On Fear | Sarah Markley

The Room to Fail

April 23, 2013 by Sarah Markley 16 Comments

“There is only one thing that makes a dream impossible to achieve: the fear of failure.” Paulo Coelho

When I walked into the touristy bakery on the Champs Elysee, my mind silently conjugated the college French from so long ago before I even uttered the broken sentence. I said something haltingly and the woman behind the counter just shook her head at me in disgust. “In English!” She told me matter-of-factly. Her English was so much better than my French.

It’s scary to make mistakes.

They say that one of the reasons why children learn a second (or a first, for that matter) language so easily and efficiently is that they aren’t afraid to make mistakes. They aren’t afraid to conjugate the verbs wrong and also, when their parents or teachers correct them, they do so lovingly.

“Wants MILK!” a toddler says.

Her mother gently corrects, “Do you want milk, sweetheart?” She says it the right way and the toddler responds. “Yes! I want milk!”

We have so much less grace for the adult learners in our lives.

On the way home from school today my eleven-year-old read to me a story she’d written in class. It was a fantasy story that was surprisingly original and fascinating but also drew from a lot of overused story motifs. Even so, it was beautiful and free.

As I listened, I could hear my girl’s heart break through.

She wrote with such freedom that any clichés didn’t matter any longer. And it almost seemed that the freedom outweighed any formulaic story structure. The freedom took over and made every part of it beautiful. There was freedom because she’d been given the space to dream up a big, wild story and she knew her dreaming wasn’t going to be discouraged.

If my girl was writing a story and she knew that her illogical plot points would be edited away or that the fantasy would be marked out, would she have written such a beautiful story? Absolutely not. She wrote that amazing story because she’d been given the space to do so.

Somewhere between her and me most of us lose our freedom to write those big wild stories. And those who don’t? They make millions.

When I write, my inner critic (and sometimes real-life external editors) are the gatekeepers to my dreaming. What if we could write or live or work without fear that our wild dreaming or our mistakes would disqualify us? What if we could create without that mean, French cashier shaking her head when we try oh-so-desperately-hard to do well?

There would be such freedom.

It’s this freedom that gives us the space to be beautiful, to dream, to create. It’s this child-like open-endedness that feels like an August day when we are eight. It’s boundless. It’s free. It’s full of opportunity and hope.

Maybe we can begin to give our people, the ones we know and love and interact with the most, the room to both dream and the room to fail. Maybe we can stop conjugating their verbs for them and simply love them into best practices. Maybe we can be the safe places where our friends and children dream big and fail grandly.

Oh to fail with grandiose precision!

Let us be the ones to start this “failure-revolution” because all great ideas are built on the backs of ones that don’t work out so well.

Have you failed? What has failure taught you? What would you not have finished/achieved had you not failed first?

Filed Under: on adventure, on beauty, on courage, on fear, on story, on writing

The Place Between Dreaming, Courage and Reality

April 18, 2013 by Sarah Markley 34 Comments

I’ve always been the type of person that when someone says I can’t do something. I nod and say you’re-right and follow the rules. Sarah the Rule-Follower. Sarah the Afraid. Sarah the Worried. When someone tells me that something is too far past my reach I agree. Sure it is, I say. Those words mean a lot, apparently.

I have wanted to be the girl who, when someone says that to me, squares her shoulders, looks Limit in the eyes and says oh-really?

This would be Sarah the Brave. Sarah the Risk-Taker. Sarah the Bold-and-Daring.

In the last several years (and then more pointedly in the last several months) I’ve dared to be brave.

In high school I was always near the top of my class but I was never at the top. Ever. There was one quiet and awkward boy who always managed to beat all of us. Even those of us who huddled around AP practice-test questions at lunchtime knew we could never really beat him. He got everything right all of the time. He was a school machine that was invincible.

I tried my hardest in school, but to beat him? It was actually impossible so I didn’t attempt it. I knew the limits.

And in all my dreams I never believed I could beat him.

And I never did.

There is a middle place, I believe, that encompasses both bravery and our limitations but still allows us to dream big.

Dreaming, I believe, is the perfect juxtaposition between courage and knowing your limits. We don’t want to be limited. Especially when someone tells us we can’t do something.

But the fact of the matter is, not all of us are born to be Michael Phelps or Michael Jordan. And we aren’t all meant to be Beth Moore or the Pioneer Woman. I was never born to be that quiet, awkward guy in high school.

I was a good student, but I wasn’t THAT student.

There are some things we really can’t do. But should that stop us from dreaming? No. I don’t think so.

We sometimes think of a dream as something unattainable or a life-long wish that is almost impossible to see come to fruition.

But what if our dreams were withIN our giftings, moved toward with courage and with the realization that we are limited by our humanity, our physical bodies, our age and sometimes just by what we have been born with.

Even if my daughters had begun to swim on the swim teams at age three, neither of them would be a world class swimmer. Look at Phelps — even his body is built for it.

So dreaming? Maybe we began to dream big within the unique giftings that we each have. And what if we moved toward the big-scary-thing with courage?

Sarah the Rule Follower might have become Sarah the Dreamer had I understood earlier that I wasn’t meant to be a playwright or an actor but I was meant to write . Sarah the Worried might have become Sarah the Daring had I grasped well the idea that I am gifted in certain ways and that to live the grand adventure I was supposed to live, I needed to move with courage in the direction of my gifts and not fight against what I was meant to do. Maybe I’m not going to write the Great American Novel or be the voice of my generation, but I will write. And I will write well.

We are not all meant to be the top of the top in whatever gifting or calling that we have. But that doesn’t mean that we aren’t meant to be good. It doesn’t mean that we aren’t called to do well in it and be brave in it.

Let us begin to embrace who we were made to be, those deep passions that cross paths with the gifts that God has given us. And then let us move forward in them with courage and confidence knowing that if God has gifted us, He will empower us.

Sarah the Brave Writer.

Sarah the Courageous Mother.

Sarah the Grace-filled Friend.

Sarah the Compassionate.

These are now the dreams I have. And I haven’t fulfilled them yet. But slowly, with courage, I will move toward them.

Name yourself today. Give yourself a dream-name in the comments. What do you want to be?

Filed Under: on courage, on fear

Brave Girl

March 11, 2013 by Sarah Markley 35 Comments

I submitted a blog post about a year ago to a website that I love reading. I was a friend of the editor and she’d asked me to write something.

“Absolutely.” I told her. “I’d be honored to contribute.”

I wrote what I thought was a really great article. I spent much longer on it that I usually spend on something like this and I poured over my own personal edits for an entire evening. I sent it off to her and waited to hear back.

“Sarah. This isn’t your normal writing. I don’t know what it is, but I just don’t see you in this. Something seems to have changed in you over the past year. What’s going on?”

What’s going on? Everything-I-can’t-tell-anyone-about is going on.

The email went on and on about how she wanted me to write with bravery and with each word it felt like she was driving a knife further into my chest. It’s one thing to say that the post wasn’t good, it’s one thing to ask me to rewrite, but it’s another thing to “notice” altogether that there was something generally wrong with my writing.

If there is something “wrong” with my writing, then a.) I don’t know what it is, b.) I can’t fix it, and c.) trust me, it pains me more than it pains you.

What I didn’t know then is that all the tumult in my marriage and in my home was actually affecting my writing. It was affecting my creativity. It was affecting the heart from which words flowed and I could do nothing about it, nor could I even recognize it.

I want to be a brave writer, not a simple one. I want to dig into the cake, all three layers, rather than just smooth icing across the top. I want my tombstone to say Brave and not Safe.

Because who remembers safe?

I don’t want to be the writer who submits so-so work. I want to be fully-me and full-brave and fully-what-I-know-I’m-supposed-to-be.

I want to be the brave girl in the room, not the pretty girl or the put-together one or the smart girl even. I want to be the brave girl.

Bravery is hard to come by unfortunately, when I put limits on my own self.

Others can limit us for sure. But for the most part, I tell myself what I can do or what I cannot do. My therapist always asks me, “What voice are you listening to?” In essence, who is telling me I’m ugly or small or stupid or scared? Who is telling me that I don’t matter or I’m not worthy?I do this every day: I listen to the voices that want to keep me “safe.”

Even if we don’t write. Even if what we do well is be mothers or be friends or be people who create good in the world, even so we run the risk of limiting ourselves with fear, with what we think we can and cannot do and with the voices that shout loudly in our heads. Even if its not a Brave Writer that we want to be, and we want to be a Brave Friend or a Brave Daughter or a Brave Mother, we still are frozen with fear sometimes.

But bravery is so much more beautiful than fear. Bravery is so. much. more. beautiful. than. fear.

My friend the editor was correct in her assessment. I wasn’t ready to hear it at the time, but she was right. She saw what I was capable of and she knew that so much more was possible from me. She understood that who I was meant to be was the brave girl in the room and she knew how to call it out me.

And now over year later I’m finally starting to climb out. I’m finally starting to be brave. (Bravery might come in inches, but it does come.)

Are you a “brave girl?” Who do you know that’s brave? How have you seen bravery as beautiful?

Filed Under: on courage, on fear, on writing, Uncategorized

On Losing a House

March 8, 2013 by Sarah Markley 79 Comments

Two years ago we lost our house. In the full sense of the word, lost. Some poor business decisions were made very long ago and the consequence of which was that nearly five years later, we weren’t able to keep the house we thought we would live in forever.

I’ve written about this a bit in the past with a different attitude. And I’ve talked about it. If you would have asked me about this a year ago or read anything I wrote about it you would hear me say things about down sizing, about our-treasures-aren’t-here-on-earth and even about its-not-the-end-of-the-world-to-lose-a-house.

All of that is still true.

But people around me were treating it like a death in the family and it just plain irritated me. It’s NOT a death, I wanted to scream. We are just short-selling our house. Frankly it made me more angry at the people I knew who worshipped the American Dream.

A house isn’t everything, you know. It’s really not a big deal.

But it was a very big deal.

Losing our house. Losing my house.

At the time people were losing their houses and careers around me in droves. Many families I knew were moving and many people had been laid off of work. We were lucky, I thought, to still have each other and to still be able to have a roof over our head. We were fortunate, I thought, that we weren’t losing our business and that we were still all healthy and whole.

And I still believe that.

But losing that house was harder on me that I ever let on to anyone. Even myself.

My heart and my marriage had been healed in that house. My life had changed in that house. My friends had met Jesus in that living room. I had seen miracles happen in that home.

My baby took her first steps on that floor and it was the place in my mind that when I closed my eyes, I saw our roots grow deep and strong. I’d poured wine and coffee and baked bread and cakes in that kitchen for people I loved. I’d played games on the living room floor with my toddlers and carried babies on hips as I made dinner.

So when we lost our house, we lost more than just a place to lock up when we left. We lost a sense of identity and I lost a sense of confidence. I lost the walls inside which I felt safe and loved. When I packed up my dishes in that home, I packed up a piece of myself as well.

I hate writing about this because I feel like I’m whining. Oh, poor Sarah, she lost her house. What about the people who don’t HAVE houses? What about people who lose parents or children or things that are far worse?

So, this is yet another thing that I’ve been scared to say, scared to even talk about and worried that I will come off wrong.

But in all honesty losing that damned piece of property made me question everything about myself: I am a stay-in-one-place-type-of-person. I’m solid. You know where to find me. I grow roots. I. live. here. where. I. belong.

But now I had no idea where I belonged.

So we found a place to live for the last two years but for the last two years I have wandered. I lived in a house with my family but I have felt untethered. I have felt not-myself.

My girls talk about it often. “I miss our old, old house” they say and they mean the one we lost. I usually put my finger to my temple and press for a moment. How do I explain to them that I left a part of myself there and if I could change the past I would? That the big adult things that have to do with banks and businesses sometimes are harder to work through than you could ever imagine. And that things don’t always turn out as we plan. How do I say this to a little girl who just misses her pale-yellow room with the stars on the ceiling?

So I say these things. That we had to move. That the bank wouldn’t let us stay. And then I feel like a bad mother, but then a normal one all the same. I remind us all of what is good in our lives and what we have to be thankful for (and I’m telling this to myself as much as I’m telling it to them).

And I finish by saying to them that trust-me-I-never-wanted-to-leave-either.

And now looking back, I know that’s when a big part of our more recent marriage issues began. I can’t explain it but places do have power I think. Even if it’s as simple as what a place symbolizes to you, I now know with experience that a place can be good for a person or very bad for a person too.

Our house loss has been both good and bad, but far more bad than I let on to people who asked. And it wasn’t because I was lying, but it was because I didn’t know how to tell myself the truth about it. I wanted to feel all the feelings I SHOULD be feeling rather than the ones that were truly rising up inside me.

The day we moved two years ago I drove away from that driveway when movers were still loading beds and dressers on to a truck. I live five miles from that house but I’ve never been back. It’s just too hard.

A few months ago, nearly two years after I drove away from that place, I finally said goodbye to it, as silly as it seems. Laying in bed one night, I forced myself to mentally walk through each room in that home, something I had refrained from doing in a very long time. I mentally walked through each room and I “looked” around, I said goodbye and I shut the door. I did that for each room until I was left at the front steps, and then I shut and locked the front door.

It hasn’t make any of this easier for me at all, but I did feel like I could move on.

We’ve moved yet again. I know. Again, it’s not what I’d ever planned for my family. Packing up my dishes almost killed me this time around. But it was different. I knew I was turning a page and it was a different kind of move. It was filled with a little bit of hope, a little bit of joy, {a whole lot of work} and a little bit of happiness.

And it’s been a very good thing.

What about you? Are places important to you? Do you move a lot? Do you stay in the same place? Can you relate to my story at all?

Filed Under: on family, on fear, on honesty, Uncategorized

The Tipping Point

March 4, 2013 by Sarah Markley 35 Comments

The most powerful words in the English language besides I LOVE YOU are WHAT ARE YOU AFRAID OF?

It gets right to the heart of it all.

What are you afraid of? Even if you are still scared, half the battle is in the knowing what it is you are fighting.

We’re thinking about putting one of our daughters on medication. But I’ve been dragging my feet. What are you afraid of?

There is a bully-mom I know who I want to stand up to, but I just haven’t had the guts yet. What are you afraid of?

I’ve been writing safe and sound and gently and quietly and I can’t figure out why. For a long time, I can’t put my finger on it until someone asks me: What are you afraid of?

We have been dealing with huge anger issues in this home over the past two years but I’ve not told a soul. I haven’t written a word or whispered a sigh of it. What are you afraid of?

What are you afraid of?

It’s a powerful question. It took someone asking me those powerful words {and me being receptive to them from her, and at the right time} to affect any change at all.

I’ve already written about being scared of reputation issues, of internet backlash, of being seen as overly dramatic, and of losing all that I have thought I’ve built and gained.

Built and gained. What a crazy concept. Jesus says that what we build here on earth will be worth nothing in the Kingdom. That is, if these things we build are made of the things that can pass away.

Is my blog following something I’ve “built”? Are my twitter followers something I’ve tried to “gain?” What about this “reputation” I think I have? Is it something that I’ve been trying to grasp here on earth to make me feel loved and included and wanted? Is what I’ve “built” something that is made of something true and real and eternal or is it made of rubbish?

I’m not sure.

But this is what I’ve been scared of losing. This is what I’m afraid of. I alluded in one of my posts last week to being seriously fearful that no one will ask me to speak about marriage any longer once they heard I was living in one that needs some big time help.

I wonder if it’s scary times a million for big time pastors or speakers or even very popular faith bloggers to share honestly about struggle. There is a private life and a public life, right, and the pressure to keep up appearances for the public life is very strong. Keep the private things private and the public things public. No one needs know about the drinking problem or the porn issue or the fact that I scream at my wife on a daily basis. No one needs know about the flirty texts or the bad language. No one needs know because it’s private.

I bet that’s even scarier than what I’ve been dealing with. My fear is small scale compared to that because my public reach is small scale compared to theirs. I’ll never be Beth Moore and I don’t want to be. Look at all the vast things that she {and people like her} have built and gained. The pressure must be enormous.

But what are you afraid of?

The last week, after I wrote those posts I experienced the greatest freedom I’ve felt in a very long time.

Freedom. Freedom in being honest. Freedom in being transparent. The tipping point comes when the what-are-you-afraid-of becomes less than the do-you-want-to-be-free.

It’s when the freedom becomes more important than the fear.

Filed Under: on fear, on marriage

It’s Only Been About One Person Ever

July 26, 2012 by Sarah Markley 14 Comments

When the cat lashes out {because she’s a grumpy old lady} and bites my ten-year-old, Hope, she just frowns and says, “Hey! What did I do to you?”

Her hand slides down the fur of her back and she soothes her little friend. “You don’t need to bite me. It’s okay.”

When the horse gets spooked by the workers cutting down the vines in the bushes near the arena {hack, hack, rustle} the mustang thinks it’s a predator and jumps. My ten-year-old flies off his back {this isn’t nearly her first fall} and she tumbles into the sand on her hip and elbow.

She’s spooked too but forehead to forehead she calms him. “Hey, it’s okay. Nothing’s going to hurt you. You don’t need to be scared.”

She isn’t angry she’s fallen on her rear end in the dirt or that her finger stings after the cat’s nipped her. She’s barely irritated.

She takes nothing personal. At least not from animals.

I take everything personal, on the other hand.

My six-year-old kicks me in bed for the 5^th time while I’m trying to type type type this blog post and I get irritated. They are watching a movie on this summer morning and I’m trying to work with my laptop in my pajamas next to them. We are all piled in my bed. There is kicking and wiggling and moving and everything but watching the movie and I’m just trying to work! Multi-tasking is a fallacy.

I take it personally when the mom on her phone in the car cuts me off and almost hits my van bumper at 40 miles an hour. I take it personally when the friend I’ve been close to for two decades goes on vacation for several weeks and I don’t hear from her at all. I take it personally when my husband forgets to take out the trash before he goes to work.

I internalize all of it.

I worry about all the things I cannot control, all the ways people hurt, and all the ways that it might be about me. Even the big things, the REAL things that people do to wound {going way beyond a scared horse dropping a ten-year-old}, and I take them in, run them around in my head and feel so personally offended.

But it’s not about me. It’s never about me.

It was only about one Person ever. And He took it all personal so that we didn’t have to.

He has taken all the wounds ever, all the hurts and snubs and dislocated injuries and He has wound them up in Him and turned them back out smothered in grace.

He understands that the anger and the sarcasm and the cruelty is because of fear. He knows that the big hurts are there because, deep down, someone is very, very scared.

He stands forehead to forehead with us, with the wounders and the wounded, speaks quiet words {even after He Himself has been wounded} and says, “It’s okay. You don’t have to be scared.”

Filed Under: on fear

The Mantra of Success

July 24, 2012 by Sarah Markley 13 Comments

Most of us don’t touch failure with a ten foot pole.

We avoid it, side-step it, move around it.

We drop out of class before we actually take the F. To err is human, perhaps. But we treat “erring” as if it is less than human.

I take my kids to an art studio yesterday morning. They choose a ceramic piece, pick out a brush or two and begin to assemble a palette of colors. Red, chartreuse, indigo, lavender, and pink. Of course pink. No color is wrong. No color is right. It all just is.

They paint and make mistakes. The younger one paints with abandon; the older one has a clear idea in her head of what it will look like. She is more skilled than her six-year-old sister. Neither are afraid to ask for help.

Neither of them walked into the studio with the thought:

If only I can do a really, really good job that will look professional will this be a good experience.

No. It is something more like this:

I can choose any color I want. Any color in the whole studio! I will take as long as I want to do this and it will be fun.

It will be fun.

Fun is their motivation. The experience, the journey, and the actual creative process are the rewards. It isn’t a professionally configured piece of craftsmanship and the art comes as a result of the journey. In this scenario, there is no such thing as failure. Even a badly painted item would not be a failure; it would be a beautiful success as a part of the artistic process.

Children learn a second language much quicker than adults not only because their brains are spongy and greedy for information, but because they are not afraid to fail. They aren’t afraid to conjugate a verb wrong so they simply speak it out incorrectly. With children, we have patience in this. We repeat the correct word for them several times when they are learning to talk. We even repeat it with a smile.

With adults, we aren’t so forgiving. Adults have a harder time at it because we are conditioned to be scared to fail at it. I won’t try the new Spanish word because most likely I’ll be saying it wrong. So I keep my mouth shut.

I can’t help but wonder what we could learn if we weren’t afraid to fail. And what kind of help we would get if we weren’t so prideful to let the asking of it get in the way. What kinds of things would we try if we weren’t worried about shame and disappointment?

This isn’t only about writing books and art projects and going back to school or to counseling. It’s about forgiveness and marriage and parenting. It’s about love and picking up the phone and getting out of bed in the morning. It’s about asking hard questions and repeating the mantra: what’s-the-worst-that-can-happen?

Let’s help the world cultivate a culture where failure is okay and where the worst that can happen is that we try again. Let’s say no to shaming others for mistakes and celebrating only successes. Let us celebrate the journeys and the days spent getting messy in the art studio. Let us take joy in the “erring” and know that it is a glorious part of being human.

And the worst that can happen? It isn’t shame or failure or disappointment. It’s not trying at all.

What would you try if there was no fear of shame or failure?

Filed Under: on adventure, on fear

Inviting Fear in for a Cup of Coffee

July 16, 2012 by Sarah Markley 17 Comments

A couple years ago I went on a quest to get over the fears in my life.

I learned how to use our outdoor grill. I jumped into a cold lake off the end of a pier. I took up boxing. I forgave a friend who had wounded me. And I did a few more serious things too: I apologized to the woman with whose husband I’d had an affair so long ago and we made the move to leave the church we’d been a part of for over a decade. All in one summer.

That’s it. Stand up and tackle fear. Punch it in the nose with a right jab. Cross and then right again. And then give it a left hook to finish it off. And it has felt good.

There is nothing better than being released from a fear in your life.

The problem, however, is this: Even when Fear gets a KO or when it taps out of the match, it always comes back stronger. And different. And sneakier.

I may not be scared of cold lakes or bad guys in dark alleys any longer, but I am scared of being left behind. I’m still fearful of not being liked. I’m scared of losing all of my friends. And I’m scared of failing.

Fear is still hanging around looking for a cage match.

Maybe one way to get rid of fear IS to left-hook it and then watch as it falls to the mat. But maybe another way to get rid of that colossus is to invite it in for a cup of coffee.

Maybe the only real way to get rid of fear is to make friends with it.

Fear, in its giant, colossal form paralyzes us. Its power is in its ability to make us powerless, action-less, and ineffectual. Maybe if we learn how to live in the fear, it loses its power over us.

There is something beautiful about standing up to fear and telling it to back off. And there is something even more beautiful when we watch it flee. But what if a better way {a way with more longevity} is to whisper kindness to it, ask it if it needs anything, and then gradually, as life ebbs and flows, grow out of it.

What do you think? How have you gotten over fears in your life?

Filed Under: on fear

Travel Stories: Joy

June 25, 2012 by Sarah Markley 12 Comments

Anyone who travels at all will have an airplane story worthy of retelling.

Last fall I took my girls to visit my grandmother in Northern Indiana and on the return trip was treated to the bumpiest flight of my life.

As we stood near the tiny gate and waited to board a commuter jet headed from Fort Wayne to Chicago, the gate attendant announced on the terminal loud speaker

Those waiting to board American Airlines flight 4134 with service to Chicago O’Hare airport, please be advised of the following. We have just been informed that the flight will be very bumpy and during the duration of the flight no one will be allowed to leave their seat for any reason, so please use the restroom before you board. The attendant will not be giving a drink service. Any drink or food items that you might need must be purchased now. Thank you for your understanding.

Gulp.

I looked down at my daughters. They’d already plopped down on the airport floor and retrieved their electronics from their backpacks. They hadn’t even looked up once during the announcement. Hadn’t even noticed anything wrong near the gate.

“Do either of you need to go to the bathroom?”

“We’re fine, Mom,” my oldest said to me, her thumbs flying on her DS.

I’ve never loved flying and still to this day my heart races with any turbulence and my breath quickens during landings. I’m too much of an analyst, a worrier and a fatalist to every really be 100% comfortable on an aircraft. This type of announcement was NOT good for my heart.

Boarding was announced and we gathered up our belongings to get on the plane.

As we moved closer to the gate I texted my husband and told him what the announcement had said. Pray for us, I finished.

I really was scared.

We boarded the tiny cabin, the kind that had my husband have been with us he would have to stoop a little to walk down the narrow aisle, and I overheard the male flight attendant speak to another passenger.

“So, is this flight really going to be that bumpy?” the passenger asked.

He looked at her, and with a true fear in his eyes {something I’ve never seen in a flight attendant who does this for a living}, said to her, “Yes. The flight from Chicago was the worst I’ve been on in ten years. “

What I learned later was that a tornadic system was coming in to the Fort Wayne area and the pilot wanted to get out before it got too bad. And what I also learned later was at the very moment we buckled our seatbelts and whispered prayers under our breaths my mother and aunt were in the basement waiting out the tornado warnings.

The flight was that bad.

After it took off, the plane tossed and turned and the woman behind me whimpered and screamed with every pitch. But at the same time she screamed out of fear, my girls squealed with joy. With every drop, my five-year-old said, “More!! I love PLANES!” and with every sway my nine-year-old whispered to me, “This is awesome, Mom.”

As scared as I was, my children were at least that much filled with excitement. If I was fearful, they were joyful. If I was worried they were energized. To them it was adventure, to me it was risk.

We were perfect foils to one another: my fear and their joy.

The flight attendant never left his seat and my hands never left the arm rests until we touched down in Chicago.

I think we believe that hardships must must must be endured with stoicism, with resolve and with a firm faith in the God who will bring us through. {My whispered prayers: “Save us Jesus” was intermingled with “Planes don’t crash because of turbulence”}. Difficult situations must be endured {we think} and we forget that there can be joy even in the middle of the fear.

Joy doesn’t necessarily cancel out fear but I think joy practiced can.

A life lived in gratefulness for this single minute {and gratefulness for the joy it brings} can be a life lived without fear for the future. If this minute is a gift then the next one is unexpected bliss and the one after that is a rapture of joy!

I have far to travel on this journey toward a life with practiced joy and single-moment-thankfulness, but I do believe that it can be ours.

And then we can squeal with happiness because we are recognizing the adventure in the moment and not simply the risk.

There can be joy in the journey, even in the scary journey.

{I video-blogged about this story last November when it actually happened, but I think it’s worth telling again with new eyes.}

This is part of the Prodigal Magazine Travel Stories blog series. You can see other entries by clicking here.

How have you been able to “practice” joy? Have you ever experienced joy in the midst of fear?

Filed Under: on adventure, on fear, Uncategorized

I’m Called to Be Uncomfortable

September 3, 2010 by Sarah Markley 37 Comments

Oh my goodness my bed feels good at 8 in the morning on a Friday.

It really does. My pillow loves me and the quilt is cool because the window has been open all night.

I. Don’t. Want. To. Get. Up.

And my girls are at the age that they will just crawl into bed with me on a late summer morning and ask to cuddle and watch PBS cartoons.

Next week all of that will drastically change. School begins. I know, I know, we begin late here in California. Most of you are already packing lunches and checking math homework. But me? This is our last week of lazy, comfy summer.

This summer has been a mix between active days and comfortable, slow mornings.

It’s been six and a half years since my marriage was restored.

Six and a half years of healing, discipline and reestablishing life together. A lot of that happened in the first year. But the last half-a-decade has been generally the same.

We’ve had financial woes. We’ve had church transition. We’ve had a baby in the last five years. But in our relationship, things have been plugging along at the same rate, with the same understanding and communication and the same cereal and milk in the morning. We’ve been super comfortable.

Same isn’t always bad. Not at all. But I’m quickly understanding that we weren’t really meant to live a life of comfortableness.

No one was really.

God never promises a fat retirement account and a cozy little existence created to make me feel good. God never promises sleeping-in-mornings and days I don’t have to set my alarm.

In fact I’m starting to believe that the only way to really change, to make something happen is to be uncomfortable. {And, I believe, that might be the only way to live a good story too}. It might being in some state of discomfort forever. Wanna lose weight? You have to workout and be a bit hungry once in awhile. Do you want to pay off debt? You have to cut back in other areas that you’ve been used to spending in.

It’s been comfortable with Chad. We argue and then we kiss and make up. We know how to travel together. We know what certain buttons to avoid in a disagreement.

But if I’m honest with myself, with my husband and with you we haven’t really been working on our marriage for quite some time. We are comfy with the status quo. We are, in reality, being lazy, resting in comfortableness, living in ease.

But if we are ever going to really live the story God wants us to, we have to take risks and and jeopardize our comfort for what God wants to do with us. Yikes!

It’s what chased us to search for a new church. {We were too comfortable}

It’s what is leading us to want to step out in new ministries. {Risky and scary}

And I think it’s what is now prompting me to admit that I’ve been comfortable in my marriage and while that’s just fine to maintain, it does nothing to gain ground. We have to push through the arguments to get to the core of the issue even when we are tired; we have to say no to certain things because we MUST spend time alone building our relationship; and we have to be intentional about helping and serving each other. We have to work out our love for each other every day.

I think the key is this: knowing that some level of discomfort means change and then being okay with that. Because the more we avoid discomfort the worse off we are.

So even as school begins for my children {and I’ll now have to set my alarm for 6 am or earlier every morning}, I am looking forward to a little discomfort. Fall brings change and fall brings something new, even if the getting there is a little uncomfortable.

Are you comfortable right now?