Brave

On taking chances, being attacked, and redneck waterparks

I don’t consider myself a brave person. Yes, I like to try new things, but I like it even more when those experiences are somewhat predictable. I love to travel to places my family and friends have already been. I enjoy sampling unusual foods at the recommendation of someone I trust. I’ll stick my neck out, but just a bit—certainly not enough to risk metaphorical decapitation.

It wasn’t always this way. In my twenties and thirties I was happy to throw myself off ledges for things I truly believed in. In fact, my husband and I (both high-functioning visionaries) regularly took risks and put ourselves out there in ways that we thought were both exciting and meaningful. And then, we were attacked (rather viciously) for our opinions and beliefs. It was up close and personal, from people in our small community and slightly beyond who didn’t try to be impartial or even embody a shred of human kindness. It was unimaginably painful.

One man took it upon himself to try and have my husband’s preaching license revoked. When that didn’t work, he attempted to get him fired from his job. (That plan also failed.) Another made a video of me, taking things I had said out of context and declaring that I was a liar. In the comments section of one of his maligning posts, someone wrote: “…send that sadistic freak to my house for dinner served by Smith and Wesson.” (I still have the screenshot—and many more—in a file on my computer.) Another published a newsletter declaring that he knew my late grandfather, and my grandpa would “turn over in his grave” knowing the kind of woman I had become. (I sleep soundly at night knowing all my grandparents loved me unconditionally and would be so very proud of me, my husband, and our beautiful children.)

I think we weathered the storm well, but I’d be a liar if I said it didn’t take a toll. During those long weeks and months, we prayed over and over: Don’t let us become jaded. In spite of all this, may we continue to be open and loving and warm and safe.

Those prayers were answered, but sometimes I think we forgot to ask for—and cling to—courage. Or maybe we just matured. Maybe the wild and heady abandon of our youthful pursuits was traded for a more quiet, measured temperance. Little has changed about who we are and what we believe, but how and when and who we share it with is more carefully considered. And still, I wonder if we’re doing it right. What is wisdom in this world of such hatred and anger and vitriol? What can be said or done that isn’t misinterpreted, misunderstood, or misappropriated? I understand sometimes how and why people choose to stay out of the fray altogether. I often want to do that, too.

And yet.

I feel called to courage. To standing in the gap, speaking up for the marginalized, and using the platform I’ve been given (however small) to lift and love, to bring light and life. I’m not always good at it, and I regularly fail, but maybe courage is simply trying and screwing it all up and then trying again and again. Maybe.

What is courage to you? Do you consider yourself brave? I’m going to leave you with a very short essay I wrote several years ago during that hard, hard season. The lessons I learned still ring so true to me. I hope these words encourage you today.

Thanks for reading. xoxo - Nicole

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My kids are so brave. Yesterday we spent the afternoon at a local swimming hole (read: redneck waterpark). There were giant slides, a zip-line, and (scariest of all) a high dive. The drop itself is terrifying, but in order to get on the platform to jump in the first place, you have to climb a wooden staircase and then hoist yourself up the final eight feet by scaling the handrail and scrambling the remaining distance. I’m either the mother of the year or my kids are going to be taken away from me because I boosted my six-year-old up there. (What can I say? He’s determined—who am I to stand in his way?) Twice he walked with trembling knees all the way to the end. And twice he turned back. When he asked to try a third time, I did my best to talk him out of it. “Mom,” he said, “you’re insulting me.” Fine. He was hoisted up a third time. And this time? He jumped. Brave, indeed.

I heard a sermon once about how being real and authentic is one of the most courageous things we can possibly do. To show someone our true self, in the midst of our struggle, is brave. We like to clean up our messes first, talk about ourselves in the past tense. “I was an addict.” “I used to struggle…” But now. The redemption is in the “but now” isn’t it? And yet, what about when the NOW is the hard part? When we’re emotionally at the very end of the high dive, steeling ourselves against the wind and the fear that makes our heart pound high and sick in our throats? What then?

I learned a couple things from my boy yesterday. First? When we’re in that place, facing down a fear or a personal demon or whatever it is that requires us to find our brave—we are uniquely and inescapably ALONE. Even if we manage to take someone with us, if their hand is cold and clammy in our own, only we can take the final leap. The strength and courage to jump must come from somewhere inside of us. Second, though we may be alone as we stare down that fear, we are decidedly NOT ALONE. My son stood on the end of that diving board all by himself, but we were all there cheering him on. Mother, brothers, sister, friends… even strangers were watching and shouting their sweet encouragement. And when he finally took that step? You should have heard us all screaming.

Confession: I’m so discouraged. Not: I was. I AM. Everything feels scary right now—like a great, big emotional risk, and I’m just not sure that I have the courage to take the leap. You, too? Maybe so, maybe not. But whether or not we’re flinging ourselves over the edge or cowering there in tears, we’re not the kind of people who crawl back down, are we? We take ourselves in hand, we acknowledge that there are people who love us, who are cheering their hearts out for us, and we jump. Nose plugged and eyes screwed shut or arms wide open as we embrace the wind—it doesn’t matter. We’re doing it. We’re so brave.