There are a number of reasons that people have criticized me in the course of my life, but one of the most painful jabs that anyone has ever taken at me has historically come from some of the people I loved the most. I can recall the pejorative tones and nearly enraged faces of both of my brothers and my cousin at different times telling me how my caution was over-the-top and, really, just a cover for a cowardice that would eventually cost me. Angry and selfish words at the time? Yeah. But they were true.

I don’t remember at all what each of them got on my case about, and my cousin was probably just trying to con me into doing something foolishly reckless anyway, but the guys were always right. I’ve always been the cautious one, the cowardly one: afraid of stepping out, afraid of getting hurt, afraid of disapproval of others, paralyzed by it all. I couldn’t sing in front of people. I couldn’t play sports in front of a crowd. I couldn’t act silly in public or break a rule. In all my junior high and high school years, I never even went to a dance with a girl. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. No chances, no uncertainties, no embarrassment.

It’s no wonder my brothers faces are still burned in my mind: Dustin mocking me, Yale chiding, and Roberto virtually yelling at me, “Josh, if you don’t take a chance, you’re going to miss your whole life, look back, and wonder what the hell happened to it all!” The wounds of a friend are faithful.

Two opportunities to change things presented themselves recently. One was a text message: “Beginning swing classes start next Thursday!” The other was the excited words and broad smile behind shaggy, dripping hair: “You guys have to do that!”

My friend didn’t think I’d do it when she sent the message — in fact, she sent me a half-shocked, half-skeptical reply: “you’re serious!?” To give her due credit, I wouldn’t have believed me either; I almost didn’t. But, whatever the case, I agreed, signed up online, and joined her for a night of semi-rhythmic, spaz-tastic, hooziwhatsit.  I had to force myself repeatedly to stop thinking and just go out to “dance,” though I didn’t really do either very well — dancing or not thinking.  Still, I kept going.

I half saw a junior-high version of me standing against the wall beside the water coolers, staring out into the crowd of dancers like there was some treasure there that he would never attain. With every failed step, I paused, then started again, quick-quick-slow—slow—, hoping to vindicate that anxious little boy by sheer, untalented tenacity. (It sounds better when I talk about it like this, but I’ll bet it didn’t look remotely heroic to anyone else.)

Two days later, I went for a hike, which is sort of adventurous, but nothing too outlandish — even for me. There was a note in the plan about taking swim suits so we could swim in the falls. Heh, I chuckled to myself, reading the message, fat chance. I don’t swim in public if I can help it, particularly not in a river, but we had a surprise guest join us who had different plans.

When he saw the water, I think I saw him start to twitch. First, he decided he had to crawl out over the wet rocks and stick his head into a waterfall — don’t ask me why. But he was so amazingly happy about it, his long hair pulled straight over his face by the weight of the water as he chattered about what a rush it was. I wouldn’t have ordinarily given a second thought to actually doing it myself, envisioning the sight from someone else’s perspective and hearing their laughter at me.  But then, it looked fun, so I did it.  And it was.

Then he sat down and started to untie his shoes.  He changed his mind; retied his shoe; and, grinning widely, walked toward a pool of water, telling the other two of us how awesome it is to stand behind a waterfall. Before I knew what I was doing, I’d stripped off my shirt and was standing in four feet of cold mountain water, staring out at a flickering blue sky behind a sheet of falling water. My shoes and shorts were soaked, and I don’t know what the people at the 7-11 thought when I walked in looking like I’d pissed my pants, but I don’t really care.

When we left the dance hall on Thursday night, my friend asked me if I’d had any amount of fun — and it sounded like she was prepared for a rather unpleasant answer. I said, “I’m really working on showing happiness about the things that I’m happy about, instead of being negative and cynical all the time. Honestly, I had fun.”

No kidding; I did. Was it because I like to swing dance? Well, that’s yet to be determined.

It’s been a conviction lately that God has a bigger, bolder, better idea of living than I ever have. It’s been increasingly impressed upon me that my isolating, deadening fears aren’t exactly the idea of life that He’s ever had for me or any of His children.  I actually want this other life, if for no other reason than to trust God and give the finger to the fears that have enslaved me for so long. (A perfect motivation, probably not. But definitely better than the previous alternative.)

I told some friends last night, “If I find that I don’t like swing and never want to do it agian, that’s OK with me. I just want to avoid it because I dislike it, not because I’m afraid of it.”

Roberto and Yale, you were right.  I love you guys.