Lessons from western Nebraska part 1: Sculpt

What exactly have I learned from Nebraska, other than the actual existence of tumbleweeds as big as cars, hurricane-force winds sans the hurricane, and that Huskers are just as fanatical as Aggies?

Yup, a car-sized tumbleweed.

Western Nebraska has changed me for the better in many ways.  It has allowed me to shake free from the indoctrination of my upbringing. It has helped me let go of old habits, mindsets, and opinions.  When I look back on the lessons learned over the past 10 years, and the ways in which I have grown and changed, I see the positive impact of this community and its people on my life.  Let me elaborate:

1.  Western Nebraska reacquainted Jon and I with the concept of 'neighbor'.  Coming from San Antonio, we were accustomed to anonymity.  When we moved into our home on Spruce Drive, we were welcomed with visits and baked gifts from our neighbors.  Although we've seen many of them come and go over the past 10 years, we know them all by name (entirely different from our experience in San Antonio).  I know the names of the staff at many of the local businesses and restaurants we frequent, but even when I don't, we recognize and acknowledge one another.  (Recent discovery: drive-thru staff at Scottsbluff's Jax Gourmet Coffee & Snow know me only as 'Medium Chai in the Mini Cooper'.)  I've observed Jon select a checkout line at Walmart not based on the length of the queue but on who is cashiering; his focus is to provide a word of encouragement.  Cultivating love and moving from 'no one matters' to 'everyone matters' is a slow cultural shift we are still working on, but many of the seeds were planted here in Scottsbluff-Gering.

2.  My perspective on death (and therefore my perspective on life) has changed.  The stillbirth of our daughter Camille in 2005 rocked our world.  Its true impact may be best understood only by those closest to us.  When Hurricane Katrina struck Louisiana a month later, observers distant to the storm felt sorrowful sympathy, but victims who weathered the eye of devastation were united by a unique bond.  And so it is with our core friends and small group who provided support at the epicenter of our loss.  As our family leaves here we take only memories of that time, unrecognized by new acquaintances and friends.  The grief and support shown by our fellow Nebraskans will always stand as a witness to the scars that remain.  For that, I thank you.

The loss itself taught me two vital lessons: (1) death has a place, and (2) fear nothing.  I can truthfully say that I have little fear of my own departure, even prematurely.  I have loosened my grip on my expectations for this life, and I accept that I do not determine my future, nor the future of my loved ones.  Kissing the fear of death goodbye has been very liberating, since there is little else to fear.  AWOLNATION says it well:

Well I met an old man dying on a train.
No more destination, no more pain.
Well he said, "one thing, before I graduate...
never let your fear decide your fate."
I say, "fly, fly, baby. Don't cry, no need to worry 'cause
Everybody will die.
Everyday we just go, go. Baby you'll go.
Don't you worry, He loves you more than you know."
(Or at least that's the way I hear it.)

With the fear of death eliminated, why would there be fear of something as small as judgment or marginalization or unknown or risk?  Without fear, I can hike a mountain, travel great distances, challenge the status quo, blaze a trail, tackle a seemingly insurmountable task, and speak without constraint.  I can align my life's priorities more closely to my values and my faith, even when it stands in resolute defiance to the expectations of others.

Fearlessness has taught me trust.  Fear has a tendency to breed worry.  Without fear or worry, I've learned to trust in God and His plan for me.  One of our family's current favorites is this Swedish House Mafia song:

My Father said,
'Don't you worry, don't you worry, child.
See, Heaven's got a plan for you.
Don't you worry, don't you worry now.'

(As an aside, our family thinks it sounds an awful lot like 'Seattle's got a plan for you.'  Judge for yourself here.  Click at your own risk; you'll never hear it the same again.)

Fearlessness has taught another lesson: vulnerability.  Although not intuitively related, vulnerability has grown out of the lack of fear of putting my genuine self on display.  I've expressed the deepest sorrows of loss from a public forum. I've shed mutual tears with patients upon my delivery of bad news.  In spearheading our electronic medical record at work, I have attempted to champion one of the most disruptive yet revolutionary changes in the history of Medicine, and in doing so, have become the target of resistance (and likely criticism).  Vulnerability is not a highly-praised virtue among physicians and although it does not come naturally to me, I've always perceived Scottsbluff to be a place where my flaws are forgiven, and my personal best is an acceptable alternative to perfection.

3.  I developed endurance and perseverence while in Nebraska.  Although I'd run a handful of 5K races in Texas, it was during my time in Scottsbluff that I truly became a runner.  I will refrain from waxing philosophical about running, as I've already done so in my Run post.  Suffice it to say that being a runner has profoundly changed my perspectives on pain, aging, goals, solitude, and time.  Without the encouragement of equally fitness-minded friends, I doubt I would have ever bothered.

That same perseverance has been put to the test in another arena.  It was two months after Camille's stillbirth when Jon and I summited Mt. Harvard, our first Colorado 14er peak, spurred along by fellow WestWay hikers.  (The occasional forty-five minute excursion around San Antonio's Friedrich Wilderness Park was my only prerequisite contribution to hiking.)  Since then, a love of hiking has grown into a passion for mountaineering (which some would probably call an obsession).  Nineteen peaks later, my soul is still refreshed every time with the glory of His creation.  Nonetheless, I've yet to hike a 14er without encountering mental self-doubt at some point between the trailhead and summit.  And yet, He gives me strength and endurance not only for the summit but also for the long descent back.  During one winter hike, He gave our party the wisdom to turn back from a potential whiteout situation.  Having summited on my second attempt, I finally broke down into silent tears of thanks during the descent below timberline as a quiet snow fell gently around me.  I've learned on those mountain paths and running trails to listen for the quiet still voice of God.  Funny that for me, hearing His voice has very little to do with being physically still.

A snow banner off Quandary Peak

Then there are the more 'temporal' lessons:

4.  Nebraska's void of Tex-Mex served to break a decade of food cravings and the bad habits that often accompany them.  Like forced fasting.  I am leaving 20 unwanted pounds here.

5.  And yet, Nebraska surprisingly broadened my culinary horizon.  Ironically, I (finally!) learned to like fish in a landlocked state. In the land of corn-fed angus, I learned not only to eat vegetables, but to like them, and to not berate, but appreciate a good vegetarian meal.  While in Nebraska, I became acquainted with chai tea lattes and Starbucks. Back when we had a Starbucks...

6.  Our garden plot at WestWay reaped the double harvest of homegrown veggies and an appreciation of not only gardening and things organic, but the work involved to produce a harvest.  Sophomoric as it may seem, gardening has taught me lessons applicable not just to my diet, but to my spiritual walk.

7.  It is remarkable that in a red state like Nebraska, I've learned moderation, become less polarized, and more politically tolerant.  I do a better job of listening to and considering both sides of issues, and I acknowledge that Jesus would not depend on something as small as government.

8.  In Western Nebraska I've also learned to be more perseverant and tolerant of weather.  Running and mountaineering would be difficult sports for the weatherphobic.  I've run and hiked in wind, fog, snow, dark, rain, ice, sleet, subzero cold, drought, and yes, hail.  Maybe this is a strange thing to praise, but it is a locally-learned skill that will come in handy, since we are headed to Seattle, the home of misty drizzle (so-called mizzle) for months on end.

In fact, that is what seems so rich about our Western Nebraska experience: we have been molded with seemingly Divine intent.  He has been sculpting our family for such a place as Seattle.  I would never have dreamed of the chance to summit the heavily-glaciered Mt. Rainier without the training ground that the Colorado 14ers have afforded me.  Similarly, all my other life experiences in Nebraska have been the training ground for the next leg of the race in Seattle.  Without Scottsbluff, I doubt I would be prepared for Seattle's political culture, social tolerances, disdain for tradition, or their fitness mindset, less-than-conservative churches, organic bent, seafood cuisine, or even their weather.  God knows our past, present, and future.  He placed us in western Nebraska with great purpose.

 Sculpture from the Chihuly Garden and Glass exhibit, Seattle

There is a scene in the movie Forrest Gump when the lead character reflects on the profound things he's learned from seemingly simple experiences in his life.  The movie depicts a series of brief clips,  like recalled memories, revisiting poignant moments and we realize how pivotal and integral they were. (Watch it here.)

I think my heart is often like a movie player; I replay snipits from moments of significance.  So many of these moments are encounters with the very Spirit of God.  I will remember my time in Scottsbluff as a place where I became reacquainted with the awesome presence of God.

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Many of my integral moments are encounters with the conduits of His love, His people.  But the blog is long, so I shall continue that thought in another installment.  Stay tuned for part 2...