For decades I have carried a secret shame that I could never climb the rope in gym class in elementary school. Or junior high. Or high school. I made a lot of excuses for my strength (or lack there of), blamed injuries, and coincidentally had a special "illness" that would relapse any time I saw the rope out and hanging from the gym ceiling. I'd call it a stomach ache to the school nurse but I knew in my heart it was fear, embarrassment, shame.
Shame and fear festered in the back of my mind for 30+ years. Somehow along the way, a whole lot more shame, fear and guilt, joined along and I got the false idea that caring for myself, for my body, for my mental health was selfish.
Jesus poured Himself out unselfishly, and I'm called to be like Him, right? And if I'm operating in His strength, I can do all things, right?
Right.
But also so very wrong.
After 8 years of intermittent pregnancy, nursing, toddler-chasing, sleep-deprived madness, I realized I had poured myself completely out and didn't know how to refuel. I had self-imposed a lot of expectations and poor theology on myself. I felt like if I asked for help or needed time for me I was failing and selfish.
Somehow I forgot that Jesus is God and I am not. I forgot that I'm a finite human, created with physical needs, mental needs and so many limitations. God will give me strength to do what He calls me to but his burden is light and my self-imposed one was so, so heavy.
I was so close to breaking emotionally, exhausted physically and didn't even really grasp how badly I needed help.
Simultaneously, Joel and some friends were talking about doing an obstacle race together for fun. I watched videos, read stories and longed so much to be able to do those things. But never really believed I could.
Remember the rope? It haunted me.
My dear friend, Tonia, and I were semi-joking about doing a Spartan race and I never thought she'd actually sign up so for several months I poked and prodded her. It was easier to shift blame to her lack of wanting to do it than confess I was scared and didn't think I could do it. And then one fateful day she sent a text that read, "I did it! Signed up. Now it's your turn."
I clearly remembering my stomach lurching and mumbling, "Oh sh#!"
Terrfied I signed up.
Knowing I couldn't go from empty on the couch to living through a Spartan race, I slowly confessed all my years of hidden fear, shame, and guilt. Joel, who had been trying to help me make time for me for years, immediately freed his schedule and mine as much as possible to help me. Starting slowly with 20 minute work-outs and building strength and endurance over the subsequent months, four years ago, I jumped through flames and completed my first Spartan race.
Without quite a few upper-body obstacles. Without climbing the rope. With all the penalty burpees.
And friends, I didn't die!
I experienced a sense of freedom I hadn't felt in years. So I kept working. Day after day pushing my limits, not afraid to try anymore.
Not afraid to fail and try again.
Two years ago I climbed my first rope. One large step toward ringing the magical bell at the top of a rope in a Spartan Race. Last June, I climbed that race rope, with open callouses and bloody hands and can’t describe what it felt like to ring that bell. Years of hard work climaxing at the end of the race, a high I won’t ever forget.
And then life happened and it felt like I fell from the top and hit hard ground. A shoulder injury, months of being on steroids and antibiotics fighting poison ivy turned staph infection, a season of depression I didn’t know I was in. I wanted to give up on a lot of things-climbing a rope was the least of my worries.
Over the last couple months much has changed in my heart and with the kindness of a good God, the encouragement of a faithful husband, and a community of people around me who figuratively picked me up out of the dirt and wouldn’t let me give up, I put one foot in front of the other in life, and one foot in front of the other back into the gym. I’ve attempted that rope climb multiple times and each time ended in humbled tears.
Yesterday I touched that white tape at the top of the rope again and this time the ascent was more sobering. Satisfying, but sobering under the reality of how easy it is to “fall” in this life and how much we need one another. I’m so grateful for the community around me, those who have experienced being face down in the dirt and who will come along side and lift the fallen to their feet.
Courage is not attempting to do this life on our own or in our own strength.
Courage is asking for help.
Courage is stepping out, not being afraid of failure, letting people come along side you, and letting them pick you up when you end up face down in the dirt.
Do hard things. Ask for help. Be courageous. Be free.