I was given the unexpected gift of a few free hours today.  My spirit was crying to go to the mountains, so I found myself wandering amidst the storm clouds, the greens of nature blossoming in celebration of the nourishment from the sky.

I thoroughly enjoyed soaking it all in—the clouds as they teased the top of the nearby peaks, the birds celebrating the sun’s arrival, the smells of fresh pine in the forest.

My soul was in utter peace.

Until I saw the sign.

“Mountain Lion Spotted in This Area”.  And if that weren’t enough, there was a warning of both a rattlesnake and a black bear seen just a few days prior on the very trail I was hiking.

Ironically, if I had my family with me, I’m fairly certain we would have ventured forth on the trail without trepidation.  I know wild animals are generally afraid of humans, and they tell you to make noise in the forest to warn the wildlife that you’re coming.  And let me assure you, with my three boys gallivanting on a trail, quiet is not something I’m too worried about.

But today I was by myself.

And I don’t tend to make a lot of noise when I’m hiking on a moist trail.  I’m not the loudest whistler, I don’t wear bells on my shoes to ward off bears; I was completely vulnerable.

And so I had the choice.  To carry on, or to turn around.

Today, I carried on.  And I’m not sure I was particularly brave about it.

I noticed just how quietly I was walking, so I started whistling gently.

I noticed how thick the brush was, and so I quieted my whistling in order to hear if there were any wild cats lurking in the bushes.

Then I remembered that I should make noise, so I tried, but I didn’t want to be carted away as a lunatic by a forest ranger, my family seeing my picture in the headlines as that crazy man who was waving his arms and shouting at the imaginary wild animals apprehended in local mountains.

I had a strange mixture of peace, fear, relaxation, and hurriedness.  Something about being alone in the forest where rangers have just seen wild (and mean!) animals is just unsettling enough to make even the most confident hiker a little leery…

I’ve chronicled here before how I have discovered a newfound struggle with fear.  Whereas I used to be fearless, new aspects of my personal vulnerabilities have surfaced.

It’s as though I used to walk blissfully through life, all the while not knowing I was being stalked by a wild, stealthy cat—one with big teeth and sharp claws, and when it jumped me, I was caught so off guard I didn’t know quite what to do.

 

My path was very much like this one: a steep descent through the shadows and into the unknown…

My wild cat came in the form of diminishment.  And it came at me from all directions:  My career, my personal relationships and opportunities for ministry, my ability to motivate others. 

I didn’t see it coming, but its attack was ferocious and unrelenting.  As a teacher, I felt like I had lost the ability to connect with my students; as someone involved in church leadership, I felt like I had lost the ability to have a voice, to lead, and to build in to people. 

These feelings of failures bled into my marriage, where I seemed to lose the ability to truly hear my wife and be the husband that I wanted to be.

 

The cat will attack us all.  And it will attack us at our core vulnerabilities, because those are so closely tied to our core strengths.

My cat’s attack was aimed at impact.

I lost the ability to impact my students, impact the church I was a part of, and even lost the ability to have a positive impact on my marriage.  I was left an utter and helpless wreck; feelings of insignificance and personal diminishment and failure were becoming my new and all-to-familiar reality…

 

As I walked along the trail, I couldn’t help but think of that stage of my life, and how utterly debilitating it was for me.  I’m glad to report that the trail began to open up into a grove of pine trees, where I at least felt some measure of security knowing that any lurking animal would at least be further than three feet away from me.

I began to notice that the fear was subsiding, albeit ever so slightly, as my circumstances and environment began to change.  The truth is, I never felt completely at peace, but I did feel better.  I began to walk with confidence again, the fearful whistle replaced by a more genuine tune in my mind—a song of relative freedom and a deeper appreciation for the beauty around me.

I’m a different person after being mauled by my personal mountain lion.  I find that I walk with a slight limp and a little more cautiously into situations; that I’m a bit slower to speak and more hesitant to act.

But I’ve also come to notice that the lion will always lurk.  But that if I let it have the last word—if I stop walking and forfeit the journey—then I will forever regret it. 

And those are the choices I face, almost daily.

Do I give the lion permission to be fed, allowing its messages to permeate deep within, succumbing to the fear of diminishment and insignificance?  Do I allow those fears to paralyze me into a constant state of inaction? 

Or do I face the lion?  Do I choose to walk courageously within my own personal limitations, throwing the fear of insignificance aside and in turn choosing to make an impact, regardless of how big or small, in the lives of those around me?

My personal lion has a loud roar, and some days are louder than others, but I simply can’t let it have power over me.  And the more I charge that lion head on, the more its power diminishes; the more its significance and impact in my life wanes.

And who knows?  Someday I just might find a weak and whimpering cat along the path, deflated by its inability to hold power over me.

And when that day comes, I’ll gently step over that cat, and look back with a gentle but victorious smirk, continuing along the path set before me…