Destination Discipline

Have you ever dreamed you were falling and then woke up with a shock wave running through your body? Did you sit up in bed and put your feet on the floor just to feel something steady and secure? Did you thank your lucky stars it was only a dream and quickly fall back asleep? Or did you lay awake in fear that you would have the dream again?

The fear of falling ranks right up there with the fear of spiders, snakes–or in my case, bears. When I am afraid, I just want someone to hold me. I want steady arms wrapped tight around my shoulders and a soothing voice to say, “Margaret, you are safe.”

We often live with the illusion of safety.

For instance, I thought I was safe from bears. Sure, I know there are bears in the country by our cabin, but I’ve never seen one. A few nights ago I was searching for cell service near dusk on a gravel road when a neighbor casually mentioned that I should be very aware of my surroundings. She said she recently watched a big, brown bear snuffle around in her front yard and then meander down the road and down my driveway. You could have stuck a fork in me. I was DONE. I said, “Well, I am armed. If any old bear comes charging at me, I’ll just shoot it.” But the neighbor told me it’s against the law to shoot a bear unless it’s within seven feet of me and it is charging. I imagined a large mouth with sharp, white incisors and a murderous look in some big brown eyes walking in my direction. Then I imagined trying to reconcile the notion of not being able to defend myself because of a law written by a staunch, wildlife conservative. Then I quickly walked straight back to my cabin and locked myself inside.

I am afraid of bears, but I am also afraid of the strange dystopian future I am living in. A few months ago, I finally felt I had enough historical knowledge to read Animal Farm. I have done a little studying on socialism, communism, and collectivization. When I finished “the fairy story”, I decided it might be important to read 1984 as well. These are books I’ve heard about for years, but nothing could have prepared me for the actual experience of reading them. The closest thing I can equate it to is watching a car crash in slow motion from inside the vehicle. I concurrently know what is happening, I physically see it happening, I want it to stop happening, but I am powerless to resist the thrall of seeing it through to the end. Neither story had a happy ending, by the way. That was the point. Mr. Orwell wrote them as a warning to future generations.

One of the most interesting components in the book was the telescreen. It is described as “receiving and transmitting information simultaneously.”

“Any sound that Winston made, above the level of a very low whisper, would be picked up by it, moreover, so long as he remained within the field of vision which the metal plaque commanded, he could be seen as well as heard. There was, of course, no way of knowing whether you were being watched at any given moment.” 

Every time I read about the telescreen, I self-consciously felt my android phone listening to me and watching me. Everything I do is tracked by the device “for my benefit” so they can “customize my experience”. And by using the device I consent.

I recently had a terrible scare with a scammer. A police detective told me afterwards, “There is no longer any expectation of personal privacy.” The evil man bent on robbing me got a few tidbits of information and called me on my cell and proceeded to scare the living daylights out of me by pretending to be a Sheriff saying I had a warrant for my arrest for missing Federal jury duty. It was so convincing it took me several hours to stop believing in the lie.

Fear is everywhere all the time. And worse, much of what George Orwell wrote about has come to pass. We make light of “Big Brother” with a television show as if we are immune. I cannot stress enough the impact this book had on me. It was terrifying. There was literally no hope.  (Spoiler alert!) The Party had complete control over the population. End of story.

Except that in real life, that isn’t the end of the story.

The culture we live in is so saturated with a godless ideology that many times we forget the author of life. We fear bears forgetting the One who made them. We fear the government, forgetting the ultimate sovereign power that rules the universe. We fear sickness and death because we have neglected to remember that when our bodies die, life goes on.

I frequently suffer from nightmares. Sometimes they are so real as to cause me intense physical anxiety. This morning was one such morning. First, I dreamed I was in a parking garage watching a maniac stab a co-worker to death. He then began to chase me. Then I dreamed a terrible thing about one of my sons. I woke up in shaking and crying. I felt the fear all over me like a second sticky skin I couldn’t schluff off. It took me some time to calm down, but when I got down on my knees and began to pray, a snatch of a bible verse quieted my soul. It began, “Fear not, for I am with you.” (Isaiah 41:10) And I remembered that God is still God. And with that, I felt tears of relief quiet my troubled heart.

“He is real.” I whispered. “He is good. He is God. And He loves me!”

I am not free-falling. I am never alone. I am His and He is mine. I am safe in His arms.

Tooki

I feel as safe as this little bird does in my hand. She trusts me because I rescued her and care for her. Whenever she is afraid, she flies directly to my hand and snuggles down. I keep her safe. That is how I am with my Father.

I wonder what will happen if I ever meet a bear. I pray the day never comes. I wonder how George Orwell’s books would read if he had believed in a good and loving God. They might have read something like Corrie Ten Boom’s biography after a “bookkeeping” error saw her released from a death camp a day before the rest of the inmates were gassed. Upon release she set out to exemplify God’s message of forgiveness and love – evidenced by her sister, Betsy (who died in the camp).

Today if you are fearful, fly to the One who will make you safe. There is no need for free-falling fear!

I have a squash plant that grew as a volunteer out of my compost bin. I carefully dug up the plant and put it in a safe location where I could water and nurture it. It grew big leaves and even a few fruits – that’s how I know it’s a squash plant. However, none of the fruits have thrived. Soon after forming, they turn yellow and fall off the vine. It’s disheartening, really. The plant has everything it needs but it isn’t able to bring a fully formed fruit to bear.

My son started to give me a hard time about the plant. “Mom,” he said, “it’s got end rot. It has end rot because you aren’t watering it regularly.” I tried to tell him I do water it, but it still hasn’t thrived. He wants someone to blame for its failure and I’m a convenient target. Ater all, I did plant it.  It’s not fair the plant is taking up so much space and not producing anything. It’s like a great big leech, soaking up water and giving nothing in return.

Like so many things in life, my hopes and dreams for the little plant did not turn out as expected. Frankly, I know I should pull it out of the ground and plant something else. But I just can’t seem to let go. There is an idea in my mind that maybe the next fruit won’t fail. Maybe there will be a miracle and one of the fruits will form and grow. Hope dies hard.

Life is full of disappointment. We water our dreams only to see them wither. Worse, there are people in our lives who tell us the failure is our fault. If only we had done this or that, things might have turned out differently. The most difficult thing for me is when the criticism comes from people who claim to follow Christ.

As my regular readers know, I struggle with depression and am prone to periods of melancholy. I don’t choose this and do everything within my power to avoid it. I exercise, eat right, practice gratitude, and regularly stand on my head to increase blood flow to my brain (okay, I don’t do that but if it helped, I might).  I also used to pray for God to take it away. Like, a lot. Recently, I experienced a refreshingly awesome of experience of two-months depression free. Every day I celebrated the feeling of not trudging through mud in my mind. It was incredible. And then, like a bad deja vu dream, it returned. It started with lethargy and then the negative thoughts began and before I knew it, I was crying during my workouts again. It is very difficult to run with depression. And it is even more difficult to do strength training. I simply do not want to attempt planks when I can barely lift my body of out bed.

So, I do it anyway.

Because life goes on. And I always feel better after the workout even if I feel rotten pushing through it.

This morning found me pedaling a bicycle up some extremely difficult hills. But because I make a regular habit of exercising, the hills were only difficult–not impossible. A very vivid memory flashed through my mind of a morbidly obese Margaret trying to pedal a bike up a small hill in my neighborhood after many years of neglect. Before five minutes had passed, I was out of breath and ready to throw the bike in a dumpster. I never imagined I would have the strength to ride 38 miles (as I did this morning). In fact, I put the bike up and didn’t ride it for several years after that. The bike was not motivation enough.

Many people think depression is something someone can simply snap out of. Or they blame the person experiencing it. Or worse, they use God as a cudgel and tell someone they simply don’t have enough faith to be healed. Or that their posture isn’t correct. Or if they only tried breathing in a certain pattern, all their health issues would simply go away. They blame the plant and when that doesn’t help, they blame the gardener.

I don’t blame God for my depression. Candidly, I find Him the nearer when I am suffering. I know He sees my tears and loves me all the more for my faith during the sadness. His love is my warm blanket on a cold day. He gives me the strength to lift my body out of bed and do difficult things for His glory. There is something incredibly comforting about knowing I can pray, and He hears me and loves me–not because my prayers are awesome–but because He is God. It’s in His nature to love.

I have a Savior who loves me just as I am. I am fully accepted and fully loved. If I had to choose between a depression-free life without God and a depressive life with God, I would choose the latter. The richness of His mercy falls on me like spring rains after months of drought. He is abundantly real and supremely beautiful, not because I can see Him with my eyeballs, but because through Him I see everything else.

My little squash plant never ceases to amaze me. Two days ago, I saw a grapefruit sized squash growing. It was still there this morning. I continue to hope in that little plant, I suppose because I relate to it in many ways. I know that it could give up and die. I know that a squash bug could end its life prematurely. I also know that each fruit it makes is a tiny miracle–even if it doesn’t grow large enough to harvest. Its very life is beautiful, even if all it ever does is to produce great, big, wonderful leaves.

When everything in our culture says we have to produce the big, shiny thing to be relevant, remember, we are all just learning and growing the best we can. We can take it easy on ourselves and live one day at a time and accept our limitations and afflictions and thank God for His presence. Or we can keep striving for something that was never meant to be. I have learned to choose the former. And if all I ever produce are big, beautiful leaves, I will thank God that He gave me that ability and praise all my squash-producing neighbors.

Have you ever felt old?

I’m not talking about the moment that mystery pain shoots through your knee or you get a stab of pain in the back. I’m talking about ‘high school reunion’ type old. Like when you see that old friend who was as hot as an iron in her day. She was so hot all the boys wanted her to press their pants.

That moment happened to me last night. And it was funny.

I won tickets to see one of my favorite bands, Train, in a raffle at work. They are touring with REO Speedwagon. I like REO songs, so I was also excited to see them in concert.

My first indication that this event was not like others I have attended happened when we drove into the venue and there was no traffic. Granted, we were an hour late. (Too busy arguing about the general safety of going to a venue situated in a flood plain during a flash flood.) My general experience with concerts is Traffic with a capital “T”. One generally sits in line going in and then sits in line going out.  So sincere is my abhorrence of traffic that my love of the band must outweigh my negative feelings about crowds. I was completely kerfuffled by the lack of delay in driving and parking. We zipped in with nary a brake light in sight.

The second indication of a different concert experience was the population of people at the concert. I was there about 60 seconds when I started to notice the abundance of beer bellies and boob jobs. The salt-and-pepper {hair do’s} had nothing to do with another fixture of my adolescence, the band, Salt N Peppa, of “Push It” fame. I looked around me and I could almost smell the collagen. As soon as we found our seats I whispered to my husband, “Geez, this concert is filled with old people.”

They were everywhere. And they were weird. I sat uncomfortably for a moment until the host of our suite introduced himself. He too was old. I introduced my husband and then started answering general questions. “How long have you worked for the company? How many children do you have?” And before I even thought about my children and their ages I said, “My granddaughter is 4.” And it hit me, “Oh geez. I’m old too!”

When REO Speedwagon began to play, I observed their weathered faces juxtaposed against their “hip and happening” outfits. (Not hip as in “he needs a hip replacement”, though that might be the case.) That’s bizarre, I thought. They look cool. But did I really think they would be dressed like my dad and grandpa? They are rock stars, after all. The lead singer certainly was lively and engaging so I tried not to think too much about how old he was. I’m certain he sings better than me and I’m 22 years younger. I learned via the internet that Kevin Cronin joined the band 2 years before I was even born. I’m sure he’s entitled to wear whatever the H-E-double hockey-sticks he wants.

And with the last sentence I realize my vernacular puts me squarely in the land of the aged. But I’m not ashamed to admit watching old people act teenagers is quite amusing. I highly recommend it.

And then Train hit the stage!

I fell in love with Train some time back when I heard the song, “Calling All Angels”. The lyrics are so filled with hope: “I won’t give up if you don’t give up”. I don’t know how many times I’ve replayed that song in my car while driving around in a state of depression with eyes full of tears. They inspire me to cling to hope with bloody fists. But they have a lot of great songs. I especially like the catchy, “Hey Soul Sister” with the spunky ukulele. I am just enamored with Pat Monahan’s talent in song writing and singing. In my opinion, the band, Train, are the bees’ knees.

Of course, Pat Monahan is five years older than me so that makes him a geezer too. But he is also a geyser. Let me explain. The force with which Monahan erupted onstage was momentous. He is a rock star in every sense of the word. He has charisma, energy, passion and is playfully engaged with the audience during every segment of the concert. He sang skillfully while concert goers threw their phones onstage for him to take selfie’s. He did this effortlessly. He didn’t miss a single lyric. He was full of vigor and stamina. I should probably stop there because I’m embarrassing myself. 

Geysers are one of nature’s most wonder-filled gifts to humanity. People travel from all over the world to experience them. They are beautiful and whimsical. They inspire wonder and gratitude. That is how I felt about my experience at the concert. I was grateful to experience a thing of whimsy, grace and good fun. And while I express a lot of praise for Pat Monahan, let’s be clear that he has a huge team of people making him look and sound good on stage. The lights, smoke machines and technicians were all on point and should be commended for a job well done. Train really is an engine firing on all cylinders.

In conclusion, I have come to terms with my geezer-ness. I own it. I celebrate it. But I will also share that at the end of the night I was able to jog out of the venue faster than many of my fellow concert goers. And frankly, that felt great! Living a healthy lifestyle certainly has it perks. Because I may be a geezer, but I can geyser with the best of them.