Fear, and Climbing

As I type this, my forearms are smarting from a 2-hour wall-climbing session with my lovely Heather and our lovely friend Kate. Although the first attempt to go straight up a wall was pretty scary, and I decided to come down after only getting about 10 feet up, later climbs got to be much more fun and interesting. It was a challenge to figure out where my feet and hands had to go next, and then to get there, all the while worried that my muscles would give out. Why does standing on one foot seem so much harder when you're 15 feet up?

Another particularly exciting feature of climbing were those moments when I had to step up and reach for the next hold without having anything to hold onto in the meantime. It mean moments of risk and trust. And several times I stopped to rest, or decided I just wasn't up to it at that point. But coming up against that moment of being scared--not knowing if I would make it or if I would fall, reminded me that faith is an exercise in risk, too.

Which doesn't seem to be very deep, but I'd forgotten about it. I forgot about what it's like to have your stomach floating and churning before you go into a sick person's room. I forgot about the nerves that can shut you down in the middle of a sermon, or keep you from saying what needs to be said to someone trying to get some truth, not just another glib answer.

Sometimes we talk about hate as being the opposite of love, but I think the real opposite of love is fear--fear of being rejected, insulted, taken advantage of, or otherwise hurt. That is the separating line for me, and I suspect, for many of us.

But climbing yesterday reminded me of something else, too--the real joy of hitting that last rock, reaching my goal, and having done it in spite of my fears.