I’ve never been a risk taker.
I don’t understand people who are. Why would you willingly do something that isn’t safe, that could end in failure, that could hurt? I hear people talk about the thrill of the experience, but for us non-risk-takers, there is no thrill. There is fear, worry and stress but no thrill. I don’t get it.
When I was in my early teens, I took swimming lessons at camp. If you worked hard, you could progress a whole level during the week. At that time, there was just Junior, Intermediate and Senior, before you took qualifications to be a lifeguard. Each level was comprehensive and it was a great accomplishment to move from one to another. I was a good swimmer and one summer, I enrolled in the senior class. All week, I worked at learning all the skills, but when Friday/test day came, I didn’t take the test. Why? Because I might fail.
The next year I did exactly the same thing.
For many years, that’s how I lived my life. Safely.
Oh, I did some things. I got married and had children. I ran my own business. I got a second job. We moved. But for the most part, my decisions were made based on the risk factor. If it was risky, I probably wouldn’t do it. Sadly, I made decisions for my children when they were small based on my fears, something I deeply regret.
I don’t remember what precipitated it, but one day, I realised my world had gotten small. Minuscule. Every time I moved, I bumped against one of my fears. I would turn and there was another one.
This is a devastating way to live, and not even a little bit God-honouring. Every decision I made told God I didn’t really trust Him. I lived by fear, not by faith.
It’s been a journey to live another way. One that I am still on.I stumble and fall into the trap of fear, but I get up, take His hand and begin to walk again. Sometimes I walk with my eyes scrunched and knots in my stomach, but I walk. God, He has tremendous patience. And love.
Seven years ago, I made the concrete decision to take some courses and walk toward the dream of a lifetime. Very scary stuff. At first, the dream was to write and get published, but deep within the recesses of my heart lay another dream, so frightening and wonderful I could barely say it out loud.
I wanted to write a book.
It wasn’t until two years later, during a second course, I learned I could write fiction. Since then, I completed a third course, started a critique group, learned more than I ever thought was possible about writing fiction and wrote a book. I did. I wrote a book.
I am in the process of editing it now, but a week from today, I take it to a writer’s conference and begin looking for an editor and agent. I’ve been to writer’s conference before, but never with a finished manuscript. In my mind, I am standing on the shore, shivering, thinking about the swimming test.
This time, I will jump in.