Powerful Alliances

I love the story of George and Alice in the TED Talk below. She was determined to solve a tough problem and he was determined to help her. These two very different individuals formed a powerful alliance, with world-changing results. As Heffernan says, "the truth won't set us free until we develop the skills and the habit and the talent and the moral courage to use it."



Heffernan: "I wonder how many of us have -- or dare to have -- such collaborators." I wonder this, too.

I wonder when in Heffernan's other story Joe began to recognize his allies, and how.

I wonder how we distinguish between allies and enemies.

I wonder if you have had someone help you like George helped Alice.

I wonder what the word conflict looks like, sounds like, feels like for you.

I wonder how you reacted to Heffernan's description of such collaboration as a kind of love.

I wonder what problems you have to solve.

I wonder who you might invite to help you by disagreeing with you.

I wonder how we can best enjoy the benefits of those who think similarly while also guarding against forming echo chambers.

I wonder how often I prioritize my own comfort above what truly matters by avoiding what has the potential to be productive conflict.

And I am grateful for the "Alices" and "Georges" and "Joes" in my life -- individuals who intentionally engage, who bring their whole selves to our interactions, who are attentive enough to recognize our differences, loving enough to speak authentically, intentional enough to communicate effectively, and trusting our relationship enough to disagree.

Advent Hope

On Sunday we lit one candle of the Advent wreath, bringing first light to the perimeter of the circle. This small flame will be joined by the remaining candles as the story continues to unfold through the coming weeks, but we're not there yet; it's not time.

This lone candle shining quietly on the wreath represents hope. Hope is not the expectancy of assumption or entitlement, but it is recognition that good may yet come about even in what seems like a very dark time. Hope's strength is most truly known when the outcome matters deeply and remains yet to be seen.

Such hope resonates with my soul, especially as I walk together with others through seasons marked by darkness of depression, grief, anxiety, health issues, unresolved conflict, bitterness, addiction. As I sat pondering the hope candle on Sunday, I thought of people I love in the midst of such times. In some of those situations, the light of hope is still just a flicker, but great light begins with a flicker, and I am abundantly grateful for such hope.

"The people living in darkness

have seen a great light;

on those living in the land

of the shadow of death

a light has dawned."

(Isaiah 9:2; Matthew 4:16)

Fear and Boldness

Q is at doggie daycare today. I trust that he'll get comfortable and happy there, but he's still kinda anxious. He was pulled in by his collar last time, which added to the anxiety. He seemed more settled when I picked him up later in the day, though also leaped over the fence to reach me when I picked him up, and stayed quite attentively nearby for the rest of the evening. When I took him to daycare this morning, he walked into the building happily and sniffed excitedly through the gate where several dogs came to investigate our arrival, but backed out anxiously when the gal tried to take him in to play. I picked him up and carried him in, which seemed to help... until I left. Oh, the sadness. He did not want to face this without me; he wanted the safety of the familiar.

I, on the other hand, think the doggie daycare place is great. The critters there play together with good folks leading their "pack." They have plenty of water, a clean place to run and jump, and even furniture they're allowed to climb on. I dropped him off with confidence that he would be just fine. And as he begins to feel more settled over time, he will have lots of fun playing there. He will learn to interact with other dogs and will have new opportunities in other places, too.

I've been thinking about Q this morning, about his anxiety and my confidence at the doggie daycare place. It is good to be aware of his fear, and respectful of him in it, to be gentle and kind. It is good, too, to not be ruled by his fear, and to also help him to not be ruled by it.

That is a good reminder as a human being. It is natural to be anxious in new situations, especially when it's unfamiliar and has lots going on. Such situations are often more difficult in times of transition. There is nothing wrong with that fear, and it may be appropriate to engage more cautiously when uncertain, and to seek support from others. It is good to be aware of fear and respectful of fear, both in myself and others, without being ruled by it. Engaging with both caution and boldness, we can learn and grow, and eventually even grow to enjoy the experience.

Oh, and the process can be exhausting -- a nap can work wonders!

Encountering Nature, Part 9: Snake Guy

Jamison came to our house a couple of months ago. We had snakes on our property and he's a snake guy. He really likes snakes. A lot. And because he likes snakes, he wanted to save them from their likely fate if they stayed around. He came searching for the little buggers, put them into a bucket, and took them away to live elsewhere.

He had five or six safely contained when a few of us went out to talk with him. Asked how fast they travel, he pulled one out and put it down to show us it's pretty close to walking speed. Then he picked it up near the end of its tail. (Then again, isn't pretty much all of the snake a tail? But you know what I mean.) Her head bobbed back and forth, body squiggling in the air as he carried her back to the bucket. I commented on that, asking if this extraordinarily flexible animal was unable to twist herself back up toward his hand for a bite. She can, he explained, but she doesn't want to. The snake was not inherently violent; she just needed to know he wasn't going to hurt her, and he communicated that to her through his actions.

I'd been thinking physiologically, in terms of muscles and gravity. Jamison responded psychologically, in terms of motivation. His respect for the snake and educated assessment of the (low) risk involved was combined with a familiarity with its behavior that gave him confidence in the interaction. The snake wasn't particularly comfortable with Jamison, but seemed to recognize that he wasn't threatening her. Each respected the other's boundaries, which gave both reason to trust enough for the moment.

That interaction captured my heart. I'm not picking up snakes and I'm certainly not letting them go to catch them again. But as a human metaphor, I find myself sometimes in encounters a bit like that of Jamison and the snake -- two very different creatures, both personally engaged, each capable of harming the other and (most of the time) neither bent on doing so. I want to be clear-headed in distinguishing the relatively few "venomous" ones, of course, skilled in responding to genuine threats. I want to recognize mutual good intent where it exists. And whatever the situation, I want to be courageous in the unknown, wise in my boundaries, and always respectful of the other as a unique fellow creature.

Encountering Nature, Part 8: Snakes

I encountered a snake sunning himself on our front porch in early June, then regularly on late afternoons which followed. Turns out these snakes are common in our area and this one had found a cozy place behind our steps. I was disturbed and unsure what to do. Some friends said to kill it lest it reproduce and we wind up with an infestation of snake babies. Others suggested finding ways to share space with the snake, noting ecological value. Both suggestions had merit, though the thought of killing a snake made me queasy. So, undecided, I didn't actively follow either suggestion, and mostly developed a pattern of avoiding the snake.

In the midst of my indecision, I did some research about snake repellents, traps, and euthanasia. I read about several ways to kill snakes, along with the perceived humaneness of each. Folks who really like and appreciate snakes weighed in, too. I learned quite a bit, just didn't do anything. Meanwhile, the snake mostly disappeared for awhile, which I mostly appreciated.

But then it showed up suddenly as a friend approached our home one evening. She yelled and flailed, and they both evacuated the area. More days went by and it seemed again that perhaps the snake had moved away, until it suddenly appeared between my bare feet (!) as I was walking outside one evening. Again there was flailing, mutual evacuation, and no more snake. This creature was getting bigger, but the times between its appearance were getting longer. Maybe I could ignore it and it'd go away. That sounds reasonable, right?

I believe this is what my junior high English teacher called "foreshadowing," because there is clearly more snake in the shadowy future of this story.

That future came on a Thursday as I was heading across the driveway, talking on the phone, mind in many places at once. An itty-bitty snake, maybe six inches long and thin as a pencil, suddenly darted in front of me. It was disconcerting, like a dry, scaly, and really fast-moving earthworm. The quick motion created a sense of urgency. I didn't have a shovel, but did have sturdy shoes and a burst of adrenaline, and that was enough.

Yeah -- ugh.

I didn't like killing the snake, not one bit, and especially not that way. But at least it was over, right?  I regained my composure and continued toward mowing the lawn...

...where I encountered another in the grass, with similar result, except that ten minutes later, this "dead" one slithered away while I wasn't looking. So not only was I hating that I'd killed something, now I also had the guilt of having left one wounded and in pain.

I'm hoping that's the one that slipped under the lawn mower soon after (and got mulched). Another one appeared by the fence post (shovel), and yet another as I trimmed the bushes (hedge clippers). A fifth slipped by and escaped as I dealt with the fourth.

Ugh, ugh, ugh, and ugh.

In the midst of all these encounters, I kept seeing movement in the grass running along next to the lawn mower. Certain that any remaining snakes were disturbed, I wondered whether they were just trying to get away or were actually attempting to threaten me. It took several laps around the lawn before I realized all that movement was just blades of grass being pushed around by the hot air of the mower's exhaust.

And that was all just the front lawn! I never did get to the back half on that day. And I was okay with that, because in my imagination, the flower beds and rocks back there now held a slithering mass of these critters. Worn out, I went inside, grateful for walls and stairs and doors to separate my world from theirs, yet uncomfortably aware of their lurking presence nearby.

But this isn't just a story about snakes. I've also come to see it as a story about conflict.

Conflict happens, appearing unexpectedly and catching me by surprise even while I know full well it is very much part of the human experience. Some people, feeling quite threatened, instinctively want to killitquicklynomatterwhatjustmakeitgoawaynow. Others appreciate its value in the relational ecology and suggest giving it space to stay. Both responses have some merit, neither is the full truth, and the best approach in a given situation can be tough to discern. But indecisively avoiding conflict and just letting it have whatever space it takes is never a good idea. Boundaries are necessary.

Discernment is so vital because, when conflict establishes its home, it does not simply disappear. It keeps popping up, often unexpectedly and at unfortunate times, when we're least prepared for it. And when opportunity presents itself, conflict tends reproduce. Unhealed rifts darken perceptions of others, so that even mere difference of perspective creates a breeding ground for all sorts of new conflicts -- ambiguous statements are interpreted, gossip spreads, motives are questioned, imagination takes hold and cultivates fear which triggers attacking or avoiding rather than dealing with issues in a healthy and reasonable way. And when caught by surprise, we tend to react to conflict like I did to the snakes -- flailing, stomping, yelling, and generally just making a mess -- while there are much better ways to go about it.

I had an epiphany during a workshop awhile back when the topic of conflict came up. A participant commented that everyone hates conflict, and I had the sudden realization that that's no longer true of me, that I no longer hate conflict. It can be quite uncomfortable and I don't actively seek it out, but I have found myself developing a healthy respect for conflict, even appreciation. Handled well, conflict cultivates growth as we challenge each other appropriately, seeking to redeem our differences by attending to the relationship while pursuing truth and resolution together. Like snakes keeping the rodent population under control, conflict has helped to cut down such figurative pests in me as misunderstandings and character issues.

So I am learning to ask: Is this conflict the simple garden-variety kind or one of those really poisonous ones? What's at stake if I bring it up, and what's at stake if I don't? What boundaries do I need to establish, and what boundaries do I need to honor for the other(s) involved? Am I pausing to discern the best course of action or just avoiding what is difficult in hopes that the problem will solve itself? What do I need to learn in this situation? What seeming "threats" are really just perceptions based on fearful expectation more than on reality, the result of my own hot air stirring things up?

Like snakes, conflict really does have a place in the ecology of life. And, also like snakes, it must be handled with care to keep it from becoming an infestation -- an out-of-balance, uncontrolled force which threatens the health of the whole relational ecosystem.

Choosing to Fly

The zip line at Trinity Pines in Cascade starts at a height forty feet above the ground. On belay, participants use a ladder to start up the tree, then big metal staples embedded in its trunk, finally reaching a small wooden platform where they are secured to the trolley and sent on their way down the 600-foot cable. Four men worked together to keep everyone safe through the whole process -- Ray ensuring harnesses were put on safely, Steve belaying for the climb up, Brian in the tree transferring the harness connection to the cable, and Bob at the end platform helping with return again to solid ground.

I stayed for hours watching women strap into harnesses, climb the tree, step off into the air and fly. I saw them reach the end ramp, and finally heard them return to tell of the experience.

I'd forgotten how much I love the zipline. Or, more accurately, I love the ziplining, because I saw far more than just harness-climb-zip-return-harness-climb-zip-return-harness-climb-zip-return. I saw great metaphors of faith and life, and perhaps that's really at the core of why we go out of our way to do such things.

I saw the significance of transitions and decisions -- signing up and showing up and gearing up, taking the first step onto the ladder, shifting to the more vertical climb using staples, standing high above on a sturdy platform, and stepping off again to fly. Each is a new challenge, and every new challenge matters.

I saw participants experiencing fear and choosing to trust -- relying on equipment to hold them up, guides to keep them safe, peers to offer support. Fear is an important means of helping us stay safe, and taking calculated risks can be a very good thing, too.

I saw the truth lived out that "Courage is not the absence of fear, but rather the judgment that something else is more important than fear" (source uncertain) -- things like developing trust, testing faith, leading the way for others to follow, or simply experiencing adventure.

I saw steps of faith symbolic of other "steps" of faith which are far more significant.

I saw fun and friendship and the joy of living.

In the end, I decided to ride, too -- a ride of celebration and gratitude, a symbol of freedom and hope.

 

It was a great day.

Encountering Nature, Part 2: Mutual Threat

The school where I taught was mostly surrounded by fields with cows and horses, so it wasn't entirely uncommon for the critters of nature to find their way onto the grounds. And, because I was the science teacher, people tended to bring them to me, figuring that science teachers like such things. (I had a different perspective -- but it's the thought that counts.) One of the biggest, hairiest spiders I've ever seen (other than tarantulas) was bottled up on my desk one day. Another time, someone excitedly yelled for me to come, so I went running -- into a small room where he'd found a black widow. There were a few rodents, a bat which had taken up residence on a back wall, and various other creepy-crawlies during my years there.

I'm a bit squeamish, mostly because I really don't like being surprised and the little buggers are sneaky. Still, I know lots of good reasons to appreciate these animals, and really didn't mind them too much under reasonably controlled circumstances. I even took a field trip where I intentionally set an example for my students by holding the animals handed to me -- not just a bird, but also a tarantula, a Madagascar hissing cockroach, and some rather large snakes.

Fast-forward to the present...

I returned home and suddenly noticed this at our porch:

After a few moments of "Auugggh! Snake!" I recovered my senses and approached.

Yes, this was indeed a snake, but I reminded myself he's just a little guy, and not really hazardous. These ones tend to respond cautiously to the world around them, slithering away from perceived threats rather than attacking. And really, even an attack isn't much of an issue for a me-sized mammal. In fact, I eventually decided that he was small enough to be non-threatening while still big enough that his back half was a decent distance from his mouth, so I took a deep breath and reached out to touch him. True to his species, he quickly slipped into that cement crack, out of sight.

Fear faced and disaster avoided... right?

Except that the place his slipped into is a snake-sized crack where the steps have shifted a little bit away from the porch as the ground has settled. And when I came out of the house a little later, I found that he'd returned to that same spot to sun himself, as snakes do.

He slid back behind the steps when he decided I was too close again.

...and then came out yet again awhile later.

The snake rustles noticeably as he drops back into the soil and dried leaves which have slipped into that crack and accumulated there, so it sounds like a much bigger creature, or even (to my active imagination) like a wild snake party back there. Unfortunately, I really can't see much from any angle:

It's just a snake.

Just a harmless little garden snake.

And he's more frightened of me than I am of him.

But I still wish he were not hanging out at our front porch.

Showing Strength

Today's Tribune has a photo with this in its caption:

"Thousands of... protesters were in the streets as part of day-long events to show the movement's strength."

That is a fascinating statement. The caption does not report that the point of this gathering was to show the movement has logical conclusions or workable ideas or an established record of effectiveness. After all, those are often conveyed more persuasively by one or a few well-chosen representatives, not a crowd. Instead, the protesters described in today's paper sought to be heard and attended to, and was trying to accomplish this by demonstrating they have sufficient power to significantly impact others. It sounds like a group frustrated with feeling powerless.

Indian cobra with hood flared

I am leaving out details because it isn't only about this movement or expression or event. Like a cobra spreading its hood to look more imposing, people who feel threatened often try to make themselves appear larger in some way. We write more, talk louder, ally with others, try to exert power somehow over others' lives.

That article in today's paper contains news about a current issue in our country, and is therefore relevant to me. Quite frankly, though, I can't do much to directly address the concerns of those three thousand distant protesters, so the protest is merely information for me, not something that elicits a particular response.

What I can do, though, is recognize the frustrations of people on the many sides of complicated issues and create space in my world where individuals are respected and heard. I can listen first and then speak, aiming first for mutual understanding and then for mutual respect when the time comes for action. Perhaps this kind of movement, though much quieter than a protest, ultimately holds greater potential for bringing about lasting change.

"Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world. Indeed, it is the only thing that ever has." (source uncertain)

Story Minus Zombies

"When you take away the zombies, what's the story about?" Mark introduced me to this question awhile back. It's a pretty good one. And it isn't just about zombies. It can be vampires, pirates, ninjas, aliens, dragons, wizards, prancing ponies, singing vegetables, pocket lint come to life, or whatever. The question is still the same -- what does a particular story portray about the human experience?

Consider the crime show CSI: Miami, which has survived a number of years despite the cheesy dialogue and acting. It's also pretty much the same plot told over and over again; all that changes is the details. Surely this show's popularity is not about creative storytelling.

How, then, does it manage to continue? I think it actually might be because it is pretty much the same plot told over and over again.

Spoiler Alert! I'm about to reveal what happens in pretty much every CSI episode ever produced! Here it is:  People are going about the usual business of life when somebody is found murdered, which is unexpected and horrifying, seriously interrupting the usual-business-of-life stuff. A group of experts with diverse skills and a thirst for justice is called in, with leadership from a caring and capable boss. The team works together to solve the crime, the criminal is revealed, the team goes home, and the business of life can resume again in some way.

It happens every week, and people keep coming back for more because there is something in the storyline that matters to people.

In this ultra-connected age, we are constantly bombarded by stories of tragedy -- disasters which may be natural or manmade -- which significantly disrupt business-as-usual. At such times, it is natural to seek assurance that someone is in control. We want to know that troubles -- and especially evil -- will not be left unchecked. Especially in such times, we crave relationships in which each person is recognized and has a place not in spite of his or her uniqueness, but because of it. There is confidence, too, in following someone whose leadership and character are competent and caring. There is hope for justice, for the world to be set back upright again, for return to a safer, more predictable situation.

Like a bizarrely morphed version of Mister Roger's Neighborhood, CSI speaks to fears and brings a measure of reassurance that good will in some way triumph.

"Take away the zombies," and I see some deeper truth reflected in CSI: Miami. There is comfortable security in the apparent predictability of everyday life, and that is threatened when evil rears its ugly head. In the midst of such times, it is hard to see how the pieces all fit together, and may be difficult to even imagine how life will continue, how a "new normal" will be found. But, when we look beyond ourselves for the answers, and stick together, evil will not triumph in the end. Ultimately, good wins.

It's no Narnia story, but there's still something of God reflected here.

"Fairy tales do not tell children the dragons exist. Children already know that dragons exist. Fairy tales tell children the dragons can be killed." (G.K. Chesterton)

George

I'll call him George. We've talked more than once, certainly, but one conversation from a couple of years ago has planted itself in my soul.

He had called me on that day with a task at hand and information to be shared. I was glad to hear from him... but not for long. I was caught off guard by some of his statements, became defensive, and had no idea how to respond. The more we talked, the angrier I became. The angrier I became, the less I spoke. The less I spoke, the more he talked. It became a downward spiral. I was relieved when we finally ended the call, though still not at ease because there was now a big barrier between us.

He actually would be pretty easy for me to avoid -- our paths generally do not cross unless we're intentional about it -- and I thought about just ignoring the conflict. After all (it seemed to me), I had tried to speak reasonably and George had responded unreasonably, and he sounded pretty adamant about his position. There wasn't much hope in continuing, right?

But I couldn't in good conscience just leave it alone. I also couldn't shake the feeling that his unreasonable-seeming behavior was not what I expected from what I knew of his character. And even if we could never find common ground on the issue at hand, we needed to restore the relationship. And to do that, we had to talk again. I'd have to call him.

I dreaded that call.

What would I say? I wasn't sure. In the end, it came out something like this:  We talked earlier, and I did not do well with that conversation. I'd like a do-over, at least on my part. Would you be willing to start over, too? Can we try it again?

George paused, just briefly. I don't know what was going through his mind in those moments, but when he spoke, his answer was a decisive and gracious yes.

And we did talk. Haltingly, authentically, slowly, patiently, awkwardly, kindly. I discovered his perspective, and what he'd said to me earlier made sense in that context. He worked to understand my perspective, too, and to make sense of how I'd responded. We tracked down a significant misunderstanding where our interaction had gotten off track, and we cleared that up. Beyond clarifying the miscommunication was an even greater need -- the need for reconciliation. I asked forgiveness for shutting him out. He apologized for the part he had played in the misunderstanding. It was plenty uncomfortable for awhile as we talked. By the end of that second call, though, the huge invisible wall between us was gone.

When I saw George again recently, I thought again of that memory and realized it is a distinctly peaceful one. It would have been very different if I'd tried to ignore it and hope it would go away. My path and George's still don't cross much, but when they do, our interactions are marked by genuine warmth, love and respect. I am grateful for the friendship and the influence of this godly man in my life.

Looking at Mice

Mice found some food and nesting supplies in our garage a few years back, and took up residence there. The little mouse family grew awhile before we noticed, and it took a few weeks of strategic "trapping" to get rid of them. I don't want mice in the garage, and I am not against using force to get rid of them.

That said, they're really not hideous beasts. They are small, generally shy critters with soft fur and curious minds. Their bones are tiny and fragile. When they take up unwanted residence in the garage, they're just looking for a place to live, not being willfully destructive, bent on evil.

Such a message doesn't sell exterminator services, though, which is probably why the ad for a local exterminator included this:

The message? These creatures are like aliens with their weird names, bulging eyes, sharp facial features, and tails like a big snake. They'll eat lots of things -- they might even eat your children! And if they can't do that, they may poison or starve your whole family.

Good heavens. If we're willing to get this worked up about a deer mouse, it's no surprise when we see danger lurking in all sorts of pretty benign places.

Risk

This is not me, nor from yesterday.
It's on Google Maps...

Driving into town yesterday, I saw a young child on a two-wheeler with his mom (or someone who looked mom-like) running alongside.  They were on the sidewalk next to this busy street.  The boy was clearly learning to ride his bike, and naturally wobbled quite a lot.  The mom looked a little awkward jogging, probably at least in part because of footwear not designed for such a task.

I never had training wheels when I was learning to ride a bike.  I had Dad instead.  He took me to (I think) the playground of the local school.  It was a large piece of solid ground with no cars and few obstacles.  I was not entirely pleased, though, because it was a large piece of solid ground and I knew it would hurt to fall.  I questioned why he wouldn't teach me on a lawn.  That would be softer, right?  Why did he take me to a large landscape ripe for blood and bruising?

As I gained bike-riding experience that week, I began to understand my dad's reasoning a little bit.  Though it seemed riskier and more frightening, his choice was an act of wisdom and kindness.  He knew that I would be more stable on hard ground and could learn to ride much more easily.  I might be a little more likely to get hurt if I fell, but quite a lot less likely to fall in the first place.  (And I don't know whether I would have even been capable of learning on grass.)  That was an important lesson.  It still is.

I'm older now.  Life still holds challenges and hazards.  Encounters with these challenges and hazards create decision points -- in recreational activities, conversations, workplace situations, relationships, and more -- which call me to balance degree of risk with likelihood of harm.

This is me, freefalling with Phil,
a couple miles above the ground.

That's part the reason I went skydiving (tandem) last year.  It was arguably unnecessary and I physically risked far more than a few bumps and bruises.  In case that reality wasn't already abundantly clear, the liability release form described in some detail the possibilities of severe injury and even death.  Why take the risk?

I wasn't foolish about it.  I did my homework to make sure the place I went had a good safety record.  I listened attentively to the instructions given.  The fellow I was strapped to is knowledgeable and skilled.  Though willing to risk death a little bit, I certainly wasn't inviting it.  Perhaps I wasn't as entirely safe, but I was safe enough.

Ultimately I chose to jump because there is risk, too, in not doing things like that.  There is risk of trying to build in so much safety net that it becomes a crippling force and makes it impossible to sustain forward motion.  I knew I'd probably survive the experience in full health if I jumped; I was less certain that I would be fully healthy if I didn't make intentional decision to do something like that.

And really, it was just skydiving.  Most decisions aren't like that one.  Most of the challenges and hazards requiring a decision of me in the course of everyday life are more difficult.  The ones I see most?  Conversations.

It is tempting sometimes to build in a grassy cushion around conversations, creating a soft place to land in case something goes awry.  We can build cushions by not speaking truthfully, by avoiding difficult topics, by avoiding difficult relationships, by refusing to allow ourselves to be at all vulnerable.  Thing is, too much "cushion" hinders the relationships that conversations should nurture instead.  It keeps us from growing and moving forward.

Of course, like in skydiving, there is no reason to be foolish.  It is right and good to develop conversational skills.  It is appropriate to gradually trust more those who consistently show themselves to be trustworthy.  It is good to seek input from people skilled in difficult interactions.  Some conversations carry risk of relational death, and we need to be willing to take that risk, to be incompletely safe while still safe enough.

Last night as I drove past the mom running alongside the child on his bicycle, I glimpsed their faces in my rearview mirror.  The young boy looked nervous still, and the woman with him wasn't entirely comfortable, either.  At the same time, though, both faces were lit by smiles and both appeared genuinely delighted.  It seems they decided that a little reasonable risk was totally worth the freedom and joy available as a result.

That little boy and his mom are a reminder and an encouragement for me today.

"Courage is not the absence of fear,

but rather the judgment that something else

is more important than fear."

(Ambrose Redmoon)