changes us.

27 years of continuing to show up and saying yes. Here’s to the next 27!

1-2-3

For two days in a row she found herself sitting at a red light. When it turned green, before putting her foot on the gas to pull out into the intersection, she counted to three.

1-2-3

On each of those two occasions another motorist, in an SUV, ran a red light and sped through the intersection, barely missing her. Had my best friend of more than 45 years pulled out before counting to three, the results could have been terrible. Or worse.

It was her dad who taught her to always count to three after the light turned green and before pulling into the intersection. He knew that while green might mean go, there was wisdom in waiting. To allow a sliver of time in which to more fully assess the situation before pulling ahead.

Life is full of green lights. What was not a possibility until now suddenly is, and we are given the green light. When it does, there is wisdom in waiting, just long enough to allow a sliver of time in which to more fully assess the situation before pulling ahead.

1-2-3

(With gratitude to Phil Patterson for teaching her to count to three, and to Kristine Patterson for always counting.)

Photo by Davis Sanchez from Pexels

The Spin

Is there anyone who isn’t ready to be on the other side of the pandemic?

I didn’t think so.

It feels like enough already. Except it isn’t. And probably won’t be for longer than we would hope. Which doesn’t mean that there isn’t reason to be hopeful. There is. But only if we stay the course.

And.

Staying the course is hard.

Let’s not make it any harder than it already is.

Maybe it’s all in the way we choose to spin it.

Rather than see it as always having to be careful, let’s see it as always being full of care for one another.

Rather than see it as having the discipline to always do it right, let’s see it as having the dedication to always do the right thing.

Rather than see it as never being able to gather with our loved ones, let’s focus on doing what it takes so that we can.

Rather than see it as all too hard, let’s see it as the hard work that will get us all through.

Rather than see it as a divisive political issue, let’s see it as a way of uniting us as people.

The quickest way to the other side is to stay the course. Let’s not make that any harder than it already is.

Maybe it’s all in the way we choose to spin it.

Photo by cottonbro from Pexels

Lost In Translation

This is what he said:

“Let’s just use the rest of this up.”

This is what I heard:

“You probably won’t think of this, so I’d better remind you. This food needs to be eaten up, and we don’t want it to go to waste.”

A little context might be helpful.

My husband and I are starting the Whole30 tomorrow, and trying to finish up all of the non-compliant food before then. Tom was referring to some of said food, and simply letting me know that he was helping us do that.

His comment wasn’t meant to criticize, correct, or challenge me. That, however, is how I heard it, and as a result, my response was less than gracious.

Thankfully curiosity came on the heels of my snarky comment. Following that thread of inquiry led me to the discovery of my very own inner translator. One that takes a message and instantly converts it into my mother tongue, confirming an old story that has been with me for as long as I can remember. In this case, the story that I have to protect myself from strong male voices that only want to keep me in my place, question my abilities, and tell me how things are.

Programs like Google Translate work to predict the likelihood of a sequence of words, and quickly convert them from one language to another.

Our inner translators work in much the same way.

In other words, we hear what we are listening for rather that what is actually being said.

Too Good Not To Share

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having an obligation to do something, or care for someone, as part of one's job or role

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Especially during COVID, staying connected matters more than ever. Thanks to technology we can still meet, gather, collaborate, celebrate, learn, remember, worship, and share a meal or bottle of wine together. We can work with a therapist, doctor, coach, personal trainer, or spiritual director, all from the comfort of our home office, closet, car, or tree fort.

As good as all that connecting is, sometimes it’s just too much.

Our devices ring and ding and vibrate, alerting us that someone somewhere is reaching our way, and we, or at least I, feel responsible to answer right there and then. It’s as if not picking up the phone, responding to the text, joining the video call, or answering the email immediately communicates that I don’t care. That that person isn’t a priority, and as someone who values connection and relationships above all else, I never want to convey that. Ever. And yet I have this fear that I do.

This was the quandary I brought to a monthly video conversation with my spiritual director. One of his many gifts is his practice of parsing words. He will take a word apart, maybe switch a letter of two, all in the service of looking at it in a new and more helpful way. In this case, rather than feel responsible to answer the phone or respond to the text, decide if, in that moment, I am response-able to do so.

Do I have the emotional capacity, at the time, to respond with the best of myself? Is my tank, at the time, empty, full, or somewhere in between? Do I have what it takes, at the time, to be fully present? In that moment, am I responsible or response-able to answer? It isn’t about not responding. It’s about responding well.

Some things are simply too good not to share.

(Once again, a grateful shout out to Dane Anthony.)

Photo by Wendy Wei from Pexels

The Scream

Ducking my head to walk underneath the small fort we built for the little people in our lives, I dropped to the ground to see if I could add another pushup to my tally. It was raining, and the ground underneath the fort was dry. Standing up, one more pushup under my belt, I headed back out into the rain. Because I was wearing my Seahawks Super Bowl Champs hat I didn’t see the low board ahead of me and walked right into it. I hit my head. HARD. I hate hitting my head.

The next thing I knew, I was bent over, screaming at the top of my lungs. I screamed, and screamed, and screamed, until I couldn’t. It’s a good thing our closest neighbors are a ways away, or they might have called the local sheriff to come investigate.

All I can say is that it felt really, really, really good to scream. It felt like a mixture of rage and fear, and a few other emotions that must have been lodged pretty deep inside for awhile.

I guess I just needed to scream.

There is a lot to be angry and fearful about right now. So many things out of our control. So many things that need to be addressed and fixed and repaired and built and changed, and most of us feel pretty powerless to do anything about it. Whenever we feel powerless, rage and fear aren’t far behind, and those emotions need to come out somewhere. For me, it was a guttural scream, bending over underneath a fort out in the pine trees.

Sometimes I guess we just need to scream. And then stand up and get back to work loving and helping the people and the world within our reach.

Mending

Yesterday my daughter spent time mending a pair of pants for her four-year-old son. Passed down from his cousin, a few years his senior, they already had history. Hours spent doing what little boys do. Rather than toss them, she carefully mended them. Artfully stitching together the old with the new, patching the hole, reinforcing the seams, and readying them for more of what this little boy will do.

What is true of a pair of pants is true of life. With time comes wear and tear, and the need for repair. Our fabric wears thin, feelings catch on sharp words, hurtful choices tear people apart.

Mending is the art of tending to what has been torn.

Mending matters.

(To learn more about the art of mending, check out Mending Matters by Katrina Rodabaugh)

With gratitude to HKK