Last year, I went skiing for the first time. It was exhilarating and wonderful. I really enjoyed myself, with the sun at my back and the wind in my face, flying down the hill, getting that adrenaline rush. I thought, "This could be a sport I could really enjoy." My husband is an avid skier and my son is also pretty good and I thought it would make great family trips and I envisioned us zipping down the hill together and warming up in the chalet, drinking hot chocolate, romance and fun all in one.
The second time out, I was excited. "This is great, I thought". I seemed to be catching on pretty fast and my son encouraged me to go down an intermediate hill. I was hesitant and didn't really want to, but, as with the widow woman who kept pestering the judge to be avenged of her adversary, he finally got his way.
I stared down from the top and plunged downward. Flying down, I got that great adrenaline rush and zipped back and forth in triumph. I made it down fine and then made a big mistake and went back up a second time. As I was coming down zigzagging, as I had been prone to do, I suddenly saw my son out of the corner of my eye. I panicked, knowing that my stopping and maneuvering skills weren't so great, crossed my skis and twisted my ankle until it snapped. Ski Patrol came, whisked me to first aid on a snowmobile, covering my head in the process, making me wonder if I had passed over to the other side and put on a makeshift cardboard splint and then my husband took me to the emergency room. After having so many X-rays I must have fairly glowed, they set me free to heal for six weeks with a broken ankle. I became the Queen of the Couch, beckoning my servants, which consisted of my husband and two kids, to bring me water and put videos into the machine and other various household tasks.
Fast forward to this year. My husband is now a ski instructor going to the slopes every weekend. He has also asked me repeatedly if I am going to go. I have hemmed and hawed and looked at the floor trying to look pathetic, but, my husband, as if he couldn’t see any of that, kept asking. Finally yesterday I relented and decided to go.
I was in denial the whole way there. “I can sit in the chalet if I want”. I brought a book and a magazine. I brought money for food. I was ready.
We got to the ski rental place and my husband helped me find better fitting boots than last year. He surmised that my boots may have been too big and we got a smaller size. I put my foot into the boot and immediately felt like I was entering a prison camp. Actually, I felt that way last year too. Those ski boots are constricting!
After that, while my husband went to do his very important ski instructor stuff, I went out to my own little makeshift bunny hill and put on my skis. Having on skis feels just how it looks, like you have about four feet of extra foot coming forward and backward in places that they don’t belong.
Then, I looked down at the ten-foot stretch of hill in front of me. “I can do this”, I thought. I pushed and went “whiff” or “scootch” or whatever it was I did. I got to the bottom. No heart attacks at all.
I decided to go again. Climbing a hill with skis on is also just how it looks, meaning, almost impossible. After getting almost fairly run over by another new person, and after about fifteen minutes I made it to the top, huffing and puffing and sweating like a pig. My husband showed up and helped me get my snow pants off and then went back to his very important ski-instructor stuff and I went “whiff” or “scootch” down the hill again. I wanted to try my ankle and see if it was strong enough to hold me before I faced my magnificent fear, the The Fearsome Bunny Hill. The ankle was fine. So much for that excuse.
My husband got done doing his very important ski-instructor stuff and came and joined me. I told him I was ready for the Fearsome Bunny Hill and asked him if he would go with me. Did he say “Why don’t we just get a cup of hot chocolate instead????” No!!!! He said “Sure!” Just like very important ski-instructors do and I was forced to do the deed.
I was first, afraid of the lift. This isn’t a chair lift, it is a T-lift with a mind of it’s own that sinisterly bucks people off when they least expect it. I was bucked off once last year and was left to try and stand up while trying to not slide down the Fearsome Bunny Hill with four feet of ski in front of me and behind me and while everyone stared because they stopped the lift so no one would run me over. I was heroically trying to do this in a dignified fashion, like a queen getting out of a limousine, but finding it hard to pull off.
So, here we were on the T-lift. Suddenly, I realized that it would be better to get off BEFORE the top of the hill. It was a long ways up there and this spot looked just fine. We bounded off before we got bucked and my husband gave me some instructions on stopping. He showed me the wedge or the snowplow as some call it. This is when you turn your skis toward each other in a snowplow shape to slow down. You have to squat in such a fashion that feels very unladylike which is why I didn’t practice it much last year, but my husband said it doesn’t matter if it’s unladylike, if you’re going to ski, you have to do it.
So, here I was “wedging” in this very unladylike fashion in a state of near-panic inching down the last one third of the bunny hill. I got to the bottom. I did okay. I survived. Second go. Up again, a little higher this time. Wedge down in very unladylike fashion back and forth. Third go, same thing, only this time I wobbled and my skis almost crossed. I got to the bottom and was ready to throw the stupid poles down, unhook my boots and find a real hobby. One that was nicer to me. Tears stung my eyes and I told my husband “This isn’t just about skiing you know. This is about my life”. He knew.
There are fears that I have to face in my life. Fears we have to face in our lives. This wasn’t really about skiing or a bunny hill and I knew it. It was about me. It was about my life. It was about my experiences. Why, for example, when I was having such a good time skiing, did I have to break my ankle? Didn’t God want me to have fun? Didn’t He want me to spend good clean family time with people I love? Does God hate me and have some sinister reason to punish me that He’s not telling me about, laughing at my distress and trying to show me I can never have anything good in this life? No. The truth is that I don’t believe any of that and I have to prove that to myself. I will go to the very top of this stupid bunny hill and ski down the dumb thing if it kills me. I don’t care if I break every bone in my body. This is my defiance to the message that I can’t do this, can’t have any fun or any good in this life. This is my defiance to the message that God hates me and is out to get me. I WILL do this!!!
I tell my husband to go without me this time. I am calmed down by the time he gets back and I’m ready to go again. I go half way up and then soon, all the way to the top. Here I am, at the top of the Daunting, Fearsome Bunny Hill. I watch as a little girl dressed in pink scoots down the hill at about mach three. I realize that what I am about to do is more like mock three. I wedge, wedge, wedge down the hill. All the way down. WOOHOO!! I made it!!! Just in time to break for lunch.
After lunch, I go up by myself, get bucked off of the T-lift and meet my husband. Wedge, wedge, wedge down the hill. Around this time, we see a marvelous sight. A boy, about twelve, with one leg and special poles with skis, skiing on the hill. Marvelous defiance to the unseen thief of joy and wonder. I am inspired and impressed.
I would like to say that I let it go with fearless reckless abandon like I did last year. I would like to say that I had as much fun as I had before I broke my ankle. But I didn’t. I would like to say this will become a great family event, but I can’t. I may go again or maybe not. But I did it. I faced my fear. I went down the Fearsome Bunny Hill and I may even go again sometime.
But the point to me is greater than the Fearsome Bunny Hill. It’s about life. This article formed in my mind as I was conquering the Fearsome Bunny Hill about how we must all face our fears at some point in time. If I had never faced the bunny hill, there would probably be little consequence, but that isn’t so when we come to other things in our life called Christian. Some of us have something called the Fearsome Bunny Hill and it’s called Church. It may be church attendance or having a pastor or giving or service or what-have you.
Many said that my experience with breaking my ankle must have been a fluke; an odd occurrence. Some say that about church problems. Some say it must have been your own fault. Some say there is no such thing, obviously ignorant about real life in churches. But the fact is, it wasn’t other people who broke their ankle, it was me. It wasn’t other people who had their bad church experience, it was you. But don’t you feel the call to conquer the Fearsome Bunny Hill of your life, one that calls out to you to defy the one who lies into your ear telling you that God has nothing good for your life? I do. If I never ski again, let me not only conquer the Bunny Hill of life, but let me become one with it, learning to ski with grace, like an eagle above the wind.
I heard one father telling his son, “It’s not IF you are going to fall, it’s WHEN, so you must learn to fall right. If you fall wrong, you will hurt yourself.” The son wanted to think he would not need to learn to fall, but the father insisted. I then asked my husband “How do I fall”? Maybe we should ask our heavenly father “How do we fall, Lord? Help me to minimize the damage.”
So, I conquered the Fearsome Bunny Hill in terrible unladylike wedging fashion inch by inch and little by little, first by conquering my pretend makeshift bunny hill and scooting down it and trying to see if my ankle really would hold. I conquered it by wobbling and seeing little kids pass me by at mach three and almost crossing my skis and crying at the bottom of the hill. I conquered it by getting bucked off the T-lift and by seeing the inspiring sight of another, who had a greater challenge than me of having only one leg, defy the message of “you can’t do it” and doing it anyway. I conquered it by hopefully learning to fall and preparing myself so that when I fall I am not shocked or surprised and can learn to fall with grace.
When I conquer the Fearsome Bunny Hill of Life, I hope to do the same, even if all I can do is wedge my way to the bottom, for then I will have tried and will not have failed. If at first you don’t succeed, wedge, wedge again. And I will look up and believe the promise that God has made, that He came that we might have life and that more abundantly and I will not believe the lies of the enemy that would have had me believe that had I gone down the hill again I would have ended up in a body cast. I didn’t. And today I walk to tell about it.
This writing is the copyright of Lynne Yohnk and was posted with her permission. Her email address is lyohnk@hotmail.com if you wish to write. Please let her know if you appreciate her writings!
