Poetic Leaps

The first class I ever took in college was focused on the creation of poetry. My professor, Prof. Weaver, was an old grandfatherly man with skin like the smooth brown leather on the poetry journal I've been eyeing for years. He had a quiet voice that was both intriguing and sleep-inducing, and I often sat there wondering how I had never heard of a poet like him. His poems were beautiful, so beautiful that even when I could not understand them, I did not feel I needed to. One of my own poems I turned in (which I was fairly proud of) elicited a comment from him that I have never forgotten: "Ashley, you need to take this the whole way. I feel like you stopped somewhere before the poetic leap you needed to take here. Leap, don't hesitate."

While I struggled to understand what he said in regards to my poetry, I valued that advice in a different way. It's true that I had stopped somewhere before taking a leap; I do it all the time. Hesitating on the brink of a scary change, a scary decision, a scary future. I peer over the edge and because I can't see everything below me, I will not jump. In my mind, I will say "I'm just not jumping yet." But in reality, I have no intention of jumping until I see for myself that someone has dragged a nice cushy mat at the bottom that will absolutely catch me. I will not leap until I know for sure that that leap will take me exactly where I plan on going.

Sometimes I think that this is healthy caution. In ordinary life, of course, people don't go jumping off cliffs or into shallow water. But in my walk with God, this is more like doubt than caution. I essentially say to God, "God, unless you tell me the future, I'm not gonna follow. Unless you reach out and physically hold my hand, I'm locking myself in here to keep safe. Unless I have a contingency plan that covers plans B, C, D, E, and F, You aren't gonna get me to go anywhere."

That is resistance. That is disobedience. That is pride and stubbornness. And, most importantly, that is fear--the crippling kind that freezes our limbs and makes our minds spin in circles for hours.

Leaps don't necessarily seem poetic to me. (If they did, I might be more likely to embrace them.) But leaps are necessary. Hanging out at the top of a ledge because jumping is too scary forces you to focus on your fear and never move past it: jumping even when you're scared gets you back down to solid ground.

I think it's time I learned how to leap--how to follow through on a project without worrying about its perfect outcome--how to trust God to use me for His purpose when day-to-day life can seem purposeless--how to let unexpected changes transform me into a better and healthier me, rather than a doubting and discouraged shadow of me.

Maybe God put that grandfatherly voice of a professor in my life at exactly the time I needed to hear those words--not just for my poetry, but for my perseverance in the life God gave me.

"Ashley, you need to take this the whole way. I feel like you stopped somewhere before the leap you needed to take here. Leap, don't hesitate..." Leap.