Facing Fear

I fell off my horse this summer. It was back in June, and it was a significant fall. It was the first time I've fallen off and actually injured myself. It was the first time I've fallen off and wondered if I could get up, let alone get back on. I hurt my back and ended up in emergency, worried that I had broken it. Oh, I knew I hadn't severed my spinal cord; after all, I limped my way back to the barn, horse in hand, got into my car, and drove all the way home before going to emergency. But I thought something might be cracked. I had visions of jarring my back again, and completing what the fall from my horse had begun, leaving me a paraplegic. I imagined I would have to sell my horse, and move from my stair-filled home. I was picturing teaching from a wheelchair, trying to learn to drive with hand controls, never again walking the dog. (I have a vivid imagination.) I was in a great deal of pain, hardly able to move from the hurt. On one hand, the pain comforted me, because it meant I could feel. On the other hand, the pain worried me, because I knew that it meant that I had actually done damage.

It scared me.

I've fallen off my horse before, and walked around for a few days with bruises and strained muscles, so the reality of falling is not a new one. I have always known, academically, that horseback riding is a high-risk sport. I've heard of Christopher Reeve. Every once in a while, I hear stories about people who are seriously hurt while working with or riding horses. I don't hear about it often, but I do hear about it. But I've never been afraid of falling. It was part of the reality of riding, and I just figured to get back on and keep going.

But this time, I couldn't get back on. I could hardly walk, let alone get back on. It took me a week of healing to be able to get back on at all, and another week of healing before I could get back on and actually ride. Months later, I can still feel an ache if I ride long or hard.

So I've spent the summer thinking about, and fighting, fear.

In light of this new fear, I've had to make a decision. I could fall and get really hurt. I really could fall and end up a paraplegic or a quadriplegic. Or dead. Is it worth the risk? Sure, I can attempt to mitigate risks and keep myself as safe as possible. I wear a helmet. I don't race, full gallop, across the fields, attempt to leap over stone walls, or transverse raging rivers. But I wasn't doing any of those things when I fell, either. And still I fell and hurt myself. So there are no guarantees. And is it worth the risk?

I haven't been able to fully answer that question yet. But I know this - know it to my toes: life is risky. And if I pull back from this risk, if I decide that this thing that I love, that I have always loved, that has always given me joy and delight, is too risky, then I have begun a journey of pulling back from truly living. I have let fear win. Sure, you say it's a slippery slope, and slippery slopes make for bad arguments, but slippery slopes often reflect a reality. Today, I decide that doing this thing I love is too risky. What do I pull back from tomorrow? What becomes too risky tomorrow?

Because, guaranteed, tomorrow will bring risks.

Risks to love instead of isolating.
Risks to be vulnerable instead of wearing a mask.
Risks to forgive instead of holding a grudge.
Risks to do hard things instead of taking the easy road.
Risks to speak up when what I say may be unpopular.
Risks to stand for Jesus when the world around me howls at the sound of his name.
Risks to remain firm in my faith . . . even if someone threatens my life.

Because that is just as much a possibility as falling off my horse and hurting myself is.

I can't live like that. I can't give even that inch. I can't allow fear to win.

So I've spent the summer getting back on.

And this weekend, I rode back in the field where I fell. You know, it felt good. It felt freeing. Sure, I was nervous. So was my horse. We worked through it. We took the worry seriously, and we dealt with it, but we worked through it, and we rode. And we were both ok. It felt really, really good to be back there again, riding through the fields, surrounded by grasses and good smells and birdsong and sunshine. But mostly, it felt good because it felt freeing. We were putting the fear behind us.

We're not there yet. We've got work to do. It takes time to get over a big scare like that. But we're moving forward, my horse and I. We are reclaiming lost ground.

I don't want to play it safe. I don't want to live fearfully. I want to live with courage. I might fall. I might get hurt. But I can't bear to live any other way. There is too much good that will be missed if I live a cautious, miserly, fearful life.

Is riding worth the risk? I think I think so. But this I know:

Living abundantly is absolutely worth the risk.