The High Places
My oldest daughter, Esther, turned sixteen last week and got her driver’s license. I notice that now when I’m out on the road, I’m more observant of drivers’ behavior, both those around me and even my own. What I once did on autopilot—not paying particular attention at all—has become a keen observation and interpretation of those around me.
She’s had her permit this past year, so we’ve been riding with her as often as possible. This, of course, requires driving with an adult in the car, so Ty and I have been patiently (and not-so-patiently) correcting, advising, and teaching. Sometimes yelling… but overall, despite the occasional tension and moment of panic, she has slowly and carefully grown into a real driver.
Last week, I was on the interstate, cruising along towards the studio, when I noticed a car behind me. Through my rearview mirror, I could see a low-rider with tinted windows, anxiously bouncing back and forth, impatiently weaving in the lane, clearly communicating their annoyance.
No problem. I moved aside, changing lanes, and the car behind me now sped around me. The driver blew past, and I saw a neon yellow bumper sticker on the back window.
In all caps, it read:
PLEASE BE PATIENT
STUDENT DRIVER
Guys, I can’t make this stuff up.
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Learning curves are hard. We all just want to get to where we confidently know what we’re doing. There’s nothing worse than feeling incompetent and unable, whether it’s taking on a new position at work, navigating an unfamiliar city, or learning to drive.
When I entered UT as a Graphic Design student, I was befuddled by the required computer and design technology. I’m not a naturally tech-savvy person. I chose design because I loved art and the creative process; I loved drawing, mixing colors, and creating things on paper. And I was good at it! I won state and regional high school art competitions, so I thought I’d be a natural at design. But I was thrust into a world that demanded the use of technology. If I wanted to create on paper, I could be an illustrator, perhaps, or even a fine art major. But if I wanted to do graphic design, then by its very nature, I had to learn to use design software. There was no getting around it.
I struggled hard. It was a mind-numbingly slow process of figuring out how to create in a whole new way. The path that once came naturally and earned me accolades was now sluggish, laborious, and fraught with stumbling blocks.
I worked with tutors and spent time watching other students. And I learned how to think creatively: to utilize the little bit of technology I understood and incorporate it as a tool into my creative undertakings. I was forced to think about how to better blend what I naturally loved (art, drawing, printmaking, painting) and marry it with design technology. In short: that painful learning curve made me a much better creator, artist, and designer. It paved the way to where I am today.
True, I considered quitting and changing majors. I thought about switching to creative writing—leave all this complicated design tech in the dust! I’ve always loved to write. Perhaps it was time to move on to something a bit less painful.
But fast forward twenty-four years to where I sit today, and I’m so thankful that I stuck it out. Not only do I get to write, which I still love, but my whole life has been built up around what I learned as a Graphic Designer. Design—which now is as natural to me as breathing—is truly one of the great joys of my life. The learning curve was painful, but the fruit of that toilsome labor has grown far beyond anything I ever imagined it would be.
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Yes, learning curves are tough.
But maybe the more significant danger is when we can’t see our own weakness and need for growth. Or we don’t have the humility to admit our shortcomings. Perhaps the real problem is when—like the student driver behind me—despite our inexperience, we try to just blow past the learning curve and move ahead with our own abilities.
I think that’s the real danger zone.
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Last year, I read the classic book Hinds Feet on High Places by Hannah Hurnard. My version is new, revised with beautiful illustrations and hand lettering by Jill DeHaan and Rachel McNaughton. The illustrations caused me to pick up what could be considered an outdated story, but I think the art breathes new life into the narrative.
The story’s main character, aptly named Much-Afraid, journeys up a mountain with her beloved Chief Shepherd. She flees her terrible bullying relatives, Craven Fear, Gloomy, and Spiteful, to name a few, and her destination is the glorious High Places at the top of the mountain.
Aside from the constant fear and trembling, weakness, and waffling, there is a much bigger and more practical problem for our little Much-Afraid. She is crippled. Her feet do not work properly on even, solid ground, so climbing a mountain and taking a long journey by foot seems downright impossible.
But the Chief Shepherd assures her that he has hand-picked two companions who will help her on the way up the mountain. She can lean on these two companions when she struggles, and her feet will become stronger as she journeys up the mountain with these teachers guiding her to the High Places.
One of my favorite passages from the story is when the Chief Shepherd introduces Much-Afraid to her two companions:
In a very short time, they were over the bridge, and had come to the foot of the mountains, where the path began the ascent of the lower slopes. Here great boulders were scattered all around, and suddenly Much-Afraid saw the figures of two veiled women seated on one of the rocks at the side of the path. As the Shepherd and she came up to the place, the two rose and bowed silently to him.
Here are the two guides which I promised, said the Shepherd quietly. From now on until you are over the steep and difficult places, they will be your companions and helpers.
Much-Afraid looked at them fearfully. Certainly they were tall and appeared to be very strong, but why were they veiled? For what reason did they hide their faces? The longer and closer she looked at them, the more she began to dread them. They were so silent, so strong, and so mysterious. Why did they not speak? Why not give her a friendly word of greeting?
Who are they? she whispered to the Shepherd. Will you tell me their names, and why don’t they speak to me? Are they dumb?
No, they are not dumb, said the Shepherd very quietly, but they speak in a new language, Much-Afraid, a dialect of the mountains that you have not yet learned. But as you travel with them, little by little, you will learn to understand their words.
They are good teachers; indeed, I have few better. As for their names, I will tell you in your own language, and later you will learn what they are called in their own tongue. This, said he, motioning toward the first of the silent figures, is Sorrow. And the other is her twin sister, Suffering.
Poor Much-Afraid! Her cheeks blanched, and she began to tremble from head to foot. She felt so like fainting that she clung to the Shepherd for support.
I can’t go with them, she gasped. I can’t! I can’t! O my Lord Shepherd, why do you do this to me? How can I travel in their company? It is more than I can bear. You tell me that the mountain way itself is so steep and difficult that I cannot climb it alone. Then why, oh why, must you make Sorrow and Suffering my companions? Couldn’t you have given Joy and Peace to go with me, to strengthen and encourage me and help me on the difficult way? I never thought you would do this to me! And she burst into tears.
I remember reading this while sitting on an airplane, flying back to Houston. Cancer had just returned… again. Tiny spots were changing by the day on my skin. I could see the spreading of a fatal disease before my very eyes.
I was introduced to Much-Afraid’s guides, her faithful teachers, Sorrow and Suffering, chosen thoughtfully and purposefully by the good Shepherd. As I read, high above the clouds, just like our weak little heroine Much-Afraid, I sobbed. My cheeks were soaked with tears as I ugly-cried and snorted into my sleeve.
Because even though we all want to be stronger, we want to grow and change and be wise people of integrity and character, nobody wants Sorrow and Suffering to be their guides. Nobody wants that learning curve. Nobody.
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Life is full of mini-sufferings in varying degrees.
Ty and I are seriously considering a significant addition and home renovation project. At this point, we’re just dipping our toes in the water, meeting with contractors, and generally trying to decide if now is the right time for this or not.
I sent separate texts to two of my friends currently undergoing home renovations. What do you wish you had known before you started? I asked.
One texted back right away:
Don’t do it.
I laughed. She texted again: I mean it. Just walk to my house one day this week, and I’ll show you what I’m talking about. My house is a disaster zone. It’s loud. Nothing is on time. Things are installed incorrectly. And it’s so much more expensive than I thought it would be.
She finished with: Maybe when it’s over, I’ll be glad we did it.
The other friend texted and said:
Can I call you?
A few days later, we had time for a more extended conversation. She was open and honest: it’s been eight months of living in their basement. It’s been relationally hard on her family and her marriage.
Maybe you’re not wired like this, Sarah, but I see all my idols toppling around me in this process, and it hurts. The things I thought were going to make me happy just don’t. I’m more frustrated than I’ve ever been. She sighed. Maybe at the end of it all, I’ll be glad we did it. But right now, it’s just painful.
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Caring for ailing parents.
The business you’ve built collapses around you.
An uncomfortable amount of debt.
Empty Nesting.
A dry marriage.
A deteriorating friendship.
Crippling anxiety and depression.
Living in your basement for months with no end in sight.
I’ve had conversations with people about every one of those sorrows recently. They are very real hard places. Aren’t we all Much-Afraid, journeying up the mountain, with Suffering and Sorrow as our appointed teachers in one way or another?
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What is happening to us on this journey up the mountain? As we get closer to the top with each step, we can choose to lean on our faithful guides, strengthening our lame feet—and our whole self—in the process. Or, we can reject the teachers and try to race to the end by our own means.
But in that case, our feet will always be crippled. We will miss out on the bigger, better story. We will never change. And we’ll look back on a life filled with regrets: one where we were at the center, unable to understand why we’re so desperately unhappy with this life of comfort that we tried to build.
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I don’t know if my lymphedema will be managed.
I don’t know if cancer will come back.
I don’t know if we’ll ever move forward with our home renovation plans.
And I don’t know how your hard things will turn out.
But I do know this: we do not lose heart. Because while we may be outwardly wasting away—finding ourselves smack in the middle of a painful learning curve—inwardly, we are being renewed day by day. Our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all (2 Corinthians 4:16-17).
Thank God. See you at the top, friend.
