Devil-May-or-May-Not-Care
In a family where spending more than ninety minutes at a social gathering was considered an over-the-top, overtly-taxing display of party mania, being the daredevil of the group isn't particularly noteworthy. In some ways, though, I'm probably that guy in our family.
Those who know me - and are familiar with my oversized, middle-aged, balding (okay, bald) physique - would probably find it a stretch to believe that I used to ride horses every day for my job at the cattle feedlot in Nebraska owned by my wife's family. I've been bucked off a few rough horses, been witness to a few big wrecks, including a front seat to the most phenomenal amateur rodeo of which I've ever been a part, when one cowboy accidentally backed his horse into an electric fence. To his credit, though the rider's get-off was movie-quality, and looked briefly like it might result in him missing an appendage - like his head or torso - or waking up two weeks from Thursday after an expensive helicopter ride, he stayed on longer than I would have, and stood up smiling, after hitting the ground with the dull thud of an overripe melon. I thoroughly enjoyed most every day of that job. I loved horses and livestock enough, in fact, that I used to rope steers on the weekends at the local fairgrounds, after having ridden all week.
My motorcycling career has spanned twenty years, and has produced some of the most memorable experiences of my life. I don't have a bike anymore, though the hope of another one still lingers with me. Though I honestly never really thought about it while riding, I suppose if asked, I would've said back then that the constant closeness with my own mortality was merely an unfortunate by-product of feeling alive and exposed, the cost of experiencing the wind and the view unblocked and unfiltered.
My old friend Randy and I have seen more than 50,000 miles of the most pristine backroads the American west has to offer. We've outridden thunderstorms, been thankful for our helmets after riding directly into one-inch hail, and spent the better part of the day leaned at a severe angle against unrelenting winds in Wyoming. Winds of the kind where even the semis were traveling at a crawl, orange hazard lights blinking a steady pattern. We picked our way carefully around downed trees and power lines after weathering a tornado in a small hotel in the middle of Kansas. In retrospect, I'm glad we lived through all of it. But I wouldn't trade those experiences for all the money in the world.
My mom will likely be both pleased and proud to learn that my propensity for experimentation is the only way I knew, as early as the mid-80's, that a Chevrolet G20 conversion van would reach an indicated top speed of 105 miles per hour. Even corrected for speedometer error, that's more than I thought it would do. To those inclined, there aren't many police radar traps outside of Valley, Nebraska, though I'm not condoning that sort of thing, you understand. Top-speed testing was somewhat of a misguided specialty of mine; an assertion proven further in my earlier post, entitled: "Oklahoma Superman".
But despite the devil-may-care light that it may seem I'm attempting to shine on myself, the reality is actually much to the contrary. A well-kept secret I'm hesitantly-willing to let you in on is this: I've never considered myself much of a courageous person. I'd far rather be the guy in the back row saying nothing, than the person standing tall in the crowd. I've made many decisions in my life while doing mental calculations as to the chances the result might require a visit to the hospital. Truth be told, I don't even like amusement parks. Roller coasters make me feel out of control, and I have a real and particular fear that the abject terror I'd likely feel aboard the latest CAD-designed scarewagons might result in me vacating my bladder in a car packed with smiling junior high kids, as we jolt through a corkscrew or dive into the failing mineshaft.
For every time I've spoken up, I'm still haunted by all the times I didn't. For every time I've defended somebody, there are many shameful others where I've remained quiet. Untold dozens of instances still come to mind easily, when I should've ignored the potential cost, and made the jump.
There are types of behavior we mistake for courage, I think. It happens because within many acts of courage, are often manifested certain common behaviors. When we see those behaviors occur, regardless of context, we have a tendency to defer to the people exhibiting them, assuming in the process that they are somehow more brave than us; more worthy, maybe, or better-versed in the topic at hand.
The woman who has the guts to stand up in a room crowded with unhappy faces, for example, and speak, unflinching, of her dissenting opinion might be courageous. Or she might just be loud and opinionated, deriving pleasure from imposing her will on any audience, willing or otherwise. The man who refuses to go along with the group, regardless of the social costs such individuality will exact, might be courageous. Or he might just be an argumentative loner, content to passively seek vengeance on the chatting masses by excluding them from all facets of his life. The rodeo cowboy on the back of a snorting bronc might be courageous. Or he might just have an inborn desire for adrenaline so strong that it overwhelms all other points of view.
My point is that what appears to be bravery - to be courage, by the common definition - might simply just be the way someone is wired. If courage consists of overcoming obstacles and emotion to accomplish something true and necessary, then might courage be defined differently based on person and circumstance? Might courage be exhibited, even if nobody is there to witness its spectacle?
The truth is yes: It's entirely possible for an act of great courage to be undertaken in anonymity. I'm convinced this happens with regularity. In fact, by definition, courage requires an element of solitude. An instance of courage occurs from within a person, and doesn't care nor depend on whether it is seen or judged by another as being 'courageous'. The very fact that it happens in solitude usually disallows the outside observer from passing clear judgement, or more often - even knowing about it.
At day's end, we don't need to feel brave. We don't need to feel strong. We don't need to feel like we're matched to the task.
To accomplish an act of courage, one is required only to act for something, in spite of something else. So when you are encouraging someone, despite the fact that you are struggling with your own self-doubt, you are acting with courage. When the diagnosis stabs you with the cold blade of fear, yet you are still willing to offer a hand to another who is fighting their own lonely battle, you are a hero, by any definition. When you are willing to run the errand, or paint the fence, or pay the bill for another, though you'd give anything for a bit of encouragement yourself, that is the highest calling. That is the service. That is the sacrifice.
And that, despite what we have mistakenly believed will be satisfied by money, by fame, by notoriety, by success...is the hunger of what we are called to do. It is what ultimately and truly satisfies the longing that never leaves you alone. The lack of it is what lingers in your thoughts in the dark and the quiet, long after others are asleep.
Regardless of how you feel, despite how you were raised, despite the disadvantages that seem to hold you behind all those other seemingly-brave souls, your very being is calling you to acts of courage.
Acts which, by their truest definition, are simply love, called by another name.