When I was young, my Grandpa and Dad would take my brothers and I to "climb on the rocks." "Climb" is a generous term, it would be more accurate to say we "hopped from boulder to boulder" in the concrete graveyard that has developed between the steep hill along Lakeshore Drive and Lake Michigan. But nonetheless, it was a grand adventure in the eyes of 7-year-old Luke. The rocks stretched on for a seeming eternity, offering a steady drip of fodder for our burgeoning courage. We would get more and more confident in our footing, taking risks of which I'm sure Mom and Grandma would never approve. There would be stretches where our steps would come rapid fire, on the back of blissful ignorance of ACLs, sprained ankles, and other such injury (To this day, I pride myself in my balance, and while logic would attribute that to my deep and wide center of gravity, I give credit to this graveyard in my most optimistic moments.). Often, our confidence would be shaken by the unsettled rocks we had such faith in. We would point at these culprits, warning the rest of the fellowship about the approaching danger. Red-winged blackbirds would pierce the wave-filled noise with their own warnings, even as we brothers jockeyed for the position of leader during this expedition. The hill, equally strewn with lilacs and thorns on one side, the spray of the lake on the other, and in between, the algae covered stones on which our path lay.
On one such journey, I recall hearing cries of discovery from up ahead. My brothers had stumbled across a haunting sight in the stark sunlight. The carcass of a young deer that must have fallen down the hill into the crags of the rocks below. Withered by the rays, rotting from the moisture, and piquing the interest of all three young adventurers. 7-year-old Luke was not familiar with the works of Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings, but had he been, he would likely take note of the poignant moment. There in front of me lay The Yearling, the embodiment of boyhood lost.
Here I sit at 24, back in Sheboygan. The stone path is finite to me now. It starts at a parking lot and stretches beyond the power plant. Its mysteries have since been ascertained and its significance forgotten. Today, however, as I considered the blackbirds, the lilacs, and the deer, I deemed to make one more expedition to the Graveyard.
As I regained my long lost overconfidence, I considered my mistakes. Those I made and made against me. In the Graveyard, failure looms large. Mistakes can't be dwelled on, lest they lead to the same fate as the deer. Momentum can carry you off a sliding rock, but stagnation will lead to destruction. There is time to learn from your failure, but perhaps that learning happens in an instant. The Present is as effective an Instructor as the Past, and far less judgmental.
What I mean is that the temptation of my heart is to dwell on my failures. To hate my past mistakes so much that I can never trust my present self. And to be sure, if all I have is self to rely on, then my trust is misplaced. However, in the Graveyard of my life, my steps are placed by my God. My confidence is in his placement and when the stones shift below, I let momentum carry me to the next. That's not to say I won't take a wrong step. I came across my first deer carcass early in life, and that innocence can't be restored. As many can attest, my missteps are many and obvious. But what a joy that my Dad is down here with me. That he pulls me up, examines my scraped knee, and sets me on the stable rock. He even points at the unstable path as a warning, a barrier to my hubris and a testament to his kindness.
All that to say, it's dangerous in the Graveyard. And there might be a carcass or two. But there's room for lilacs and blackbirds here. There's an everlasting blue horizon. And Dad is here too. So, I'm trusting his Word and I'm keeping my momentum.
