What is Courage?

People like to use the word courage in conjunction with climactic images on motivational posters. Be it a steep cliff someone is climbing with very little gear or a fluffy orange kitten staring into the face of a ferocious dog, they splash the word courage on the page as if to say, “All you have to do is face your fear and everything will be fine.” But lately I am wondering what happens after the picture? What happens after the kitten faces the dogs? If no one intervenes, does the kitten whip out his boots, hat and sword? Does he stand on two legs and whip those dastardly dogs into a frenzy of flying fur and cartoon stars? Does he stand back with his arms crossed and a cool grin on his whiskery chin?

If you are reading this, maybe you are wondering too. What does real courage look like? Does the hero always win? Does he walk away with a few scratches, maybe a couple of bruises, but lives to tell the tale? Or does he die?

I reached to open the microwave door when a saw him, the fuzzy, little jumping spider. I was amused by his presence and held out my finger for him to crawl onto. Then I called out to my children.

“Look! It’s a cute little spider!”

And they said, “Kill it!”

And I said, “Why? It’s a living creature? Why take its life if I don’t have to?”

I proceeded to show them how intricate was its design. The furry little mandibles moved up and down as it turned right and then left. I surveyed its spritely legs and mysterious eyes(of which I assumed there were eight but were too small for my own to perceive). Curiously, the little spider turned and faced me. It stared up at me defiantly and then began to move its mandibles in a menacing manner. I was narrating its movement to my children when suddenly the little spider leapt at my face. I screamed and then looked to see where it had landed. To my amazement, the spider was dangling from a thin filament that was attached to my finger. It hung there defiantly—refusing detach—refusing to die. And my children hollered all the louder, “Kill it! Kill it!”

But I did not.

I carried it outside and placed it on one of my plants where I knew it would be safe. And then I watched it crawl away. That little spider was courageous, and I did not think it deserved to die.

My Marine son called last night with momentous news; he has received new orders. He did not disguise the dread in his voice. And, like his mother, he paused for dramatic effect. Out of all the new Marines on base, he alone was chosen to fulfill a most important responsibility. Disappointment and frustration trickled through each halting word he spoke. It was an assignment he did not choose and did not want. He went so far as to say the past six months of training were wasted. I listened with that fear I often face as a mother and wondered, how do I respond? Because I know my words matter to him, otherwise he would not have called me.

I find it interesting how we choose the people to confide in. So often we go to the people who will tell us what we want to hear. But it’s different with children. Children call their mothers because they want reassurance. They want to know more than anything that they are loved. And while soft and gentle love is often appropriate, bold and audacious love is necessary too.

Courage is not always what we think it is. We have this idea that the only way to be brave is to put up our fists and fight. Society tells us to chase our dreams, and while you’re at it, DREAM BIG! But what happens when the dream is not achieved? What happens when you do everything humanly possible to succeed and the business still fails? The marriage ends. The child flunks. Or more frequently, the job you took turns out to be very boring. You lay in bed each morning. You sigh and wonder how you can possibly do it even one more day. And then you consider the consequences if you don’t. So you climb out of bed. You step into the shower. And then you realize the water is cold because the pilot light in the water heater went out.

Is courage standing in a cold shower and going to a job you don’t like?

I love my neighbor. She is beautiful and kind. Did I mention kind? Shoot. She’s probably one of the kindest people I know, and as sweet as a hibiscus flower in bloom. Her smile lights up the room with a fragrance so bold I can’t help but be infected and smile in response. But her tears slay me. Her tears have wet my shoulder more times than I can count. And to my dismay, I don’t have all the answers to her questions. Why did he abandon her? Why did he find a new woman? Why the divorce? Her pain is like a raw sore that won’t heal. I think she thought that once the divorce was final, life would get easier. But it has not. The pain is like a shape shifter, one moment a tiger, the next moment a bear. Finally it takes shape as a Tyrannosaurus Rex. Except this isn’t Jurassic Park and she doesn’t have a means of escape. She has been devoured by grief, and suffering, and shame. She frequently uses words like, “depression” and busies herself with tasks to defray the sorrow. She has no peace. And all I can do is listen and watch as she suffers.

But she is braver than she thinks. Each day she rises and chooses to live. Each day, tears or not, she proceeds one step at a time. She fights for her daughter, for her dogs, for her friends. And though she hurts, she still smiles. Make no mistake, it is often a halting smile. It is often etched with sadness. But still, she smiles. And I think there is no better picture of courage than hers, the smile that smiles through tears. The smile that says, “I’m not quitting.”

She is not unlike that spider, dangling by a filament. She is courageous.

This morning my little boy woke up crying. His bad dream had been filled with dead people and he was terrified they were going to get him. His biggest concern was the warnings he gave to his older brother who—in the dream—refused to believe him. As I considered how best to comfort him, I remembered the book I had bought recently called, “Miracle Man: The Story of Jesus” by John Hendrix. Each picture

tells the story of a man filled with magic. A man who healed broken people. A man who comforted them by giving hope to their hurting hearts. On the last page of the book it shows the greatest miracle of all. After the beatings, after hanging on the cross, after his own father turned his face away, after his body had died, Jesus performed the greatest miracle of all. He lived. The hero lived! And that is the story I read to my little boy this morning as he trembled with fear. This story—more than any other—seemed to me to be the best story to tell him. Death is dead! Jesus killed it once and for all.

I am not very courageous. I bury my fears in plates of cookies. I fight panic attacks. I “manage” my physical pain. By myself I am the spider dangling by a filament. Sure, I was bold enough to jump, but Jesus was strong enough to save me from certain death. He is a real hero. And he did that, not by standing idly by and waving his hand in bored amusement (not like me!). He conquered death by walking through it himself.

Today if you are walking in pain, maybe you do have enough courage to keep walking through it. But maybe you have run out of strength and can’t hold onto the filament any longer. Don’t lose heart. There is a Miracle Man, a real live hero who wants to rescue you. He is audacious and bold. And he did something no one else could ever do. And maybe you think I’m antiquated, or weird, or just plain crazy. I assure you I am. But the story is bigger than me. And let me assure you…

On October 20, 2016   /   The Journey   /   1 Comment