I always thought Lot’s wife got a raw deal during her family’s escape from Sodom before God destroyed it. All she did was look back, and for that she became a pillar of salt? Her punishment seemed kind of harsh. I think I always envisioned her look back as a glance over her shoulder as she fled for her life, kind of like she was checking to make sure the fire balls weren’t landing too close. But now I realize her look back must have been one of sorrow and regret. I think she was looking back with longing. She must have been unwilling to leave what had become comfortable and move forward. In that context, becoming a statue was her choice. She was caught forever between her past and what could have been her future because she couldn’t stop looking back.
I spent a lot of time last week thinking about the dangers of looking back. I’m not afraid I’ll turn into a pillar of salt, but I am aware of how easy it would be not to move forward. As I’ve already mentioned here, my husband dubbed last year the “Year of Freedom.” Life was easy, fun and comfortable. We chose to leave it all behind in search of a new adventure, but some days it’s really tempting to spend more time reminiscing about the past than taking steps toward the future.
It’s like we were cruising down a nice, wide two-lane highway when the entrance to a beautiful and intriguing dirt trail caught our attention. We slowed the car and looked at the narrow dirt track. It didn’t look dangerous or even very difficult. It was just wide enough for the car to fit through without scraping the mirrors, if we were careful. Lush greenery obscured the path after a few hundred yards, where it appeared to turn deeper into the forest. But the parts we could see were breathtaking, covered in bright, fragrant flowers. It looked so inviting. So, we took the plunge, exiting the highway and driving slowly onto the trail. We put the windows down so we could enjoy the flowers as we drove by. But just as the entrance to the highway disappeared behind us, the trail narrowed. It was full of ruts and potholes. The car almost got stuck several times. We had to get out and push. The flowers disappeared, and suddenly I began to wonder whether we made the right decision. It was so tempting to look back toward the easy road we left behind. Our trail might widen out around the next turn, but it might not.
Last weekend, James and I went back to Texas for his parents’ 45th anniversary party. We stayed in Galveston and saw all the people we’ve missed so much during the last two months. I anticipated and dreaded the trip, knowing it could be a major setback in our determination to build a new life in Atlanta. Nothing much had changed on the island. It was like we never left. But I wasn’t filled with the homesick longing I thought might overcome me. I’m obviously not yet tired of the daily struggle to put one foot in front of the other in search of what’s coming up around the next turn.
I think Lot’s wife must have believed the best part of her life lay behind her. She couldn’t see the possibility in what was before her. She missed a great opportunity to learn something new and be thrilled all over again. I’m still enthralled by future possibilities. I’m willing to push the car down the dirt trail when it gets stuck because I don’t want to miss something I never would have seen from the highway.
On our last trip to Mexico, my husband and I went to Xel-Ha, an eco-park built around a lagoon carved out of the porous rock that makes up the Yucatan Peninsula by the relentless chiseling of centuries of waves. The lagoon shelters schools of blue, yellow and silver fish, some no bigger than my pinky, others large enough to snap off a couple of my fingers if they wanted to. Floating in the buoyant, warm water with those beautiful creatures flitting teasingly in front of my mask exhilarated and calmed me. I could have floated face down in that lagoon all day, hovering between those conflicting emotions.
 But we had another adventure planned for that day. On the landward edge of the lagoon, surrounded by lush forest, a cliff stretched out over the water. At only 12 feet up, the cliff made the perfect jumping platform – high enough to give visitors a thrill but not too high to put anyone in danger. We swam across the lagoon to the wet rock where other thrill-seekers already had pulled themselves out of the water, ditched their fins and masks and headed up the narrow path to the top of the cliff. We took our place in line behind parents and their pre-teen kids, laughing with excitement, and young men bragging about how big the splash from their cannon ball would be. My husband is scared of heights, and I teased him pretty mercilessly about making the jump before we got there. But he looked unconcerned as we got closer to the edge. I was not feeling so sanguine.
From where we stood, we could look across the lagoon at the sheer rock face on the other side. Tropical greenery spilled over the top and sprouted out of cracks in the side. The water at the bottom was a ridiculously bright aqua, still and clear. I suddenly had a hard time swallowing. James looked at me, and I smiled to hide the panic rising from my uncertain stomach. He decided to go first. I felt a little surge of relief. I thought there was a good chance he would back out and we could climb back down the path without me having to prove myself. But just as I was getting ready to tell him we could turn around if he wanted to, he disappeared over the edge. A victorious “woo-hoo!” punctuated the ensuing splash. I peered down to see him grinning back at me.
“Your turn,” he yelled.
I scrunched my toes on the hard rock and stepped back. A quick glance over my shoulder confirmed what I already knew. About 10 people waited behind me, impatient for their turn. I looked down again and wondered what it would feel like to hit the water. I began to feel a sense of déjà vu. A flash of memory reminded me why.
I was about 7 years old, spending another boring afternoon with my grandparents at their swim/tennis club. After watching dozens of older kids plummet off the top of the high dive board, I had nervously climbed up the cool metal ladder myself. From the top, I could see over the flat roof of the club’s dining room. In the distance, glass-fronted office towers peeked over the tree line. I began to wonder what possessed me to turn myself into a spectacle as I clung to the rails at the top of the ladder. Despite starting to feel a little nauseous, I slowly walked toward the edge of the board. It bent slightly under my weight, as if preparing to throw me into the deep end. My mind instantly refused to jump, and no amount of coaxing from the lifeguard or my grandmother, who even got in the pool to encourage me, could convince me to step off into nothing. That humiliating incident ended with me climbing back down the ladder, tears of shame making it hard for me to see as I pushed my way through the crowd of other kids who had gathered at the bottom.
Oh, why hadn’t that childhood memory come back to me before I decided to climb to the top of this stupid cliff, I thought as I listened to the screech of a wild parrot perched in one of the trees behind me. My hesitation was causing quite a traffic jam at the top of the cliff. An impatient redhead with a profusion of curls surrounding her sunburned face asked me if I was going to jump, or what. I stepped to the side and let her and the other people waiting to go past me. James had by this time climbed out of the water and was back at my side, dripping with satisfaction. He was going to jump again, giving his fear of heights a big one-finger salute. He offered to hold my hand if I jumped with him, as a few other couples had done. I just glared at him and crossed my arms.
He launched himself off the cliff again while I stood toward the back of the platform and watched. I had given up the pretense of pending action at this point and a string of jumpers only gave me a few sideways glances as they filed past me. I tried to ignore their obvious derision. The redhead came back to the top of the cliff, but she was holding her shoes, headed toward the path that lead through the trees to the restaurant and locker rooms. She stood watching me for a few minutes, obviously wanting to see if I’d finally get up the courage to do it. Her boyfriend eventually asked her if she was ready, in a tone that clearly said he was.
“Yeah, she’s not going to do it,” the redhead said with contempt as she turned and walked away.
I’m sure she meant for me to hear her. More humiliation. Maybe she thought her jab would push me over the edge. It didn’t. It only made the walk back to the lockers more painful.
I took a personality assessment last night that said pioneering was one of my primary motivations. The desire to adventure comes with a few drawbacks, like self-centeredness and a tendency to ignore others’ feelings, my assessment warned me. It didn’t say anything about being inhibited by fear. That’s a significant hindrance for an adventurer. It seems like a huge and obvious omission on the assessment writer’s part, now that I think about it. What good is an adventurer rooted to the top of a cliff by fear?
I realize, looking back, how many opportunities I missed because I listened to fear instead of my deepest longing. I can’t do anything about the past, but I’m determined not to let that be the story of my future. I’m an adventurer, a pioneer. And while I’m sure the fear will always be there, I’m not going to let it stop me from doing the things my heart longs to do. I don’t know why I was born with this longing for adventure, but I believe I’ll never discover or fulfill my purpose, or live the life I dream of, unless I give it free reign.
I’ve been preoccupied this week with the common human fascination for heroes. We’re all dying for someone to swoop in and save the day. Based on a friend’s recommendation, and my own curiosity to find out what all the fuss was about, I read Twilight this week. It’s a romance/thriller written for teens about a girl and her vampire boyfriend. Minus the very minor problem that he’s constantly tempted to permanently dehydrate every human he can clamp his jaws around, the hero in this book is perfect. He’s beautiful. He has supernatural strength. And he’s always there, just in time, to save the girl. Sigh….
Twilight is written for teens, but its appeal is really universal. Or maybe that’s just what I’m telling myself to keep from being so embarrassed about how completely it sucked me in. I was riveted, and not just because Stephenie Meyer is a masterful writer, which she most definitely is.
I don’t go through life longing to encounter a superhero. So I was definitely surprised by how quickly my imagination flew into daydreams while I read about Twilight’s alluring hero.
I want to be really clear that this has nothing to do with romance or love. And it should not at all be read as a commentary on my husband, who, by the way, thinks it’s very funny that I’m so enthralled by a vampire.
This longing for a hero goes much deeper than any dealings with the opposite sex. And men should not be smug about this, looking down on women for being too sentimental. Men long for heroes too, just not the kind that come to the rescue. They want a hero that will lead them into battle, so to speak.
So why is this longing for a hero so universal? And why do we all, men and women, get a dull ache at the core of our souls when we realize there is no hero on earth who can match Spiderman’s lightning quick reflexes, Superman’s amazing strength or Edward Cullen’s uncanny ability to be at the right place, every time?
It all comes down to the hope that there’s more to life than our mundane daily existence. We all want to be a part of something more, something bigger. It stands to reason that if heroes exist, there must be something more to life. We wouldn’t need them otherwise.
The longing for a hero is a reminder to us that we were made for something more. We were made to be a part of an epic adventure with a supernatural hero at its center. It’s just so hard to see that when we’re trapped by daily trivialities. Compare heroic stories with the reality we encounter most days, and it’s easy to give up hope of being a part of anything bigger than ourselves. But our obsession with heroes proves that we still hope.
*Thanks to Bonnie Tyler for the inspiration for this blog title. I’ve had her 1986 hit by the same name running through my head for the last week, as I thought about the whole subject of heroes.
Why do we expect life to be easy? No one ever comes right out and says that’s what they expect, but you can tell they do by the way they react when things get difficult. I wish I could be smug and say I’m different, but I’m not.
My husband dubbed last year “The Year of Freedom.” No responsibility, no obligations, no trouble. January kicked off “The Year of Perseverance.” I could have called it “The Year of Insurmountable Odds,” but I decided to put a positive spin on it. What really gets me about the whole thing is that I’m bitter about it. Obviously, I expect nothing but smooth sailing for my life. Why? I’ve never been promised a life of leisure. I’ve had moments that were trouble-free, but they never lasted long.
Despite my frustration at encountering a few bumps in the road, I’m kind of looking forward to the challenge. The struggle to survive can be an adventure, right? And I love adventure. Donald Miller had some amazing advice about New Year’s resolutions and adventure in two blog posts (here and here) from last week. Here’s my edited version: In your search for adventure, create memorable scenes for your life, and don’t be afraid to get wet, cold, dirty, hot or embarrassed in the process. Roughly translated: You can’t get to that mountain top celebration — you know, the one where you’re standing on top of a giant boulder with the world stretched out below you and the wind blowing your hair back is making you look like a model — without banging a few knees and scraping a few elbows along the way. During this year of perseverance, I’m determined not to turn back when I lose a little blood on the climb. I also promise not to whine too much about the bruises.
Welcome to my new blog. I really have no idea what I’m doing here, other than sharing my random thoughts with whomever is bored enough to read them. I’m been trying to come up with the perfect strategy for this site for the last six weeks. Since I haven’t come up with one yet, I just decided to dive in and see where it takes me (or us, for those of you who are still reading). It will be an adventure.
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The book: Forgotten Keep up with my progress as I write my first book, a non-fiction narrative about Galveston, Texas, and Hurricane Ike.
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