rusted fairy tales and a journey close to home

I grew up playing in the woods. We lived on about 100 acres of land; my grandfather's farm took up about a third, our house and surrounding cow pastures another third, and then there was the back third, all woods and "swamp," as my dad called it. As children, we were only allowed to go so far by ourselves, but from time to time we would sneak past the "boundary line" and go exploring through the thickets, over creeks. Mostly though,we camped out in tree houses and forts built by human hands and the vast imagination of children,in which a rusted box spring becomes a gate and an old hubcap a shield.From time to time,my dad would take us out for a walk and we could go exploring without the fear of being missed. As I got older, I started taking these walks by myself, exploring not so much the land, but the inner sanctum of silence and reflection that the woods provided.

I do not have a single memory of every feeling lost while in these woods. I remember once my mom thinking we were lost and sending my grandfather out to find us, but we knew where we were the whole time (we were just hoping that she never would). It seemed like no matter how long you walked or how far you got away from home, there was always a familiar sight or sound to remind you that you were still home: a fence, a barn, the sound of my grandpa honking the horn on his truck to let the cows know it was time to come and eat. I think mostly this sense of security came from the knowledge that you could never go too far. The boundaries of our land were clearly defined, a road on three sides and a single barbed wire fence along the back. There was a sense of safety in these boundaries, knowing that as long as we were at home, no matter how deep in the darkness of the woods we were, no real harm could come to us, no matter how much adventure we managed to find.

There have been many times over the past few years when I have found myseld truly and utterly lost. Days when I woke up not knowing whether to expect blessings or disasters. Nights spent having to talk myself down from the ledge of a full on panic attack as I lay in bed, bombarded by the loss and pain that each day seemed to bring. Countless times I felt like I had set out down a path with complete certainty as to were it led, only to discover too far into the journey that it led to a place that I would never willingly go; other times, shortly before reaching my destination I would encounter an obstacle that could not be overcome, forcing me to turn around and go back the way I came. And then there were the days when fear just kept me glued to my front porch.

Having just lived through a really crappy week last week, I took some time this weekend to regroup and repurpose myself. Somehow, this led to me remembering those times I spent as a child safely lost in the wonders of my backyard and realizing that now, even through the worst, darkest days, I still carried with me that inner sense of safety, of peace. I realized that even now, when each day I'm faced with a bit of uncertainty, a bit of heartbreak, a bit of confusion, I don't feel completely lost because I know that there is a boundary to this life I'm living. It may extend to China, Cuba, Colorado, or some obscure former Soviet nation that even gets left off of a lot maps, but it's there nonetheless. It's the peace of knowing that no matter how far I wander, how lost I feel, I am never more that a breath away from God's hand. Even when I choose the wrong path and have to turn around, he's there as soon as I do.

As children playing on our farm, we knew that even if we didn't know the land, our dad did. There is security in that knowledge. A safety that lets your imagination run wild and gives you the freedom to play in a magical world where a little girl can become a queen and an old rusted chicken coop can become an impenetrable castle, complete with a golf club scepter and a little brother for a servant.

Thoughts on Belief

I've been thinking a lot lately about belief. Maybe it's because I just finished teaching a study on the Gospel of John, which is all about belief. Or maybe it's because I've been going through a bit of an identity crisis for the past few months, causing me to question if I still want to believe what I believe, namely concerning God, and life, and the point of it all.

Sometimes life takes us down unexpected paths from which there is no going back. A choice is made, a commitment is spoken, and from then on, our reality is changed. It goes without saying then that when life gets tough, the first thing to be challenged is that choice that got us there in the first place. And that's where belief comes in. That choice was based on belief, and since belief is intangible, it’s easy to second guess.

I guess it’s because of this toughness of life that I often find myself dreaming of a life that is totally different from the one I live now. A new city, new relationships, new passions, new values. And I wonder if the Elizabeth living in that life would be any happier than the one living here.

Other times I find myself dreaming of another life that, while also being totally different from the one I live now, is more of an extension of my current self rather than a depart from it. Deeper connections, passions pursued with determination, values not just espoused but lived by. A life where the things that I say I believe are magnified through my actions, my thoughts, my words, and my choices. And I’m pretty sure that the Elizabeth living this life would definitely be happier. So what’s stopping me then from making this dream a reality?

There’s a passage towards the end of the book of John concerning one of Jesus’ disciples, Thomas. Jesus has just been executed, buried, and then miraculously come back to life. He appears before the disciples when they are gathered together, only Thomas isn’t there. When the others tell him what they saw, he can’t believe it. His reaction, which he will be forever known by, was to state that until he felt Jesus’ wounds himself, he would not believe it to be true. So, when Jesus appears before them again, he goes to Thomas and offers him his hands to hold. He tells Thomas to reach into the wound where the arrow pierced his side. Whatever it takes for him to believe, Jesus offers it. For Mary it just took hearing her name spoken by her Lord; but Thomas, he needed something tangible, so Jesus gave it.

There are days where, like Mary, I can get by just hearing my name whispered by the gentle wind, spoken in a beautiful sunset, or just emitting from the stillness of a Sunday afternoon. Mostly though, I need the tangible. I need proof that my dreams aren’t crazy, that my choices, my sacrifices, haven’t been made in vain. I need to know that choosing to continue on this path is worth all of the dreams I’ve had to watch die along the way.

Jesus tells Thomas, “Because you have seen me, you believe; blessed are those who have not seen and yet believe.” Blessed is such a funny word. We don’t use it a lot now, except for in certain religious circles. I think I would substitute the word lucky. Lucky are those who have not seen and yet believe. Lucky are those who don’t live with doubt. Not a Las Vegas type of luck, more like a “The test was negative, you don’t have cancer” luck. A luck, a blessing, that leaves you sighing in relief and thanking God that you don’t have to go that way. But in the end, the believing is what matters; it’s just a hell of an easier ride if you can trust the one you believe in, unconditionally.