Betsy was terrified of storms. Betsy and her family lived next door to my family when we were young. Betsy was exactly one month older than me. And Betsy was terrified of storms. One afternoon, while we were playing in the back yard, one of those sudden, steamy, summer thunderstorms arrived with a vengeance. I ran inside. As I stood dripping in the kitchen, I heard a horrifying wailing outside. Peering out the window, I saw Betsy in her backyard, paralyzed with fear. She could not move, could not take a single step toward safety and refuge. It was as if Betsy had become a lawn fixture, as still as a statue in the puddling mud around her.
That’s what happens when our clay feet get the better of us. That expression – having feet of clay – has been with us human beings for thousands of years. Having feet of clay sums up the human reality of being flawed, imperfect, prone to stumble, even trip and fall. No matter how polished we try to appear or how composed we strive to conduct ourselves, we will ever and always take our next steps with feet of clay. Or not.
When fear stops us in our tracks or despair has us hunker down instead of move around, our clay feet have gotten the better of us. When grief grinds us to a halt or shame pins us in a corner, our clay feet have gotten the better of us. When we become paralyzed, inert, resigned, stuck, and otherwise as good as dead, our clay feet have turned to mud. And mud is nearly impossible to maneuver in. No one dances in a pig sty. And when our clay feet have turned to mud, it can be enormously difficult to summon the courage, the optimism, the motivation, the will to take even the smallest of steps forward. Our brains bark the order to retreat, and our heavy clay feet mired in mud readily comply.
Wise words attributed to Sir Winston Churchill offer a crowbar of hope: “If you’re going through hell, keep going.” Sounds so simplistic. Yet the realization that we don’t have to remain bound by the mud we are momentarily experiencing can potentially propel us forward, prying us out of our paralysis and proffering a renewed purpose in the journey.
Facing fear, dealing with despair, grappling with grief, and shutting down shame are not on anyone’s list for happy afternoon activities or evening endeavors. But the muddy mess they make of our feet of clay keeps us from the delight for which we are designed. If we listen carefully, there’s always music in the air. Will we dance?
Comments