Climbing Down the Ladder

I didn’t see it until someone pointed it out. In a writing class, a teacher spoke of the “ladder of abstraction,” and encouraged us, as writers, to descend. “Climb down the ladder and write specifically,” the instructor said. “Instead of saying someone is sad, lost, or confused, make the reader see the sadness, feel the loss, and experience the confusion in tangible ways through gestures or actions.” The more familiar adage is, “show don’t tell,” but the ladder is a helpful image, not only for writers but for all sorts of people. 

It's easy to say you’re a father (high on the ladder); it’s another thing to show up when you have other things you need to be doing (low on the ladder). It’s one thing to say all people matter (high), and another to stand with others outside a courthouse protesting injustice (low). Promising to love one another “for better or for worse” (high) is easier than holding hands after an argument (low).

The same dynamic exists in the life of faith. How easy it is to keep one’s head in the clouds when we speak of loving God (high on the ladder). It’s another thing to spend time each day in prayer and meditation, devoting time to reading and studying, and looking for God deliberately (and specifically) in the world around us (Low). How easy it is to keep one’s head on the clouds when we speak of loving one’s neighbor as oneself (high), and another to spend time with people who are different from us, forgive people who hurt us, or love those who live lives we don’t understand (low).

Climbing down the ladder of abstraction is difficult, but down on the ground is where things get real. It’s where we show-don’t-tell the world who we truly are and what we care about. It’s where water becomes wine, loaves feed, and strangers and enemies embrace. No wonder God “climbed down” long ago. No wonder God continues to climb down every day.

Blankets

I grew up in a drafty house. Whenever it was windy, the breezes came through the windows and doors as if they weren’t there. Our only remedy was to use blankets. Wrapped in their warmth, we watched TV and did our homework. Only when our parents turned up the heat, which was rare, were we able to discard the blankets.

Looking back, I can see how often I’ve reached for blankets of one kind or another when winds blew. Sitting in the reading circle in third grade, knowing my turn was coming and not being a good reader, I grabbed the class-clown blanket. After messing up on the soccer field, I wrapped myself in the it’s-not-a-big-deal blanket. When I drank too much and said something I shouldn’t have, I used the I-got-this blanket to shield me from my embarrassment.

I don’t use blankets as much as I once did, although they’re all folded neatly in the corner waiting, in case I change my mind.  

There’s nothing I can do about the wind. All I can do is look for healthy ways to seek warmth. I can surround myself with authentic friendships, sit closer to others by being real, present, and vulnerable. More than anything else, I can focus on ways to rely more on a power greater than myself.

It is when I do these things that I find the warmth that keeps me from looking for blankets.

(Written in gratitude for Melody Beattie, the author of Codependent No More)

Wearing the Jersey

He was a walk-on, an athlete who wasn’t recruited, nor promised any kind of scholarship. Still, he possessed the talent that made the coaches want him on the team, so he joined the others with the full knowledge he may never play in a game.

It was a major accomplishment to make the team, something of which he, his parents, and his friends were proud. In a moment of inspiration and true friendship, his buddies ordered his jersey, complete with name and number. They would be the only fans in the stands with such jerseys, but that didn’t matter. In fact, it only made their jerseys more special, their friendship more inspirational.

When I heard about the friends buying the jerseys, I knew there was a brushstroke to be found. Within this very ordinary series of events, there was something divine. Yes, the athlete’s story spoke of courage, effort, and perseverance, but it was the friends who spoke to my heart most. To buy your buddy’s jersey and wear it proudly in the stands, speaks of true friendship, the kind that roots for someone even when he or she may never play in the game. None of that matters. It’s the friendship that does.

May we all have such friends. May we be such friends.