Fear

To reach that spectacular, beautifully rugged land’s end, I needed to cross that blustery bridge. It was the summer of 2015, and my husband and I stood on the rocky soil of County Antrim, Ireland. The smiles of the people waiting in line for their turn were like lifelines to me. Tourists who had already made their way over the popular Carrick-a-Rede Rope Bridge waved across to all gleefully, eager to share their joy at reaching a point of the Emerald Isle that would have been treacherous any other way—if not for the bridge made of simple wood planks and intricate knots of thick, trusty rope.

I wasn’t so sure that rope was so trusty.

Shortly after we returned to our home in California, I turned on the computer in our home office and immediately discovered my husband had changed the desktop wallpaper. It was a picture of me on that bridge. I was confused. Why not a picture of the two of us from some other photo op on that trip? Usually, our desktop wallpaper was something of us together, or of our beloved dog, Amber.

I called out my question to him from where I knew he could hear me in the living room. It was quiet for a bit, and then I heard the muffled sound of his feet brushing across the carpet as he made his way to the room.

“I know how hard that was for you,” he replied quietly from the doorway.

I felt my heart swell with love for this man.

“I know how hard it was.”

Although our trip to Ireland that year was overall an amazing experience, it seemed like I was trapped into facing one battle after the other. Instead of being excited to fly across the Atlantic, I would wake up in the middle of the night with my heart racing in fear of our upcoming flight. Instead of every moment thrilling to the luscious green land all around me, at times I struggled to catch my breath. Instead of marveling at the natural wonder of the hexagonal columns at the Giant’s Causeway, I trembled in near panic as we walked along dirt paths next to cliff walls…certain they would crumble down on top of us at any moment. The odds of that happening were extremely slim.

The fear I struggled with is a distant memory now, but at the time that gruesome pest was taking all the fun out of an extraordinary trip. And my worrying over every little thing was draining the strength out of my mind and spirit.

So by the time we arrived at the “car park” of the rope bridge, he looked over at me before we got out of the car. “Are you sure you want to do this?” I peered out the windshield and looked at the path which led to the ocean. I could barely see the bridge, but from this point it didn’t look quite as scary as I had imagined. “Yep,” I huffed with a tight smile. “Nope,” my heart shot back, the echoes of my discontent bouncing around my rib cage.

As we got closer to the line of tourists waiting to cross, however, my breath started to come out in hesitant, quivering bursts. I squeezed my eyes shut in an effort to quiet the evidence of my uncertainty. “Are you sure?” he checked again when he caught me staring down at the crashing sea 100 feet below.  (That’s the part you can’t really see in many pictures.)

“Yep.”

When we were next in line, I looked up at the young, fair-haired Irishman whose cheeks were red from being slapped by cold, wild coastal air. He was one of two workers there who were the gatekeepers, so to speak, supervising and limiting the number of bridge crossers. The three of us chit-chatted loudly over the roar of the waves while we waited, laughingly trading California and Irish stereotypes, and how he’s been meaning to make his first trip to the States to visit a friend in San Diego.

Finally, I looked into his friendly blue eyes—certain God had placed him there that day to comfort me with his quick camaraderie—and all of a sudden blurted, “I’m a little terrified, but I’m going to do this.” It had been the statement I’d repeated silently the whole way down the path up to this point. I was sick and tired of letting fear beat out my faith and trust. I said it over and over until I believed it.

The stranger’s kind smile gentled, and his eyes turned serious as they acknowledged my fear.  “Not to worry,” he said, his musical Irish accent calming me, “you’ll do just fine. Are you ready?” He had received the nod of permission for us to trek ahead from his partner across the way.

And so, step by step I worked my way across the bridge. The creaks of the rope swaying in the gusty wind invaded my ears, but the strength of the planks below my feet, my silent prayers, and my belief that I could squash this feeling of trepidation—because I chose to—upheld me and my courageous soul the whole way and back again. For the rest of the day, you couldn’t take the smile off my face if you tried. Even thinking back on it now, the memory girds my heart.

“I know how hard it was for you.” My husband’s answer whispered to me again.

Currently, I’ve chosen to focus on the truths of courage over the lies of fear…but I still have my moments of not believing I can do certain things. Even now, I have some goals that leave me shaking in my boots when I think too long on it. But the things I want to conquer don’t have to be achieved all at once. I believe that some day I will be able to scratch each one off the list, but I have to be patient with myself and give myself the grace to persevere—one step at a time, if need be.

There are some fears I’ve fled from and didn’t triumph. And yet, I won’t dwell on the ones from the past which I may not have the opportunity to face again. Instead, I’ll find new things to find victory in.  Whatever you may be facing, believe that you can declare yourself the victor. The feeling of accomplishment and relief…the burden of dread lifted…the surrender…it is so worth it. Will I ever bungee jump? Never will I ever. For me, today… in about 10 minutes, it’s going to be the pile of dishes in my sink that I will conquer. That mess seems impossible. But I believe I can tackle it, and so I will.

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Mistakes

Mistakes. We all make them. We may wish we didn’t, but it’s inevitable. I burn the bacon all the time. I forget things all. the. time. Now that I’m thinking of it, I make mistakes all day long. Every day. And I’ve actually learned to love them. Okay…not all of them. Not the deep ones. In hindsight, I can appreciate some of those because of the lessons I’ve learned…or the providential way they may have brought me full circle to something that eventually turned for the good.

In this case, I’m talking about the little mess ups. 🙂 Calling out the wrong page number in the classroom. Dialing the wrong number. Showing up to the wrong room for a meeting. Buying purple potatoes for a husband who will not eat purple potatoes (yeah, that really happened). Going back into the house two more times because you forgot something on the way out. The small stuff.

How have I learned to love these?

Three little words: “You’re still cool.”

In my classroom, we use the class rules and many student engagement strategies from Whole Brain Teaching (WBT).  Also incorporated in WBT are these five character traits: Glorious Kindness, Leadership, Courage, Invincible Grit, and Creativity. By the way, thank you to Whole Brain Platinum Certified Instructor and colleague of mine, Julie Neff, for showing me how to weave these traits into our daily academic procedures. These traits are reviewed each day, and it’s amazing to see the kids work hard at showing they have these traits within them. They love to be recognized for being awesome.

I got hooked on the phrase “you’re still cool” from hearing it in WBT training. It’s linked to the character education piece because most of the character traits listed above relate to the positive power that grace has over us when we mess up. There is no perfect. There is only your best effort in striving for excellence.

What is so incredible to me is that I knew how important this was for the kids. However, I didn’t realize the effect it would eventually have on me, as well.

“You’re still cool!” 

How would you like it if all day long you heard that immediately after you made a mistake?

“You’re still cool.”

And that’s what we do. If a student makes a mistake in front of the class—or even if I make a mistake—the kids and I tell the mistake maker that they are still cool. While your head knows “Okay, let’s try not to do that again”, your heart appreciates the grace you’ve been given. It can work for those big mistakes, too. It’s beautiful.

Mispronounce a word? You’re still cool! Give the wrong answer? You’re still cool! Lock your keys in your car? You’re. still. cool.

In the past, I used to be really mean to myself when I made these little blunders. They sure did seem to pile up. To the point that there were times I was so petrified by the fear of making a mistake that I wouldn’t even begin something. But now I just remember those three little words, shake it off, and keep on moving. I love that my students do the same. Mistakes can be expected. It’s how we react when they happen that makes all the difference.

Hey. Remember…it’s powerful stuff: You’re still cool. 

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