When I think back on some of my favorite childhood memories, there is one in particular that comes to mind. I was probably in my early teens at the time, and the church I attended back then was having a Family Fun Day at one of the local lakes. It was in the dead of winter, so all of the activities centered around ice and snow. Some people went cross-country skiing around the lake while others went sledding. One dad even built an igloo with his two little boys! The church had rented the large lakeside cabin for the day, so board games and steaming crockpots of chili and soup awaited everyone inside, along with a roaring fire, when the outdoor chill became too much. For some reason, this memory has stuck with me.
One part especially...
A friend had loaned me a pair of ice skates that his daughters had outgrown years before and someone that day had cleared a part of the frozen lake so people could skate if they chose. I had only been on the ice rink a few times before that, and I was by no means very good. But I did enjoy the freedom of attempting to glide out on the ice and facing the fear of falling. It was its own kind of thrill. That day, I laced up the skates and went out onto the frozen lake to give it a try. I recall getting around a lot better than I expected to, lending even more fun to the experience. I stayed out there skating in circles for quite a long time, pausing every once in awhile to look out at the beautiful frozen lake covered in white snow... the earth silent in the stillness of winter's grip.
For the longest time, I've never been able to understand why this snippet in time has stayed such a profound memory for me. It's like the feeling I had that day of being out there has remained a part of who I am. Yes, it calls me back to a simpler time in my life and it for sure reminds me of happier days in my youth before the hardships of life really hit. But only recently was I able to finally put a finger on why this moment has continued with me for so long. As I was watching figure skating at the most recent Winter Olympics, it occurred to me that part of what is so mesmerizing about walking on a frozen pond or lake or even lacing up the skates is it's the only time one can say that they've trod on water. Any other time, gravity will ensure your sinking. When frozen, it's the only time the water is stationary enough to hold you up.
I've never been afraid of living in the freeze. After all, I've called Alaska my home for all of my life. Cold weather and snow doesn't bother me in the last. In fact, I actually love it. But I think my heart deep down has always been afraid of the freeze that can lock up a soul forever. Of pain that can drive so deep that it becomes a question of if it will ever thaw again. It's probably why I've always preferred water that is moving - because that pull and push of the tide is my reminder that the pain doesn't have to leave you immobile... forever defined by a massive thing that left your soul paralyzed. But what about the ice? Isn't it comprised of water too? Frozen, yes. But still with the potential for its own beauty.
It suddenly dawned on me that all figure skating is simply dancing upon what is hard and fixed. Taking the frozen water and turning it into a canvas for art. And I realized that the day I gliding around that pond in the middle of winter's harsh, I was tasting what my future was going to look like: learning how to dance upon the hard and create something beautiful and lasting on it. To dance on the surface of my heartache and discover how to move in the freeze of the suffering I encountered. To risk the fall and figure out a way to rise to my feet again. To trust that each faltering step was somehow moving me closer to the person and the purpose for which I was made.
Since that day all those years ago, the freeze has been rough. My heart has frozen over many times, locked in an icy clasp of loss, brokenness, and fear. I have suffered the soul-bruises of being knocked down over and over, wishing it didn't have to look this way. I had stared at the white canvas of the proverbial ice, wondering if anything beautiful was possible in the midst of such desolation and isolation. The quiet almost unbearable. My God seemingly having forsaken me. My doubts and my questions louder than my faith. I've longed for the freedom of being able to live with abandon and release the past in favor of a heavenly gain but still nursing the ache of falling over and over. Like a skater who has a bad performance and loses all sense of where they are or what comes next, I have tried to feel the music again and yet wondered if perhaps I wouldn't be able to do so ever again.
And yet...
I think back to that young girl all those years ago as she slowly made her way around the pond. She was so proud of herself for standing more than she fell. For leaving fear behind and trusting the ice would hold. That she would be safe and the bottom wouldn't fall out from underneath her. Why would her soul be any different? Does she not have the same promise that loving Arms will catch her even if she stumbles? That gentle Hands will heal her even if she is bruised? That she will be held and kept safe no matter what the risks of dancing on the frozenness of it all may bring?
Perhaps the invitation has remained the same from that day till now: go out and make art where the hard things are. In choosing to believe that something beautiful can exist where there appears to be nothing but lifelessness, you can declaring that the freeze is your asset, not your liability. That there is possibility for creating and hoping and living as you practice rising from every fall you take. You are still standing here. Wobbly? Maybe so. But still standing. And the ice hasn't taken you out yet.
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