Keep Climbing

I was halfway around the world, but I was at home; I was alone, but never lonely; I was physically, emotionally and spiritually exhausted, yet I felt energy that I have never known before. These are just a few of the incredible things I experienced on my recent trip to Israel.

In retrospect, it was a pretty gutsy move, joining a tour group of total strangers on the adventure of a lifetime, and what an adventure it was! I can't tell you that this trip was at the top of my bucket list, but when I heard about it, I was filled with a strong desire to go and, when my husband wasn't as excited as I was, we decided I would go alone. And that's exactly where God wanted me--away from family, co-workers, and friends. I needed to figure out who I was without the distraction of people and jobs and my busy life in general.

People asked me if I was afraid to travel to a place that might be "unsafe," and those fears never crossed my mind. I'm afraid of little things like escalators going down, so when I found myself having to haul two suitcases down the escalator at O'Hare Airport, I felt a whole new sense of courage and independence. When I finally met up with my entire travelling team, and realized what a friendly bunch they were, I was relieved and excited.

So . . . after thirteen hours of time in the air (including a stop in Istanbul), losing seven hours out of a day, and a sore neck from my unsuccessful attempts at sleep, why did I feel like I was arriving at "home" when we landed and why did it continue to feel like home during the next eight days? This place, this land of Israel, the hills and valleys, the desert--all of it has been a part of me for as long as I can remember. The Sunday School stories and pictures, hundreds of Bible story books, and the colored maps in my Bible signify something that's part of my DNA.

It's no wonder I wept as our boat glided slowly on to the Sea of Galilee, or when I looked up at the mountain where Jesus prayed. I could almost see His silhouette against the sky and the thought that He already knew me then, overwhelmed me. Knowing that from that mountain, He saw the disciples "straining at the oars," reminds me that He sees my struggles as well. We sat on the beach where Jesus may have called His disciples or where He asked Peter, "Do you love me?" Jesus knew how discouraged Peter must have felt after denying Him and He knows how discouraged I can get, yet Jesus came to him in that place and offered forgiveness and a future that boldly impacted the church forever.

I was "home" when we celebrated communion together in the Garden of Gethsemane and as I wandered alone through the olive grove where Jesus prayed. Earlier that morning, as I was waiting for our bus, a little woman from Hong Kong had been playing a familiar tune on a ukulele. As I listened, the words came to me and we began to sing together, each in our own language:

King of my life, I crown Thee now
Thine shall the glory be
Lest I forget Thy thorn-crowned brow
Lead me to Calvary
Lest I forget Gethsemane
Lest I forget Thine agony
Lest I forge Thy love for me
Lead me to Calvary

That song was all I could hear, as I walked in the garden. I was "home."

Even though I had many moments of quiet reflection by myself, I never felt the lonesomeness that many of us struggle with. I had no friends or family with me, yet I was beginning to understand the concept of family in a new way. Some of the archeological ruins that we explored demonstrated what a Jewish family looked like. Families would build a home and continually add to it as they grew. Soon these "insulas" would grow to be very large and at the center, was the synagogue.

As the trip progressed, I began to understand this concept as it was demonstrated to me by my travel partners. The tribe mate who grabbed my large suitcase off the turn stile and those who grabbed my hand as I climbed down large rocks became my brothers. The delightful woman who screamed and laughed with me as our camel precariously stood, hind legs first, became my sister. So many gestures of kindness--the couple who climbed halfway up the mountain just to retrieve the jacket I left, those who bought me ice cream or loaned me money for a necklace when I left my money on the bus, the kind ones who took my picture when a selfie was my only option--all of them became family. And every now and then, I even felt comfortable asking for help! I wish there was a way to express to this amazing group of people, how much I learned from them about taking care of each other.

So now I'm home and the trip is in the past. I was told that it would take a week to recover and at first I didn't believe it. The body needs sleep and I was sorely lacking in that area; but it was a happy exhaustion. Physically, I had done more than I thought was possible. I was told to prepare for five miles a day, and I was ready for that--no one talked about the inclines. Silly me, all those biblical places are called Mount Whatever for a reason. I'm pretty sure that at least 2/3 of my steps were uphill. Please don't question my math on that, I think the bus strategically moved around a little so that we had the full "climbing" experience. But I never missed an opportunity to hike down into a cistern or well or go just a little further on the mountain for a better view. When we were offered a tour of Hezekiah's amazing tunnel, I strapped on my head lamp, slipped into my water shoes and followed the crowd, trusting that we'd support each other through our claustrophobia. I had strength that I didn't know I possessed.

So I have a lovely photo album that I've worked hard on, some amazing memories and so much more. I've learned that, even though we live in a well-planned and logical universe, the way God reached down to us was not logical or predictable. Bethlehem, Nazareth and Capernaum--these were humble and very real places. Jesus didn't choose His disciples from those who sat in the "chief seats" in the synagogue, and He certainly did not choose a beautiful babbling brook for His baptism, as we so often picture it. When He fed throngs of hungry people, He didn't stop to do a mathematical calculation. When He asked His disciples "Who do you say that I am?" He did it in one of the most pagan settings of His day. And when He chose disciples, when He taught, when He spent time alone with God, when He prayed in Gethsemane, and when He finally died, He climbed mountains to do so. Following Jesus as He walked here on earth was not an easy journey, and following Him in my life is not always easy either. There are days of pure exhaustion, but the climb is so worth it.

I’m pressing on the upward way,
New heights I’m gaining every day;
Still praying as I onward bound,
“Lord, plant my feet on higher ground.”

My heart has no desire to stay
Where doubts arise and fears dismay;
Though some may dwell where these abound,
My prayer, my aim, is higher ground.

Lord, lift me up, and let me stand
By faith on Canaan’s tableland;
A higher plane than I have found,
Lord, plant my feet on higher ground.

Mrs. P and Me

I believe that it's time for me to forgive my third grade teacher and maybe Holy Week 2016 would be a good time to do that. I'm not sure I want to forgive her . . . maybe it's still too soon, but it's clear to me that I have to do something because she's haunting me.
As a child I loved school, but I hated the third grade because I had the meanest teacher ever; I've had teachers who were strict, but Mrs. P was beyond strict--she inflicted some permanent damage.

I met up with a few grade school friends a few months ago and we started to talk about her. Perhaps because some of their parents had voiced complaints, Mrs. P's teaching career only lasted two years at my school; however that didn't change what happened that year for me.

I believe that this teacher used fear to control us; maybe her motive was to make us tough, but in my case it worked the opposite way. And the fear thing . . . not only was it a fear of her, but I quickly developed a fear of all of my classmates because Mrs. P. had set up a system where the strong could overpower the weak. And you can only guess where I fell on the strong versus weak continuum.

On two occasions that I remember Mrs. P accused me of cheating based on reports from my classmates. The first time I weakly argued my case, but she believed the other child. The second time I never was able to explain myself and had to take home a paper that said "F - cheating." Even as I write this I can get worked up about the situation and I wish I could go back with a fraction of the courage I have now. Oh the things I would say . . . and that's what haunts me.

We all took turns leading the class each morning as we sang little praise songs. The song leader was allowed to select various children to sing solos on certain verses and I remember slinking shyly down in my seat so that I would not be noticed and called upon. The day that it was my turn to lead, I was kind of relieved because I had a small level of control--if I was leading I would not be chosen. Well guess what? One student selected a song that had leader verses and student verses. From her seat at the piano, Mrs. P told me I needed to sing one leader verse and there was no arguing with her. I can still hear my shaky voice singing:

Oh see the sky, so blue so high
So very far away.
Who lives up there where all is fair
Dear children, can you say?

Yes, I remember the moment so clearly that I don't have to look up these words--they're imbedded in my mind.

So what kind of person does this? Why did she allow the strong to take advantage of the weak? Did she know the impact this was going to have on the lives of children? These are questions in my heart that have always needed answers. And . . . thanks to Google and a brief white page search, I probably could get some answers.

I've connected with a lot of people from my past thanks to facebook and it's all been such a positive experience. Distant cousins, former teachers and neighborhood friends from my childhood are all some of the delightful surprises I have encountered. I love tying up loose ends and I love old friendships that somehow come "full circle."

But there are also some negative experiences in my life that I would love to speak into, not for any good reason other than to have the last word. I have said for many years how I would love to run into Mrs. P and I would tell her how much she damaged me. Well, she showed up in a Google search--at least I'm pretty sure it's the same person based on age and a few other facts. I've even fantasized about bumping into her "by accident" and facing her one more time. But that's where it stops because I'm sure I wouldn't see the woman I remember. I know that she's old and perhaps frail and has probably been damaged herself.

So now I know the truth; the conversation that I've imagined, could actually take place, but it never will. There would be no point and I have no idea where her life has taken her. And beside that, isn't it time that I let go of a grudge that has hung on for over fifty years?

I was struck by a quote I read recently by Brene Brown: "In order for forgiveness to happen, something has to die." Isn't Holy Week the best time to finally forgive an ancient grudge? And theologically I understand how something or someone has to die in order for us to be forgiven; then we in turn can forgive others. But there's more to the story for me. Something else has to die in order for me to forgive Mrs. P.

I need to let go of that frightened little third-grader. She has been following me around long enough. I have looked at life too often through her scared and timid eyes and I need to be done with it. You see, it's no longer Mrs. P's fault--now it's my responsibility. "In order for forgiveness to happen, something has to die." That fragile third-grader who's intimidated and fragile needs to die, for my sake, and when that happens I'll be free to forgive. So Mrs. P, "From one person who needs forgiveness to another . . . I forgive you . . . and I wish you well."

They're Everywhere

I just found a whole bunch of new people far away from home who have become my good friends. I’m not talking about acquaintances, I’m talking friends. It’s odd that you can bond so easily with folks you’ve just met, but we’re already at the hugging stage. I’m talking about my new friends at a little church in North Port, Florida. It wasn’t even my idea to meet them; it was Ron’s plan that, if we spent some time down here, he wanted to serve the community in some way. So, my daughter in law did some research on her phone and immediately came up with the name of a church that serves a dinner to the hungry every Monday night.

And so Ron made the first connection by introducing himself and offering to do whatever they wanted him to do. The group of church ladies that has taken this on was delighted to show him the ropes. The dinner is small, serving thirty to forty people, and there’s no kitchen in their current building so everything is pre-made and kept warm in roasters. And while it can get crowded in the small space they have allotted, they unapologetically to do what they are called to do.

The first time I went with him, I felt like I was kind of in the way, but they put me to work as well. I sat behind a little table and I was the official “counter.” Every time someone new came into the room, I had to make a little mark on the paper—that’s it, but I sensed that it was a big responsibility. Of course, while I was doing that, Ron was schmoozing with the church ladies and the dinner guests—one of his many spiritual gifts.

We’ve also attended the worship services on Sunday morning that are held in their rented office building. I’m amazed at how they’ve adapted a small room with low ceilings to accommodate their praise band. Generous cups of coffee and baked treats are served in a narrow little hallway just before the service. Everyone knows each other in this small congregation and we were immediately drawn into the group.

Since my tasks at the dinner have been minimal, I’ve enjoyed many conversations with the other helpers, including Pastor Gary. I’ve heard about his postponed retirement goal, I’ve heard about major health struggles and miracles within his family; we also had great discussions on the similarities and differences in our religious denominations. I thoroughly enjoyed watching the solid little group of church ladies that we’re all familiar with who run the show, and have earned the almost fearful respect of the pastor.

But what moved me the most was the strong desire of everyone in that church to have an impact on their community. Free dinner isn’t the only thing offered here; there’s a clothing closet and a food pantry; people are also encouraged to attend “Celebrate Recovery” which ministers to those with “hurts, habits and hang-ups.” Each Saturday morning there is a massive bread give-away. (Apparently when they say “bread,” they mean cakes, pastries, and sometimes other groceries as well. I wouldn’t know—I don’t get up that early.) They’ve been looking for a new building, but staying within their neighborhood is very important to them because of whom they serve.

As Ron and I left the dinner last Monday I was feeling rather emotional about my experience. Ron had just prepared the meal of ham, cheesy hash-browns and beans, but somehow I was thinking that the gift he/we had given and received was not about a meal; it was about so much more. I believe that when followers of Jesus connect with each other, and we serve Him together, we breathe new life into each other as well. We’re not alone in this!

We have so much in common as individuals and as congregations. Many of us struggle with inadequate facilities, over-worked pastors, struggling budgets and unique personalities. It’s okay. Sometimes we do the right things in inadequate ways and we easily lose our focus—but then God sends someone to remind us why we’re here.

It’s hard for me to adjust to new places sometime because I need to connect with others. Other circumstances may have led us to attend a large church when we’re away from home, just out of habit or obligation. But because of Ron’s desire to serve, here’s where we ended up. I love this little church in Florida—they’re my people now—we’re friends and co-workers and I’m going to miss them when I leave. But I know that wherever I go I’ll be able to find more people like them because followers of Jesus are hard to miss.

Take Time to "Wallow"

I think I need to tell my high school English Literature teacher how awesome he was. Plaid sport coats, bowties and a brush cut . . . along with a little smirk on his face—these are the things I remember about him as he stood in front of our class. He was an artist in every sense of the word; he loved the English language and music and for some reason he loved teaching high school seniors, most of whom had no interest in Shakespearean sonnets, much less how to write a heroic couplet .

I remember walking into class one day and telling him that our school choir was singing songs from “South Pacific.” I told him that I loved the song “Some enchanted Evening” and asked him if he loved it too, fully believing that he would tell me it was “schmaltzy crap.” Instead he said, “Love it? I wallow in it.” I’ve never forgotten his totally unapologetic response to a song that, as a seventeen-year-old, I thought was the most romantic thing I had ever heard. (I wonder what he’d say if I told him that a few years later I did meet a stranger that I had spotted across a crowded room, sent someone to introduce us, and we’re still together after forty years. Somehow, I think he’d wallow in that story too.)

For reasons that totally escaped my high school classmates, Mr. Haan made us memorize poetry. There were at least six things he insisted that we recite, including works by Shakespeare, Blake and Tennyson. I didn’t understand the logic behind memorizing these works either, but since it was an easy thing for me to do, I never minded being called up to his desk to recite the latest poem. And guess what? I can still do it, much to the annoyance of my family and friends. In fact, I even learned more than what was required of me because in the process I discovered that there’s something so beautiful about putting words together in poetry.

Shakespeare’s description of love in Sonnet 116 was pretty good when I first learned it, but now it has become beauty and truth borne out by experience. Love is . . . “an ever-fixed mark that looks on tempests and is never shaken;” it is the “star to every wandering bark . . .” I’m thinking that a little Shakespeare along with I Corinthians 13 read at wedding ceremonies might be a great idea.

I’ve also thought a lot about Tennyson’s description of prayer when he says, “more things are wrought by prayer than this world dreams of.” He describes prayer as a “golden chain” that binds the entire world around the feet of God. I can’t find a more beautiful description than that and I never tire of reciting it. And, speaking of prayer, I can’t think of anything better (other than the Lord’s Prayer of course) than John Donne’s “Hymn to God the Father.” In this poem of confession, Donne talks about all of the possible ways he has sinned, confesses them and ends each verse by telling God that there will always be more. Donne asks God to remind him that at his death, the work of Jesus will be complete and his final sin—the sin of fear—will be gone. I wasn’t required to memorize this poem, but after Mr. Haan explained it to our class, I claimed it as mine. Whenever I fly in a plane—you know during those few moments of take-off when all of those crazy “what if” thoughts go through your head?—that’s when I recite it.

Let me tell you one more thing about poetry that I’ve learned recently. It can get you out of a jam. You see, I love studying church history, creeds and theology—that’s one of the luxuries of my life. However, when I have to write papers sometimes I get stuck with things that seem illogical. And let’s face it, there are things we believe that are difficult to explain and sometimes seem to defy logic. That’s when I pull out John Donne. It’s not that he can explain things any better, but he’s an artist and has the ability to celebrate those things that are incomprehensible. I could write a pretty long paper about the virgin birth, but when it’s finished Donne’s words “immensity cloistered in thy dear womb” speak to my heart rather than my logic. “Immensity cloistered”—I’ll never tire of that phrase.

Donne can’t really explain the Trinity much better than I can, and admits that reason “proves weak or untrue;” yet he can confidently say, “batter my heart, three-- personed God” because “I dearly love you.” He desperately wants all of the qualities of each person of the trinity present in his own life. And that’s what matters most.

I hope that there’s a little poet or a little artist in all of us—I have to believe there is. I know it’s different for everyone, but we tend to push that inner poet pretty far back sometime. I had a teacher recently, who taught a creeds and confessions class, that would periodically interrupt himself and begin to recite an appropriate poem while looking each of us in the eye. Talk about getting my attention! Maybe we should try that more often.

I would have missed lot in my life if I had never learned to appreciate poetry or any of the arts. We don’t always have to be logical you know. A lot of people believe that artists will change the world and I’m starting to think they might be on to something. Whether it’s true or not, I’m grateful for that high school English Literature teacher, and I’m going to continue to read and recite poetry because it’s given me clarity in life, it makes us all like each other a little more, and . . . it has also kept me out of a few jams.

The Time-out Chair

So, did you know that there’s actually a “time out” chair in heaven? I’m pretty sure that’s what one of my commissioned pastor classmates told me. Okay, so maybe he didn’t exactly say that, but that’s kind of what he implied when he said that my behavior here was going to have some eternal consequence for my husband. No . . . he really didn’t say that either—I guess I better start from the beginning.

Isn’t it amazing what a well-placed “good job” or an “I’m proud of you” can do? And isn’t it also true that one bit of negativity or perceived “judgy” behavior can quickly put doubts in our minds? Affirmations and discouragements—they’ve all taken on many different forms in my life, and have sometimes come from the most unlikely places. I’ve always responded well to praise (who hasn’t?) but one of the things I’ve begun to recognize is that, not only can I respond positively to criticism, I can learn and grow from it and eventually (ouch) even be grateful. When I decided to embark on a new journey a few years ago, I gained a lot of insight and help along the way from those who were my cheerleaders, but also from those who didn’t quite understand.

I’m relatively impulsive, but I usually don’t make major decisions based on a “whim.” However, when I first decided to follow in the footsteps of my new friend, Jan, that’s probably what many were thinking. When I first met her a few years ago she told me that she was a nurse . . . and a commissioned pastor. I knew that she was close to me in age and that the pastor thing was relatively new for her, and something deep inside of me said, “You’re going to do this.” Even I was shocked at the intensity of my reaction, but there was no turning back. I knew that his was no “whim,” but it was the Holy Spirit speaking clearly through my own passion.

When I brought the subject up to my husband, I barely had a chance to explain what I had in mind when he said, “Do it—I’m with you on this one.” (He had no idea that this was going to put him in the “time out” chair.) My close friends, my kids and my pastor all expressed joyful support which made my plunge into this crazy plan a lot easier.

And so, just a few short weeks after my sixtieth birthday, and feeling the weight of great expectations, I began my first classes. I loved studying and writing papers and I loved learning from some great pastor/teachers. All of the creeds and catechism that I had learned as a child came back and breathed new life into me. I was more organized than ever and believed that I was able to accomplish almost anything. And when my final paper was written and all of the oral exams were complete, I celebrated—with my friends and family, but also with a deep joyful satisfaction that God was completing a work in me that He had started many years ago.

But, as I’ve already hinted, not every part of this journey was filled with encouragement. I know that there were those who didn’t understand my decision and those who aren’t sure how they feel about women being pastors. I’ve wrestled with this myself and I can’t even say for sure how my parents would feel about my choice. I think they would be in that awkward place of “proud disagreement.” One of my required classes was a huge struggle for me because I felt “tolerated” but not accepted by the teacher and by the solid group of male students. As I fought my weekly insecurities, I gained a new level of appreciation for those who are misunderstood. I learned to speak up without giving up even when my voice wasn’t heard.

I learned a lot from those who were going through the program with me. I figured out what kind of pastor I wanted to be, and what wasn’t going to work. I also learned that not everyone was my fan. There was one classmate in particular that I suspected fell into this category. We disagreed on almost everything except a shared assessment about the way some people treat their pets. (Sorry if I just lost the animal lovers.) But when he and I started to talk about women as elders and pastors, the conversation was harder and more hurtful than I anticipated. There are many people in my life whom I love and respect who would agree with him to a degree, but when he told me that my call to become a pastor was merely a case of my heart deceiving me as scripture warns, I was dumbfounded. He also went on to tell me that my husband would be held accountable for allowing me to follow my “deceptive heart.”

I was kind of shaken by all of this until my pastor told me that my husband would only have to spend a little time in the “time out” chair when he got to heaven—whew! That’s a relief for both of us. Seriously though, during that painful conversation, I learned things that I never would. I’m continually examining my heart, to make sure I’m not being deceived; I‘m also learning not to question God’s call in other people’s lives—they can figure out their own hearts.

So that’s briefly a story of my recent adventure. I’m so grateful for the affirmations that came from everywhere: people from my church who were excited to hear about what I was learning and actually attended the oral exams; those who were patient when I was too focused on studying and got a little cranky; my family who insisted on throwing a “fancy” party in spite of my urgings to keep it simple. And the list goes on.

But I’m also grateful for the difficult times and the challenging people. Don’t get me wrong—I never felt persecuted, rather compelled to pause, pray and refocus before proceeding. If it had been too easy, I would believe that I had done this on my own and that’s far from the truth. There were lots of people who attended the commissioning service held in my church and I felt loved and affirmed. But I was also keenly aware of the “cloud of witnesses,” that surrounded me –especially those parents and grandparents who perhaps observed from that place where the “time-out” chair is no longer needed, remembered or mentioned.

Relocation

I'm one of those rare people who have made only a few major moves in my life--two to be exact. Yes, once out of the home where I grew up into a home a few miles away, and seven years later, almost 200 miles away to a place I knew nothing about. Marriage was the reason for the first move, my husband's career was the reason for the second. Both were scary and adventuresome.

I suppose I could adjust to the nomad type of life if I had to, but I kind of like the stability and predictability of staying in one place. I remember when I was little every now and then my sister and I would rearrange our bedroom. I would lie in bed and try to adjust to the new perspective. It was always weird.

That second move that I made, happened half a life-time ago now. We had just turned thirty and Ron had the opportunity to run the Petoskey branch of Coca Cola. We jumped in with both feet. We had no idea how difficult it would be to say good-bye to family and friends. As I watched the moving van pull away from our home in Jenison to head north and hugged both of my pregnant sisters good-by, reality started to set in. Other relatives showed up at our new home to help us move and those good-byes were even more difficult. There we stood gazing out of our living room window--all five of us--waving and crying. The thought of it still makes me cry.

Fast forward a few months. Some of those same family members came up to visit us that summer. They were shocked as we walked together through the streets of Charlevoix, seeing that we had already connected with so many people, as if we were at "home." We were happy and we had no regrets. It had been the best decision for our family.

We often talk about how that relocation has changed us. We have life-long friends that we never would have known with whom we have shared grief and joy. I know that there was one little boy that Rhonda met every day at the kindergarten door of the elementary school that has become my wonderful son-in-law. In our loneliness, we immediately found a church where our gifts were discovered and put to good use. The most important change however, was our dependence on each other as a family. We learned very quickly that "we" were all that "we" needed and that we could make it on our own.

This past Christmas has been all about relocation as well for me. With our children grown and wanting to spend Christmas in their own homes throughout the state, we've begun the habit of celebrating at one of their homes. After all of the grandchildren were asleep in various corners of my daughter's home, the adults tiptoed into the kitchen, ate dessert, and whispered and laughed quietly about memories of Christmases past. Hysterical laughter is hard to suppress, but we managed. Williams' Christmas Relocation turned out just fine.

My church made a decision to relocate this year as well. We decided to move our Christmas Eve service to the high school auditorium. Relocation can really mess with our traditions, especially where holidays are concerned, but here's why we did it: we wanted to be able to invite those who might not be comfortable in church to come and hear about Jesus. And you know what? I'm proud of my church, because we understood that. In spite of a little bit of grieving, we were willing to give up what we held dear. "Silent night," sung to the glow of battery operated tea lights instead of real candles, was just as beautiful when we saw the big picture.

After all, Christmas is about relocating isn't it? I'm pretty sure that a young expectant couple didn't want to relocate to Bethlehem that close to the baby's due date, and later experience the inconvenience of relocating to Egypt to protect that child's life. And then there's the obvious--Jesus being asked to relocate and come here for us. I remember our good-byes to our family and I'm trying to picture the good-byes when Jesus left heaven. The reality of relocation must have hit pretty hard and He knew that He had little to look forward to. God didn’t look down a few years later and see all the new friends Jesus had made—instead He saw a small group of faithful followers, a lot of curious on-lookers, and many enemies.

Yet, He still would have said that relocation was good. I think it was pretty awesome. Jesus taught me this Christmas that some of my traditions need to be given a fresh assessment and that when I’m called to relocate, it can be pretty amazing.

It Only Hurts When I Walk . . . or Sit

It’s only appropriate that I woke up this morning in pain. As I limped my way into the bathroom and lowered myself onto a toilet seat that felt like it was six inches off the ground, I never questioned my actions from the previous night that brought me to this place. I had postponed a goal of water skiing one more time in my fifties to the eve of my sixtieth birthday, and I deserved to feel this way.

I’ve always had a love/hate relationship with water skiing. I love it because it’s hard and I learned to do it. I hate it because it scares the crap out of me. However, there is a certain exhilaration in skimming across the water on a hunk of fiberglass, looking at the mountainous wake and saying out loud to myself, “no guts, no glory.” When I fall, I forget to breathe out—I breathe in and generally come up gasping and choking.

I should have known I’d have a little bit of trouble. Three pins in each of my recently repaired feet, fused joints in a couple of toes, and some extra weight made it difficult to even get the skis on, but we did—I say “we” because it was a group effort. The rope came along behind me and I said “hit it,” and I didn’t get up. I said “hit it” at least seven more times and then I heard and felt the hamstring go. I wasn’t sure if I really was hurt badly, but I knew it would be wise to quit. Did you know that cool water camouflages pain? Getting the ski off my left foot and getting back into the boat—once again a group effort.

So . . . today my butt and leg hurt. I walk like I’m sauntering, but with great concentration. I’m using the handicapped bathroom stall at work. I’ll never get out of the recliner alone. Am I upset? Heck no! I could be depressed and discouraged, but at least I tried. My dusty O’Brien ski has been washed clean in Elk Lake and it’s in the back of my car. I’m going to try to use it again . . . but not today.

Instead of feeling old, I feel adventuresome. An ice pack and some Aleve are helping me cope with the irritation. (Incidentally, the ice pack leaked on to my chair, so please don’t believe any rumors of my incontinence that I’m sure may be already out there.) This pain will either go away or will remind me that I’m actually pretty gutsy.

I’d like to propose a toast to myself on this day! Are you with me? I have so many things to celebrate! So as I enter this decade, I’m hanging on and saying, “Let’s hit it!”