The Price of Being Me

(I have been limping around this week...here is the story of why...)

 

I went out Monday to the Palo Duro Canyon, as I regularly do, to meet with God.

 

I drove there with my mountain bike, parked at a new trailhead that I haven't explored yet, packed up my water, Gatorade, and flashlight, and rode off. It was a beautiful trail, even if it was a little beyond my mountain-biking ability in spots, and I was loving it.

 

I stopped every now and then to gaze at the walls of the gigantic valley I was in (the truth is, I was looking for any hint of caves to potentially explore while finding a spot to pray...thus, the flashlight). Finally, after maybe a mile of riding (?) the trail took a huge turn to the right along the rocky walls...and up to the left, I saw a huge cave just under the top of the ridge of the canyon. I leaned my bike against a tree, hung my helmet on a branch, donned my backpack and started up.

 

"You want to be free, but you need your security too.  When you are attached to what you already have, how can you bring in anything new? To bring in something new, something fresh, something unpredictable, you must surrender something old, stale, and habitual." -- Paul Ferrini

 

I was walking pretty slow.

 

Whenever I'm in the canyon alone, exploring a new place, I always have to get over my fear of the rattlesnake. Which is strange, because I always want to see one when I'm out there (In Chronicle's of Narnia, CS Lewis says "It is difficult for those who have not been to Narnia to understand how something can be terrifying and wonderful at the same time."). Today was no different. As I hiked up and down the fierce terrain, I was noticing every shadowy space under every rock, wondering.

 

Funny how consistent this experience of dread is, no matter how many times I do it. But eventually, I go through my thoughts of "If God wants you to see a snake, you'll see a snake," and "Do you wanna go back, Brian? No. Well, then if your going, go. If you get bit, you get bit." It's also amazing how these fear-overcoming-type thoughts actually and practically affect my experience, resolve, and progress.

 

Freed from fear to move more quickly, I looked to my projected path. It's hard to trust what you see in mountainous terrain. Because of perspective changes as you move, you are constantly altering what you think is the best way (and what you think might be the greatest prize to explore!). Long story short, I found myself on a beautiful ledge, sitting on a flat rock wedged into a steep slope, perched between two fairly-sheer drops to my right and left. I decided to sit here and pray. It was quiet, lonely, just windy enough to feel like God was having a conversation with me, and rich.

 

There were several, but the prevailing thought that I contemplated as I sat staring out at the endless desert-mountain beauty was, "This land is completely indifferent to my being here. It would go on being beautiful and dangerous whether I was here to experience it or not." (My thoughts on how this is like God, and the wonder, glory, and invitation of that, will have to wait).

 

During my prayer time, I kept looking off to my left at the cave, still distant, but now just above my eye level. I had not come the best way to get to it, but the sight of it kept beckoning me to visit. From this vantage point, the safest way would be to go all the way back down to my bike and begin a new path. The quickest way would be to traverse a couple of up-and-downs (made fairly deep by rain-water paths), staying at my current elevation, and connecting with the path I'd be going back down to. It was challenging, but not horribly treacherous, so I decided to traverse.

 

"Imagine a steep rocky crag of red sandstone, out in the wild, desert expanse. You stand at the top of this high ridge on the edge of a cliff, looking down into what seems a bottomless chasm below. You feel a sense of vertigo. You reach for something to hold onto, but nothing is there. Your foot begins to slip on the rock beneath you and you find yourself overwhelmed by a sense of dread. This is what it is like to know the incomprehensible mystery of God." -- Gregory of Nyssa

 

Close to the bottom of the first waterway, I stepped on some of the infamously loose canyon dirt that looks like solid rock. I could tell I was going to the bottom, so I bent my legs and skied/slid the 5-6 feet awkwardly, where I proceeded to land in a way that sprained my left ankle, then my left wrist.   

 

"We get thrust beyond fear to a grace unexpected." - Beldon C. Lane

 

Pause. I think it worth mentioning that in my mind, in my pain, I hear myself start to say all kinds of diminishing, life-sucking things like, "You idiot! What are you doing out here? This is not safe! What were you thinking? Never do this again." But I can honestly say that they were interrupted and refuted instantly, by the voice of God, no less...more on that in a minute.

 

Okay, so in this one instant, and then lasting for several minutes, everything that mattered seemed to change. I'm lying on my back feeling my wrist and ankle swell up. The sun's heat feels hotter and more threatening. The lack of shade anywhere close jumped to my awareness. How far my bicycle was from where I laid (and how far it was from my car) seemed impossible. My water bottle being empty, 1/4 of my Gatorade being gone, calling my softball coach to tell him I won't be playing tonight, determining how long I might be lying here in the sun "before they find me"...they all seemed to be the most important things.

 

Now,they were the most immediate things, to be sure. But the most important things had not changed in this moment of crisis. I was surprised and elated at how quickly I embraced this (and that I was even having the thought!) "Okay. Okay," I thought, "This must be what You have for me today, Lord. I have been broken against this indifferent rock, humbled by how fragile I am no matter how much care I take, but my trust in You has not shattered, and Your love for me has not changed."

 

There it all was...grace unexpected. Could I have ever even had these thoughts, fought this internal fight, been comforted by their truths without some truly fear-full, scary, actual experience like this? How does one come to know what he truly believes, how much he has grown, what he is capable of, where he puts his trust, without some sort of real, legitimately dangerous, litmus test?

 

"Your fear becomes one of your dance partners, but with you always leading." -- Paul Ferrini, in I am the Door, (the next book that I will purchase)

 

I prayed again. "I will praise You in this pain. And I will gladly accept my current fears because they serve the purpose of making me acutely aware of my need for You. And is this not what I came out here for? To draw closer to You, the prize and purpose of my life? I praise You now with head swirling, I will praise You when I get to my bike, when I get to my Blazer, and when I get home safely and am soaking my injuries in ice telling the story to my family."

 

Gathered and grateful, I smiled as I looked down the path of least resistance that I was now being forced to take out of this place. I took a small, rationed 3 swigs of my Gatorade and started hobbling down. I would come upon drops in the terrain and laugh with God, "I know I'm going to be right down there in a minute, but I don't know how the heck I'm gonna get there." It took me about 45 minutes to hobble to my bike.

 

And I praised God.

 

I got on my bike, wondering if I would be able to ride. But first I needed to decide which way to go. Do I go back the way I came, a known path, but also difficult with many ups and downs that I would have to navigate, most likely, pushing my bike? Or do I continue on the way I was headed, on the chance that what is unknown might be easier and quicker.

 

What would you choose in this situation? I chose the unknown path. I don't know why this is in me, but I realize that this is a mirror to my life. When given the choice between "what I know" vs. "what I don't know but it might be better," I seem to choose the later.

 

Surprisingly, it was easier to ride than walk. I could maneuver my foot on the pedal in a way that minimized the pain shooting in my ankle (which was not possible when walking on the canyon ground), and once I resolved that I'm just going to have to bear the pain in my wrist as I gripped my handlebars tightly on the rocky path, it seemed to hurt less.

 

The results of my choice of direction? Mixed. There were far less extreme up and downs this way, which meant less of getting off my bike to push, but it was FAR longer. It took me about an hour (and many rest stops and pondering whether to leave my bike behind) to finally get to my Blazer.

 

And I praised God.

 

I took my last three swigs of the now very hot Gatorade, then opened my car door, grabbed a cold water bottle from my cooler and downed it in no-time (I could've poured it on my skin, I think, and my body would have swallowed it up).

 

Strangely, my heart was full of pure joy for the trial. I would never choose it. Nor would I ever plan it. And honestly, it is tempting to be embarrassed that I allowed myself get into the mess. But every time I would head down the self-defeating, spirit-demising thought path, these words would quickly invade my mind: "This is the price of being you."

 

I knew the voice was God's...I could tell because of the timing of it and the fruit. This kind of stuff is going to happen to me sometimes...physical, emotional, and mental injuries play a regular role in my life...they are part of the price of being me.

 

And I will gladly pay...because one day I will die, but not before that. 

 

"Everything that happens to you is your teacher.  The secret is to learn to sit at the feet of your own life, holding God's hand, and to be taught by both it and Him.  Everything that happens is either a blessing, which is also a lesson, or a lesson, which is also a blessing." -- Polly Berends

So, as I continue to learn (and limp) from this particular blessing...pray that I rehab nicely and quickly. I've got a mountain-climbing trip with my son coming up in July.

 

Woo-hoo!!!

 

And as I am about to send this out, I open up Beldon Lane's book one more time and my eyes land on this perfect summary of my belief, and of this whole experience...

 

"The slipping of the foot on the edge of the cliff is an entry into darkness and fear. But the place of fearfulness--the place of risk--is also, paradoxically, the place of being known and loved."

 

May you slip into being known and loved.