Last year at this time, when social distancing was an unknown concept, I embarked on an adventure with my granddaughter. It was the first time either of us had gone white water rafting and both of us enjoyed it. In fact, our plan was to choose a trip with larger rapids this year.
Under current conditions, that is not likely to happen. Instead, I will relive the memories from last year and reflect on how what I learned is still serving me today.
My immediate thought is how fear almost robbed me of an exhilarating experience. My mind built up a resistance to the unknown that almost paralyzed me. To counteract the fear, my granddaughter Faith, literally took my hand and, with gentle reassurance, led me to the raft. I couldn’t have done it on my own.
On the river, our guide taught us about teamwork. If he shouted, “Left”, we put our paddles in on the left side of the raft. We would paddle hard on that side until he shouted, “Right” and we’d paddle on the other side. After we navigated through rapids, we would be told to lift our paddles and rest.
Each period of hard work was followed by a brief rest. The rest was to give us the strength to face the next set of rapids.
I learned two lessons in this. The first is I don’t need to get through turbulent times on my own. There are always others who will come alongside and help me paddle until I reach smooth waters. Teamwork makes us stronger.
The second lesson was to take advantage of opportunities to rest, when they come along. This doesn’t mean drifting aimlessly off course, but rebuilding endurance to face the next set of trials. There will inevitably be another rough patch at some point and I want to be prepared to face it.
The guide on our raft was also a reminder of the importance of having someone trustworthy to give direction. I choose to put my trust in Jesus. He has guided me through rough waters in the past and is always available when I call on Him. Sometimes the direction comes from a distance and other times I feel him take my hand and assure me everything will be alright. There is no one I’d rather have beside me in the adventure of this life.
A few days ago, my husband and I looked around our empty house for the last time, left a note and the keys on the counter, closed the door and drove away. Our home of fifteen years was about to become the home of another family.
A news report I read several months ago has stuck with me. It told of a missing woman who was part of a group travelling through Iceland on a tour bus. The bus had stopped near a volcanic canyon and before the tour resumed there was word of a missing female passenger.
One of the female passengers had changed clothes during this stop and didn’t recognize the description of herself. As a result, she joined in the search!
The search was called off at about 3 am when it became clear the missing woman was not only accounted for but had spent hours searching for herself!
Initially, I laughed at the thought of someone searching for herself. Then, I thought of the years I’ve spent doing exactly the same thing.
Initially, I was Katie’s daughter. Next, I became Brian’s wife. Later, I became a mother. Once I added in employee, community volunteer and a few other roles, I lost who I was.
Buried under many layers of who I had become, was the essence of who I was. In order to find the missing woman I’d become, I needed to do some searching.
The search began with the painful process of eliminating my self-expectations. Much to my surprise, the world carried on with little notice. The more I was able to let go of who I thought I had to be, the closer I came to finding my true self and the more peaceful I became.
I read a post on a friend’s Facebook page that said, “Maybe the journey isn’t so much about becoming anything. Maybe it’s about unbecoming everything that isn’t really you so you can be who you were meant to me in the first place.”
I think this resonates with many of us. Our world has changed drastically in light of the pandemic we’re facing. Much of what we did has been stripped away from us. This might be the perfect time to search for who we were meant to be. I have faith we will emerge stronger than ever before.
Last week I had the privilege of being the speaker for an event in a small seaport town in Mexico. Women (and a few men) from three countries came together for the evening. The majority spoke Spanish and my message would not have been understood if not for the amazing translator I worked with.
The goal was to share how we all have a role to play and can come together despite our different languages and cultural backgrounds. As one of the volunteers involved in bringing this evening to fruition, I experienced the teamwork necessary as a perfect example of this.
Our theme was inspired by the song Bind Us Together and the evening ended with it being sung in both languages simultaneously.
For this reason, it seemed fitting to include an illustration pertaining to music near the close of my talk. Years ago, I was a member of a four-part harmony acapella chorus, so I drew on that experience.
The melody line was complimented by tenor, baritone and bass. While the melody could have stood on its own, it became much richer when combined with the other notes.
Conversely, some of the other parts sounded discordant when heard on their own. Their notes were meant to enrich others by blending together. The resulting harmony was far more pleasing than any one voice could produce.
The point is, when we come together to help each other, each of us sings a more beautiful song. In these days of uncertainty, some are singing notes of fear. If I come alongside with my notes of understanding, encouragement and support the tune can change from despair to hope.
Instead of wondering if your notes can enhance mine, I need to be looking for ways I can enrich yours. It’s amazing what can happen when we are bound together with these chords (cords) of love.
“Look at the giant bench,” I said. “I wonder if I can climb up and sit on it.” My husband would have helped me if I’d asked but I wanted to see if I could do it on my own. At first it didn’t seem possible and I almost gave up. Brian gave me some encouraging words, I tried again and succeeded.
“Do you see the crane up ahead?” “Yes, it’s near the edge of the water. It must be looking for breakfast.”
My husband and I were on an early morning beach walk when we spotted this bird. We commented on how cranes stand still for extended periods before darting their heads in the water to catch a fish. They have incredible patience and the one we could see ahead of us was no exception. It hadn’t moved since we’d first spotted it.
We drew nearer and burst into laughter. The crane we’d been watching was actually a pole, stuck upright in the sand with the tattered remnant of a white sandbag wrapped around it! No wonder it stood so still.
A few years ago, on another stretch of beach, we were fooled by the same thing so were surprised to be misled again so easily. Obviously, we hadn’t learned our lesson as well as we thought.
As lessons go, this was a good one to be reminded of. The perfect picture I see from afar is often quite different when observed from a closer vantage point. Someone else’s life may appear to be perfect but I have no idea of the struggles and heartache that may be just below the surface.
The same holds true for my life. Some days I feel like the sleek, graceful crane and others I’m more like the tattered sandbag, barely holding on.
The next time I wish my life looked as good as yours, I’ll think about the crane and the sandbag and be grateful for the life I’ve been given.
It has become my tradition to share this poem with you as one year ends and we embark upon another. Every year I read it and appreciate what it has to say. My mother gave it to me many years ago and unfortunately, I don’t know who the author is.
I saw the sign on the wall of a public restroom. The first four words were ‘Please do not flush.” What followed were the items I’d expect to see on such a sign – paper towels, wipes and disposable diapers.
The single-lane highway stretched before us. We had only passed a few small towns in the last hour and none were visible on the flat prairie landscape ahead of us. Our navigation system told us the next turn would be in 495 kilometres.