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Imagining the worst
I have spoken of my active imagination before and am sure many readers know just how much trouble an overactive imagination can be.
David, the older of my two younger brothers, and I, took off one day to chase down a rumor that there was (gasp) an FBI substation near our home in Northwest Denver. Rumor had it that this haven of the nation's most feared arm of the law was located near a water tower which was visible from our house on Kidder Drive.
Looks can indeed be deceiving, and distance hard to discern, especially when you are 10 and 11 years of age. Not to be deterred, we embarked on our adventure, one of several we shared during our growing-up years.
Up hills and down, around long corners, always sure we were headed due north, we let our imaginations run wild, discussing what manner of people worked for the FBI, what methods of interrogation they used to exact confessions from the people caught in their clutches, and what kinds of guns they undoubtedly had hidden on their persons.
The day wore on, our feet grew sore, and soon we could no longer see the long metal legs of the water tower, no matter how high on the hill we climbed. We traded roles like baseball cards that day. First I would be the confident one, then Dave, as we sought to reassure one another that we would indeed find our way to this fabled place of power, and once there, be able to determine our path home.
Because as sure as the sun rises in the east, we were hopelessly lost in a maze of cracker box houses, each block identical to the one left behind as we turned yet another corner in search of the water tower.
No child lost in a forest was as heartsick as we were that day, wandering amid the postage stamp-sized lawns, barely greening in the early spring.
Obviously, the day ended well, with us finding our way home. Having failed in our mission to uncover the location of the FBI headquarters, we kept the secrets of the day between us.
Another example of my imagination running wild involved "The Voice from Beyond."
Working hard in the laundry room of the motel owned by my sister-in-law, Sandy and her then-husband, Garry, I heard a faint cry for help. By this time, I had learned to fear the unknown, no longer was I the brave 11-year old explorer my brother so appreciated, and I quickly convinced myself that whatever I had heard, it was too far away to be of any consequence to me, and I remained focused on my task of folding sheets, towels and pillow slips.
But the voice continued, faint and fading in the background.
As it happens, we had in our neighborhood a derelict old man who was often seen scrounging around in dumpsters for aluminum cans. This gentleman, who spoke to no one as he went on his daily rounds, was frequently seen rooting around the dumpster just outside the laundry room. Thinking it must be him, I went to the window more than once, peering around with nose pressed to the glass to improve my point of view, and saw no one.
Still the voice continued. Time for my imagination to kick in. The brave 11-year old was no longer brave, the hero gene I thought I had, gone. What would I find, if I tracked down this voice? Broken bones? Or a grip like iron, bent on doing me harm? How would I help if first aid were required? Who would hear my cries for help?
The voice persisted and I became convinced that someone was in dire straits and needed my help. Timidly, I called, "Who's there, where are you?" making my way closer and closer to the door, knowing that when I reached it, I would have to open it and go over to the dumpster, lift the lid and peer in.
In my imagination, just as I reached for the lid a hand would come out and grab me, and I would collapse then and there from a heart attack. I don't know where this overwhelming and irrational fear had come from, what I do know is that I was shaking in my boots and all I wanted to do was run the other direction for help. But, as far as I knew, I was the only adult on the premises and that made this my responsibility.
Still calling out, a little louder with each word, I made my way to the door, suddenly hearing peals of laughter -- male laughter -- rising from the floorboards.
Danny and Garry, working on the plumbing or wiring or insulation or some such apparatus, had made their way through the crawlspace and had heard me working in the laundry room, and shaking with silent laughter, conspired against me. Apparently, the long pauses that I had attributed to the poor soul regaining his strength after calling out to me, were instead caused by their breathless laughter getting the best of them.
Oh, we all had a good laugh. I felt the fool and chastised them soundly for "crying wolf." But the overwhelming feeling that it left with me was one of great disappointment. In myself. I am still haunted by my delay that day. Where was my courage, my compassion?
Lost. Just as lost as I had been years before, wandering the streets of Northwest Denver.
Obviously, I am not, by nature, a brave person. I even spent many years afraid of the sound of my own voice, hard though that may be for readers to believe today. And the world has proven that an overactive imagination is not required in order to find something to fear. Front page news stories prove out day by day that there is plenty to fear.
But I have learned a new fear. As disappointed as I was with myself that day, there is now one I am loathe to disappoint. And there is so much more at stake. If the faint cries for help that day had been the real deal, that old man's life may have been forfeit because of my fear. If I ignore the faint cries for help emanating from the souls of friends, family, strangers and even my enemies, I fear what may be forfeit.
"But my righteous one will live by faith. And if he shrinks back, I will not be pleased with him." Hebrews 10:38 (NIV)
Things you won't see in heaven:
Cowards
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