Land of the Free and Home of the Brave

Don't fear, this isn't a political post because this isn't a political blog. But on that note, I am beyond glad that the mid-term election is finally over, and with it a welcomed end to the phone calls, door-to-door solicitations, and the altogether awful attack ads. Can I get an amen? Ok, I've said my piece, on to what this post is really about...

So, I used to be brave, pretty fearless really. In fact, growing up, I probably could have used a much bigger dose of healthy fear. It would have spared me multiple trips to the ER, and my parents, a handsome sum in medical bills. Just to put things into perspective for you, I wouldn't have been allowed to play professional football, ya know, if I were a male and weighed about a 100 more pounds and well, had the talent to play pro-ball. Why? Because I've had 6 concussions. It's true. I have bad dreams about waking up one day, and not being able to remember who I am. So, like I said, in my early years, I could have used a little more fear and a little less "determination!"

But somewhere in my early 30s (that's right, I can't claim the "early" part anymore and not afraid to admit it!), I lost my edge, so to speak. It's almost like I woke up one morning and became a worrier. It was bizzare, seeing as I used to guide backpacking trips, ice-climb, run 24 hour races on dark mountain trails, all without a second thought of the risks I was incurring. And then suddenly, activities like playing ultimate frisbee or flying on an airplane suddenly became infused with fear and a tentativeness that I had never known. Where did this come from, I wondered. Somewhat in jest, I answered myself with, 'maybe from all of those concussions, you fool.' Interestingly enough, this significant change in my worry level correlated with getting married. I suppose it hit home that upon meeting the love of my life, my life didn't just include me anymore, rather I was building a life with another person, a life I need to show up for. I feared both something happening to my husband and something happening to me that would prevent me from getting to live out this life with him. And now, with a baby in the picture, you can only imagine the spike my worry-o-meter has taken.

Growing up, we used to drive to Florida every year to visit my grandparents. When it came to water, my parents referred to me as a fish. I loved to swim, whether it be in a pool, a lake or an ocean, I could spend hours splashing around. On those trips to Florida, I especially loved playing in the waves and sun out at Bathtub Beach on Hutchinson Island. Looking back now, I realize how free I was then. Yes, I was free and brave and uninhibited. And it was awesome. Even as an adult in my 20s, I surfed all the time without fear while living in Costa Rica. But like I said, something changed when I got married and my fear seemed to overtake my freedom. As my hubby can attest, on our honeymoon in Hawaii, I practically made him hold my hand the entire time we were snorkelling.

Recently, we took Ben on his first trip to Florida and we ventured out to that same beach of my childhood where I spent so many hours body-surfing and doing flips in the water. Standing on the beach, looking out at the waves, I found myself in a much different state of mind than when I visited there as a kid. I was wondering about what creatures might be lurking beneath the surface and at the same time, I was annoyed with myself for wondering, wishing I could just dive in. We took Ben down by the water and Tom slowly dipped just his feet into the salty blue water. His lower lip bunched up into that fat little ball that's indicative of an impending cry. And then he let it out, informing us that he didn't so much like the feel of that water. But Tom tried a couple of more times and each time, B seemed to feel a little more at ease, almost reaching the point of smiling.

Then it dawned on me that with Ben being so little, Tom and I would have to take turns going into the water. One of us had to watch Ben while the other one of us traipsed out into the big blue. Umm, that meant that if I was to go into the water, I was going to have to go it alone. I honestly, couldn't believe the fear welling up inside me. I felt like such a wuss. I tip-toed in, glimpsing back over my shoulder at my two favorite guys every 5 seconds. Ankles...knees...waist...deep breath...run back to the shore. "Ok, you can do this, Melissa, go back out there," I said, trying to muster up my courage. And then it hit me, I do not want my son to grow up with a mom who is afraid. I don't want to pass that on to him. Yes, I do hope that he has a little more of the healthy fear than I did growing up, but it's the self-limiting, joy-robbing fear that I'm talking about. Yeah, I definitely don't want him to have that.

I want to teach my son what it means to be brave, to try new things, to live free in the moment. So, I have to model that, right? Which meant, I thought to myself, I have to dive into this ocean right now. So, for the sake of my son, I did it, I dove into the ocean and I played out there for a while, like I used to as a kid. And the fear dissipated, replaced by a feeling of freedom. And I liked it...a lot. So now, I wonder what it looks like to model bravery on a daily basis? I know it means trusting God, his presence and his provision on a moment by moment basis, but how does that flush out? Because I want to model for my son what it means to be brave, not the fake 'I'm such a hero' kind of brave and not the stupid, make life-threatening choices kind of brave of my past, but true bravery. Yes, I want my son to grow up in the land of the free and the home of the brave and I don't just mean the US of A.