Letting Go of the Fence

On this Mother's Day, I'm reminded of a reflection I wrote in 2015 while we (myself and my nine siblings) were in the midst of getting my mother's house ready to sell a year after she had passed away. 
I posted it here and then deleted it because I thought it was "too personal" for my pastoral blog. It was actually a reflection on a reflection - my thoughts about an essay I had written back in 1999 about taking risks, seeking growth, and letting go of the fences that keeps us comfortable yet contained in life. 

Last Sunday, my congregation voted to name me as Acting Senior Pastor as of August 1st, once our current Senior Pastor retires. 
We'll spend the next 6-9 months in discernment, as we allow our still-speaking God to guide us towards what comes next. 

On this Mother's Day, as I contemplate letting go of yet another fence - the one that has kept me grounded and content as the Associate Pastor of this wonderful congregation for the last six years, I am once again looking down the road to what lies ahead. 
I am once again letting go of what has become comfortable and familiar and pushing off into the unknown. 

So, this is now a reflection on a reflection on a reflection. 
2018 looking back to 2015 looking back to 1999....and looking back even further still. 
Happy Mother's Day, mom. 
And thank you for teaching me that fences, while necessary, are not meant to keep us hemmed in forever. 

Letting Go of the Fence - June 8, 2015

Today’s posting is not a sermon.

This is a reflection I wrote in 1999.

Before I became a pastor.

Before I went to seminary.

Before I went back to school at the age of 35 to get my undergrad degree.

Before I left Long Island and my job of 16 years and moved to CT.

Before I met the woman who would become my wife.

I wrote this reflection the year before any of this would begin to unfold and before I believed I was capable of doing any of it.

I was reminded of this reflection today while at my parent’s house on Long Island with all nine of my siblings. My mom passed away last July and my dad has been gone for 14 years. For the last few months we’ve been cleaning and renovating the house getting it ready to sell, and today my brothers worked together to remove the rusted chain link fence that ran the length of our driveway for as long as any of us can remember.  Sometime after my parents bought the house in 1950, my dad chipped in with our neighbor to purchase the fence that our neighbor then installed between the houses. We do wonder if our neighbor suggested the fence was needed to keep his three kids in his yard, or to keep the soon-to-be ten of us in our yard and out of his.

A few weeks ago I found a photo of my mom with me perched on that fence when I was four months old.  What’s remarkable about the photo is that up until a few weeks ago I never knew it existed. I had never seen a photo of myself as a baby with my mom.  I never questioned this. I was, after all, child number nine and my mom was notoriously camera shy and understandably busy. But I have felt like I’ve been missing something all of my life, never having seen an image of my mom holding me as a child. It’s a gap I’ve always had to fill in on my own. Until I found the picture of her with me, holding onto that fence.

Today as I watched my brothers cut up the fence and stack the rolled bundles of rusted wire in the driveway, one of my sisters remarked, “I learned how to ride a bike using that fence.”

And then I remembered writing this.

I share this because we all have fences in our lives that we hold onto for dear life and are reluctant to let go of.

Here’s a cliché to live by: Let Go, and Let God.

Try it and you’ll be amazed at how far you will fly. 

Letting Go of the Fence 

September 1999

 

I remember the day that I first learned how to ride a bicycle. 

I remember balancing precariously at the top of the driveway, holding onto the neighbor’s chain link fence for dear life.  I’d push off slightly with my left hand, quickly moving it from the fence to the handlebar and just as quickly back to the fence again as I tipped and jerked to a stop. I had gained a whole foot. With another balancing act and another burst of courage I’d push off again only to grab for the fence after only a few seconds of freedom. This process continued down the whole length of the driveway until I had run out of feet to gain and fence to grab on to. 

Stopped at the edge and peering up and down the street that seemed so open and dangerous to my six-year-old eyes, I had reached the point of no return.

I could have just used my feet to propel myself up and down the sidewalk as I had done since the day I first discovered that I could reach the ground on my sister’s hand-me-down bicycle, but this day was different.  My parents were away on a rare day excursion and I was determined to teach myself how to ride before they returned.  I was out to prove something.  Something that I felt I would never do under the watchful eye of others and the potential criticism they’d have to offer.

I had to do it on my own, by myself, or I would never do it all.

I don’t remember how soon after I left the safety of the driveway and the support of the fence that I was sailing unaided down the middle of the street, but I did.  I’m sure it took a few false starts, it may have taken all afternoon, but I don’t remember the entire process.  I remember how it felt to start, and I remember how it felt to finish.  I remember how it felt to feel myself fly up and down a street that once felt so forbidden.  The balance that I struggled with only hours before now felt like the most innate ability in the world.  I had not just learned how to ride a bicycle, I had conquered my fears, I had persevered against failure, I had acquired a sense of accomplishment, and I had achieved freedom.

When my parents arrived home later that day and I proudly showed them what I had taught myself to do I don’t quite remember what their reaction was but I’m certain it was positive.  Although I thought at the time I was doing it for them, to earn their pride and their respect, the simple fact that I can’t remember how they reacted makes me realize that I really did it for myself. 

I needed to challenge myself, to learn something new, to face my fears and prove to myself that I was worthy and capable. 

Now of course I push off on my bicycle and never think twice about the mechanics or the properties of balance that it takes to accomplish this amazing feat.  It’s no longer amazing to me, but it is amazing to the six year old that’s watching me as I ride past, the one who is balancing precariously at the edge of her driveway on her first two wheeler, holding onto the fence for dear life.

I suspect that I went through the same process of trial, error, and sense of achievement when I first learned to walk, although not nearly on the same scale of self-awareness.

I’m certain that as a toddler I was not fearful of others ridiculing me as I tried and failed over and over again, and I did not risk damaging my self esteem every time I took an unsteady step and fell.  I’m sure that I did not need to give myself motivational talks of encouragement, or trick myself into doing what I wanted to accomplish by convincing myself that I was doing it to earn the praise of someone else.

By completing these processes of self-teaching I was able to transform what was once a conscious exercise into one that is now part of the sub-conscious.  That in itself is an amazing feat. 

There are many things that I’ve learned in life that now seem to be second nature.  Typing on this keyboard is one of them, but I still make mistakes and sometimes I find that I have to really think about what I’m doing.  Such as when I have to go back and correct the mistake.  Sometimes I zone out while I’m in my car and find myself driving on autopilot, but that couldn’t last very long without me ending up in a ditch at the side of the road.  Even in the act of walking or riding a bike I sometimes find myself thrown off balance and I have to consciously regain my equilibrium, yet it usually happens so fast that I can’t say what it is that I actually did to regain it!

The point is that what once was hard to do and seemed impossible at times is now so easy it’s done without a second thought.  That’s what conquering fear is all about.

 It’s getting from the “impossible” to the “second nature” that’s the hard part!

I still have a few fences in my life that I’m clinging to for dear life.  The ones that keep me from being as outgoing or as social as I’d like to be. The ones that have kept me in the same job and the same town for most of my life.  The ones that have kept me from reaching beyond what is comfortable and familiar.  I’ve held onto those fences for so long that they’ve left permanent marks on my hands, but gradually the fear of letting go is being overtaken by the fear of being left behind.  The fear of missing out on the very life and objective that I was put here to accomplish. Little by little as I let go of the small fences in my life I find myself gathering momentum toward letting go of the bigger ones. The ones that once loomed over me as impenetrable walls but now seem conquerable if I just learn to reach a little farther and a little higher. 

As soon as I make contact and get a good grip on the top then it will only take a leap of faith to push off from there.

Now instead of thinking about what could happen if I let go I now think about what will happen if I don’t.  I will not grow.  I will not discover and achieve what it is that I was brought here to do.  I will not be a guide or mentor for others who are clinging to their own fences.  I will still have not left the driveway when my parents arrive home and I will have never felt the sense of pride and accomplishment that I so desired.

As I find myself at a point in my life that looks very similar to the end of that driveway, I can not help but peer down both sides of the road that I’m about to enter and in my stomach feel both a tinge of fear and excitement.  There is no going back now.  I’ve had a taste of freedom in twelve-inch leaps down the whole length of the driveway and I want desperately to know what it feels like to fly. 

I can feel my fingertips lightly brushing the top of the fence, and in one swift motion,

I let go.