The Daily Stretch

So I have a new hobby.

Stretching.

And with stretching comes pain. The two are practically inseparable just like fifth grade boys and paintball. Chipotle’s burrito bowl with guacamole. Sufjan and unicorns.

Initially, the pain can be anywhere between a noticeable annoyance to an unbearable bullet to the muscles. But over time, it grows into an expectation and then a challenge and then perhaps even a mere moment in paradise.       

As silly as it may sound, the physical pain related to stretching can be enjoyable in the sense that you are pushing through and beyond a barrier of some kind. And then there is the small hope that the next morning there will be less pain until you just go deeper and deeper into a stretch.

And this brings me to my point.

Sometimes and even more than sometimes, pain is good… and not just the muscle kind, but the heart kind too. Just like with stretching, pain can be an obstacle to push through, an internal battle worth fighting over. I believe somewhere deep in my gut that emotional tension can be a good thing. Awkward silence can be a good thing. Not knowing what to do with emotional tension and awkward silence can even be a good thing.

Yet over and over again, we wake up into a new day of opportunity, a new day of stimulation, a new day of Divine Appointment and yet we choose to fall so easily and almost effortlessly back into our small and predictable Corner of Comfort, choosing against stretching of any kind...

Physically

Emotionally

Mentally

Spiritually. 

And in this process, we are actually experiencing more pain than we will ever know what to do with. We experience an invisible pain of sorts, a pain that exists in the majority of our population, a population of Silent Sufferers, all with emotions made of brick and ideas made of concrete. Just sticking to the routine because that’s all we know how to do. Of course, this is in hopes of avoiding the pain that we think we know so well.

We avoid stretching ourselves conversationally and experientially because we simply fear pain. We fear the unknown, the risk involved, and the overall soreness that can follow that initial ache. We will do anything in our power to fill in the gaps, to cushion our words, to stick to the script, all for…what??

Sometimes comfort can kill.

Sometimes routine can destroy.

And sometimes, a little pain is worth it.

The Ask

A three-year-old asked his mother a question.

And then another question.

And then another question.

Like a robot on repeat, the child just kept going and going becoming lost in the melodic rhythm of his Why's and What If's until finally, in order to maintain her last ounce of sanity, his mother answered.

Big mistake.

The child burst into tears as soon as the words escaped her mouth and within seconds, his eyes became free-flowing, never-ceasing, are-you-kidding-me miniature waterfalls. “But mommy why did you answer??” he asked, acting as though she had committed a terrible, shameful crime.

Can you blame him?! Ok maybe this is a slightly dramatic example but it proves a powerful, unavoidable point: Sometimes questions are meant to be just that…Questions.

Last month during training for my current job, we discussed inquiry-based education and the importance of encouraging kids to explore their own questions.. ya know, get lost in the wonder of it all. And well, I don’t think that should necessarily stop with children.

Adulthood comes with a curse, I dare say. And part of that curse is that we forget how to ask questions. We forget how to wander around in our own curiosity and imagination as we actually admit to ourselves, Hey… maybe I don’t know everything.

If you look at the stories of Jesus, He always welcomed questions. In fact, He asked a lot of questions Himself and even answered others’ questions with a deeper question. You know, I am not quite sure where in the life of Christianity that we decided questions were bad, that questions were scary.

I could not disagree more with that idea. I believe questions pull into a deeper sense of who we are. I believe they pull us into someone who knows more than us, someone we will never fully know on this side of life because He is simply more profound and more complex than we could ever imagine.

I believe questions have a unique power to draw us into heaven, a place where our questions will one day be answered and we will stand face to face with our Creator, our ultimate Answer.

A Forgotten Task

Today I spoke with a dear friend who straight up knows how to encourage. And in this Jesus-orchestrated, time-stopping, raw and completely unpolished conversation, I was reminded of something important.

Celebration.

Too often, we as humans find ourselves trapped in our own isolated, lonely, and often meaningless (that’s right, I said meaningless...) world of To Do Lists and Goals and even Disappointments that we simply forget how to celebrate. We forget what it means to step back and breathe and say, Wait a second. I’m actually growing. Good things are happening. Things are changing.

Sometimes it actually takes someone else to pull us aside and say these things to us, to allow us to really go there, to boldly and deliberately step into that terrifying place of… here we go… reflection.

And as we begin to step back and let go of the control that we think we have over our own lives, may I dare say… we gain awareness. With each step back, we gain a keen and valuable insight into our own stories, our own personal moments and experiences worth celebrating. And it is in this place that we begin to leave room for the very voice of God to enter into our perceived failures, our perceived shame.

Here’s the Truth: Our Creator celebrates your utter existence. He celebrates each breath that enters and leaves your body. He celebrates each eyelash, each fingernail, each brain cell. Our God is a God of celebration.

And it is time we join in.

Think Again.

I remember when I could do a backhand spring.

Tumbling Tides.

Tuscaloosa, Alabama.

8^th grade.

Ribbon in hair.

Ready.

Go.

And now just the thought of doing such a thing makes my wrists throb, my lower back ache, and my head spin. But REAL LIFE yall. I could do me a backhand spring. In fact, I could do several if I had the momentum for it.

I loved that feeling.

Upside Down.

Arms straight as arrows.

Back fully extended forming the perfect St. Louis Arch.

Feet in mid-air.

Body bent like rubber.

Speed building.

Wind in my ears.

Every joint in perfect unison coming together forming
a Choir of Movement.

Yes. Backhand spring at its finest everyone.

My teacher Chris told me I was a fast learner. “You’ll have your standing back tuck in no time,” he affirmed. But just a month later, something began to happen, something peculiar. You might have heard of it…

FEAR.

That’s right, little 8^th grade me got scared. I started to second-guess myself about everything. And I mean everything.

Wait…

How much do I bend my knees before I jump?

What do I do with my hands?

What am I supposed to look at?

How long should I be in the air?

I know, ridiculous right? Here I was, well on my way to the Promise Land of Tumbling Champions and then it hit me like an unexpected snowball to the face. It’s as if my bones and muscles went on strike refusing to do anything the least bit productive.

And if I did try to do a back handspring, the worst of all worses would happen. Well, I would make it over, at least. But my once frame-it-on-the-wall, back-fully-extended arch became an unbearable mess of undercut. Undercut. That was my new word. This meant that mid-air I second-guessed myself and cut under so much that my hands would bend back to where my feet had just been, hardly making an arch at all.

And come to think of it, I second-guessed myself in horseback riding too when it came to jumping my horse. I went through a miserable, not so fun phase where I would psyche myself out and lean forward too much too early, causing me to mess up my balance and I would in turn, mess up my horse’s steps.

Hmm… I’m beginning to see a trend in my used-to-be hobbies.

And if I let these memories really sink in to the depths of me, I am drawn to a truth that stretches much further than a backhand spring catastrophe or a hunter jumper paranoia. I am drawn to a reality that reaches far beyond this awkward, self-conscious 8^th grade or even elementary version of myself.

How often I over-think the most beautiful of things, the things that aren’t meant to be fully understood nor fully analyzed. Believe it or not, some things, many things, are not meant to be drained out like a sponge, becoming so dry that all its original shape is forever lost and forgotten.

What would it be like for me to take part in a process in which for once, my mind is at rest… a process where I freely yet consciously submit to my senses. A process where I let the healthy emotions settle in, learning how to feel with my being instead of thinking and over-thinking and then thinking again. I am learning more and more that what often seems like a crucial necessity can just as often be a hindrance.

A hindrance to beauty.

A hindrance to raw experience.

A hindrance to life.

As human beings, we have a unique power to very easily paralyze our greatest strengths by over-thinking and therefore producing doubt and fear. And in this act, we become smaller.

Please note: We are not made for such small things as doubt and fear. We are made for participating in a world so divine and glorious that we as humans cannot help but stand in awe of its God-ordained details. We are made for participating in a world of risk-taking, grace-giving love, a world of creation simply in awe of its Creator.

I don’t know about you but that’s the kind of world I want to live in.

He Sings

I’m telling you, God is so kind. I just feel like I’m sitting on His lap right now and He’s singing to me like a Father singing His child to sleep. He sings right into my ear. Right into my scattered, fragile, don’t know what I want half the time kind of life.

I sit.

He holds.

I sit.

He sings.

I sit.

He embraces all the parts of me I never want shown.

And then He calls those things beautiful.

I sit.

He sits.

Even when I fail to notice His presence.

Even when I go all day without even saying His name.

Even when I am pounding fists at my steering wheel because my car won’t start or I’m at a standstill on I-65 or because I want to be anywhere but where I am at 

This 

Very 

Moment.

It is in these moments I fail to remember where I am. And where He is. I tune Him out. But He just keeps singing. His voice is like water. Falling onto a bed of rocks that are as hard as… well, rocks. Like a majestic waterfall, His voice draws all kinds of attention… except mine. My heart sits like a rock at the bottom of the waterfall, His waterfall.

Yet He still sings.

Car for a Day.

The waitress just called my feet feminine. I’ll drink to that.

So today I got a chance to drive away from camp for a while which is always a treat. I have some very kind friends and coworkers that loan me their cars without hesitation when they know I’m feeling ancy and need some space. I must say, I have been tremendously blessed by their giving spirit this season.

And let me tell you, I forget how much I miss driving. I look forward to these next two months where driving will be more accessible to me as I plant one foot in the rolling hills of Tennessee, the other in Home Sweet Home, Alabama.

Something about the hum of the wheels beneath me as I glide along the terrain is beyond satisfying to me. As I wind around these Redwood trees, following the Yellow Brick Road to Hippy-ville… I mean, downtown Occidental… I feel connected to the earth in such a tangible way, deeply rooted and intertwined into her existence, memorizing her movement with every twist and unexpected bend in the pavement. I feel myself sinking deep into her lap with every mile, every left turn, right turn, stop, and yield. It’s like I belong in that very place. Resting on the knees of our inconceivable planet.

And then there’s always those night drives when I am alone in the car and yet for some reason or another, I never truly feel alone. In fact, on these night drives, sometimes I feel more alive than ever and more connected to the world around me than if I were standing in the mid-day glorious sweat of Bonarroo.

I’m just going to go ahead and claim it: Jesus is there with me on these drives. His presence is incredibly, exceptionally thick. Just imagining it, I am suddenly wrapped in the heat of summer, standing barefoot on the noise-creaking, splinter-giving dock with Lake Tuscaloosa at my toes. Humidity at its finest. That’s what His presence feels like to me. So thick, you feel twenty pounds heavier almost immediately.

During those night drives, I hear the voice of God so clearly, it’s incredible. As I pray aloud, I literally feel God swarm around me. Tears fall effortlessly as I thank Him for the blessings He has lavished on my life as of late.

I mean, my goodness, I’m about to be an aunt! Life is overwhelmingly beautiful to me sometimes. Every once in a while, I actually do pause and take in its raw, indestructible beauty. Every once in a while, I become truly aware of God’s goodness that He pours out on me at each waking moment whether I recognize it or not. And every once in a while, I thank Him.

So. 

How about we call this a “once in a while” kind of moment as we pause and remind ourselves that God is good. God is SO good. I wish I could take this time to write out every single blessing I have received from Him during this season of adventure in the Redwoods (which will continue in January) but I do not have the appropriate time or space to even contemplate such a task.

But since this is one of those once in a while opportunities, I shall share just a few…

     An Abbreviated Thank You List-

For trees that grow so tall I cannot see their peak.

For mornings off where I have nothing better to do than practice Blue Moon on the

   ukulele.

For socks so dirty after just one day of playing outside.

For the most majestic of bike rides to the Russian River AKA my Sanity Sustainer this fall.

For bright blue nail polish on my fingers and toes that I never seem to get tired of.

For Psalms.

For Madrone trees.

For skype.

For gardens.

For chacos.

For morning yoga.

For waking up but not getting out of bed for another hour thanks to some good ole

  morning day dreams… always the best kind.

For adventurous, child-like runs through the forest.

For the mere fact that sending kids off ziplines and swings is part of my current job description.
And then for the sweet blessing of watching them smile as wide as the heavens when they touch ground.

For spontaneous prayers with roommates.

For my boyfriend becoming my best friend.

For the incredible God-given grace that feeds my heart, my mind, and my soul daily 

   whether I notice it or not.

Ok now it's your turn.

He said No.

So. In case you haven’t heard… I work with 5^th & 6^th graders in the Redwood forest at an outdoor education center and it’s kind of the best. I do lots of facilitating, leading, guiding, and teaching. But little did I realize how much they would do the teaching and I would do the learning. These kids are teaching me how to be kind, patient, and bold.

Take Eric for example, A.K.A. the cutest little boy I’ve ever seen. A little bit of pudge. A little more bit cross-eyed. And the sweetest, most innocent smile in the whole wide world. Oh, and the most beautiful brown skin straight out of Mexico.

Adorable.

I loved that kid… wish he was still around. But here’s the thing, Eric was terrified of anything more than 10 feet up in the air. He refused to climb the trees or do any of the ziplines or swings. And I mean, RE-FUSED. I was lucky if the boy even put a harness on.

So there I was, up in the tree sending kid after kid off all kinds of exciting “rides” as they like to call it, my ears practically bleeding from all the spontaneous screams and uncontrollable laughter as each wild eyed participant took their first step or “scoot” off the wooden platform.

Then almost out of habit, I would find my eyes back on Eric, his eyes larger than ever, just gleaming at each participant with such an innocent, child-like hope and determination. I just knew he wanted to fly and wave from the sky like all the other kids. Or did he? Didn’t every kid want that? 

You know, there were actually a few times where Eric would come close to maybe, possibly, potentially, in an hour’s time… attempt to climb, zip or swing from the trees. And each time I would get so excited. In fact, on his last full day of camp, I was certain it was going to happen.

WHAT?!! Eric has a harness on!

He’s moving toward the stairs!

Heart pounding.

Feet grounded.

Carabineer ready.

Eyes locked on his.

After only one step up, Eric casually yet intently looked back at his even more terrified friend, Christian, the only other kid who had not yet attempted the the zipline. Desperate for an Ok, a nod, maybe just maybe, some sort of approval from his loyal comrade. But Nothing. Just the same familiar fear staring back.

Still Eric moves forward, terrified and full of doubt.

Man.

We tried everything. Eric’s father-like figure chaperone, David, stepped in and together we were ready to Conquer. We had Eric close his eyes and dream about his puppy. I explained our equipment set up and our inspection process… told him those carabineers can hold the weight of a baby elephant. We even had him repeat after us,

I know I can do this. (I know I can… do…this.)

This is not scary. (This… is not… scary.)

It’s going to be super fun. (It’s going to be super…. fun.)

Then tears. Lots of tears. We’re talking major waterfall.

Quick sidenote: I’m beginning to become pretty comfortable with kids crying next to me up in the trees these days. Shoot, I almost expect it. And then there’s the uncontrollable shaking. And the petrified, toddler-like screaming. Oh and let’s not forget, the mere shock on the kids’ faces as they look down for the first time and practically swallow the entirety of the height at which they are going to fall from. Although I never use the F word with kids… at least not that F word.

"Not fall, Rebecca.

FLY. You are going to FLY."

Anyway, back to Eric. Here we are, desperately trying every possible technique in the whole wide world of Challenge Course Counseling. At one point, we even picked him up on both sides of his harness so he could feel the support of the cable.

But after about 10-15 minutes of doing everything but pushing this kid off the dang platform, he looks us both in the eye and says without a stutter,

I can’t do it.

Hands officially and forever out of the handholds.

Head shaking profusely.

And without another word, we both know there’s no way he’s letting down this time. Eric’s done.

After catching his breath and wiping the remainder of his tears on his sleeve, he and Christian walk down to the field and wait in silence for David to walk them back to their cabin. All the other kids had left at this point. Free time had begun and they were tired of waiting on Eric to make a decision.

“Well, we tried. That’s too bad. These kids sure are missing out,” Military Man David says to me in a rather depressing tone. Then he turns around to go back down the stairs, ready to give the boys a Growing Up Talk on their walk back to camp.

But you know, as I think back to that day at the zipline, I begin to realize something: Maybe Eric has more courage than any of us. Maybe he is the bravest one of all.

Eric said No.

A ten year old. A mere ten year old. Still afraid of girls. Still learning how to hike without tripping over every possible root in the forest.

He said No.

How often I say Yes because people expect me to. How often I...

Do this. 

Do that. 

Go here. 

Go there.

All because I’m supposed to or because everyone else is doing it. Or because I don’t even know there’s another option. How often I stand at the edge of the platform internally terrified and more than overwhelmed, trying to calm myself down but failing miserably as my breathing soon evolves into disappointing attempts at inhalation, forgetting for the life of me how to exhale.

Harness: Check

Helmet: Check.

Clipped in.

Handholds On.

Step. Forward.

And…

Gone.

If only I knew I had a choice. 

The choice to say No.

To step back.

Get unclipped.

And walk away. 

There’s always a choice.