Because I Need to Be Here Again

**I haven't posted in so long because I've allowed myself to be intimated. I hate that feeling of powerlessness, and so I will come back and post again, if only to scratch the surface of my blog once more and find the groove of the habit I turned from when I was confronted about the things I write about. 

Yesterday I went back to Old Rag Mountain to hike. I love hiking. I love being in the woods and the mountains, and the sounds and smells and hard work feeds my soul. Old Rag is a really challenging hike. My friend Susan and I finished at 13.5 miles round trip. Not a single mile is flat. It's a half marathon up and down a mountain. About two miles of the hike is hand over hand rock climbing and rock scramble. It's tough, strenuous, and the summit gives you some of the best views in the entire state of VA. My sweet friend Susan was a rock star. She's a gorgeous southern belle with the tenacity of a mountain lion. She has MS and lupus, but almost never shares that with anyone. She never wants anyone to count her out, or give her pity. She's beautiful and strong and wise. I adore her to the moon and back. She's ten years older than me and has been through hell and back, but you'd never know it. Her beauty isn't only on the outside but pours out of her heart. I was thrilled she agreed to go with me. She rocked the trek. We talked several times about how the hike was a parallel to life. We spend miles and hours going up the mountain with tree cover over head and treacherous rocks at our feet. We have our heads down not because we want to miss the incredible beauty around us but because it is necessary to keep ourselves safe.

The rocks and twists and turns on this hike can injure very quickly and with no cell phone signal and miles from ranger help, it's imperative to be careful on the trails. But after you're almost ready to lie down and sleep from the sheer effort given, the trees part and you make it to the summit. You are literally in the clouds looking over the valley. The sun warms the rock face, and hawks circle the peak. It's incredible. It's so like life- we work so hard not knowing if the end will be worth it and yet somehow it always is.

We had several run ins with black bears. That was one of the most surreal moments of my life. We had been warned by a friend of hers to carry mace or bear spray but I shrugged it off. I had never seen any bears on that hike before, and naively thought the presence of humans would deter close encounters. I was so very wrong. We saw a mama bear and her cub, and later another cub on the trail ahead of us- knowing mama must not be far off. The adrenaline rush was overwhelming. The trails on this mountain don't allow for running, and the reality of no cell signal means any injury or attack leaves assistance several hours away. It was a bizarre cross between wanting to stand and watch the incredible creatures and the heavy awareness that both of us are single mothers of four children and having our faces ripped off by an angry mama bear would be a disaster for our families. I felt alive and terrified all at the same time.
The incredible thing about a hike of that magnitude is that all of life's problems and frustrations melt into the vastness of the mountain. I suddenly feel insignificant and fragile, and closer to God who designed each animal, rock, and plant. The older I get, the more I discover who I truly am, and dirt and nature invigorate me to no end. I'm thankful I have a new hiking buddy. I've waited years for someone who wants to be outside like I do and climbing those boulders with her was a slice of heaven on earth.
I can't wait for our next adventure- this time with bear spray on hand.

Story Gatherer

A few months ago I was asked if I wanted to be on the story telling initiative at my church. I had no idea what that meant, but knew that if there was a team working to tell and gather stories, I wanted to be part of it.
I meet with a small group, and we have been working towards growing our church in the vein of story telling.  How do we tell them? How do we gather them? How can we be a safe place for people to share pieces of their lives with us? It's been a fun and powerful experience to discuss such a simple concept that holds such weight.

I can think of no greater honor than to be dubbed a facilitator of stories.  If I could write my epitaph, I'd love for it to read: She gathered stories to her like flowers, and in turn shared those from her own garden. 
I truly believe that in the telling of our stories, from the coffee shop blunder, to the deeper, more visceral  chapters of abuse or rejection, we spin webs into the lives of others that connect us in a way that can't be achieved without them. Making space in your life for stories from the lives of others is the most powerful way to honor people.  We are designed for hearing them and sharing them- HONY (Humans Of New York) has made a huge splash in our culture by telling short stories of people walking along the streets of NYC.  We devour the stories, we add to them, and speculate the ending by the dress, stance, and few words spilled from a heart ready to share a little part of themselves with the world.

Stories move us to action, they connect us to one another in an emotional sense.  Our empathy, and compassion can be pinged by a well told story.  Stories humanize us, and if we allow ourselves to listen, then we often are moved out of judgement and into grace.  Stories open wide the heart to allow it to fill with love, and understanding, and it pulls forth the pieces of emotion that we have experienced in other situations that can attach to the experience being shared with us.  Stories can caution us, and prevent us from walking roads that would damage our souls, which then keeps us from trouble. They teach us, they grow us, they connect us and they can change us.

It's always confused me when people tell me that they 'hate people'.  We've all heard that from someone in our lives, and while I understand the surface level of defense against more pain from the hands and words of other people, I think that avoiding people, hating them, and being defensive against them creates a void in the soul meant to be filled by connecting with others. Our story is the treasure we carry with us. It's the way we can see God move in one another, it's the way we relate; and to avoid people, and consequently their stories, we miss the richness offered to us by listening.

I have had powerful times where I've found myself in someones story- and in their telling, I discover places in me that need attention, and grace, and love to heal.  When I hear my experience fall off of someone elses lips, and I can see myself there, I am often changed, and encouraged that my experience doesn't end here. I can see and hear my own future when I listen to stories of others- and the places they've walked ahead of me. It infuses me with hope and I learn once again, in the daily dosing I seem to require, that I am not alone.

Listening is sacrificial. It sets aside self for the gift of space for a heart.  It makes room in us for more love, less self, and more God. It's the honoring of their soul, their heart, and their experience. It takes time, and energy. But in gathering stories to ourselves… in making room in our lives to hear the experience of others, we are nourished in ways that make every moment worth it.
Look around… people are longing for us to hear them.  It's one of most precious gifts we can give to another soul.  Safety, freedom, and time.