I woke up unnecessarily early one morning in Malawi and cast off down a path before the cresting sun. The thoughts of possibly stumbling upon a black mamba would normally make me paranoid, but those thoughts were cast off down a mental path that wouldn't be traveled for the remainder of my journey.
For an hour or two, I blazed trails up a mountainside that had allegedly not been traversed by a westerner in over twenty years. I wanted to break that streak. The mountain was not particularly steep, but it was treacherous, often providing me a way up but not a way back down.
I had just shimmied up one of those points and looked out upon the risen sun when I heard snarling and went numb. I could not climb back down and in my foolishness, had not even picked up a stick with which to protect myself. So, fear-tinged numbness, I continued to look out at the sun and await the inevitable. But it didn't come. I slowly turned and saw a baboon about 50 yards away, across a small ravine, and about 30 feet up on a ledge.
I took a step or two, and while the baboon continued to snarl viciously at me, he didn't move. Slowly, I continued to shuffle up the mountain, keeping as far a distance from the keeper of the territory as possible. After several hours of climbing, I finally reached the narrow summit of the mountain. The strong gusts of wind kept me clinging closely to the boulders at the top.
Between the two largest rocks at the very peak, I noticed a small cleft. I raised my leg high into the air and was able to climb into the cleft. I sat down, sang "Rock of Ages," journaled, and prayed.
A bit later, I set back out, looking for an alternative way to get back down the same mountainside. Again, I heard the snarling, but this time the sound seemed close enough to reverberate down my spine. I turned and again saw my hairy friend--still across the small ravine--but now about eye level. I took a few steps to continue downward and he climbed off his crest and disappeared from view.
Seeing and hearing him was frightening; not seeing or hearing him was alarming. I beat back across the peak and began to descend the other side of the mountain, though it would put me miles from my village. No thoughts about snakes. I just began to jog and jump whenever I found opportunity. I would rather sprain an ankle than be torn apart.
Gradually, I found a village at the base of the mountain. They had not seen many azungu (white people) before, especially coming from the mountainside through their village. When I got to the main road, I strapped my backpack on tighter and used my coursing adrenaline to jog around the base of the mountain and settle upon my old village.
The reason I bring this story up is because it portrays a particular psychological defense mechanism of mine, taught in childhood, and continuing to this day. During many of the harder childhood years, my method of self-preservation came from drawing inside of myself and becoming numb to my surroundings. No thoughts. No feelings. I became a spectator inside a shell, waiting to see the horrid games play out.
While I would physically freeze as well as mentally freeze as a child during times of trauma, I gradually grew out of the physical portion. (Otherwise I would still be on the mountain with the giant mountain monkey.) Whenever I faced physical or mental trauma in ensuing years, my rational and emotional faculties would simply shut down. This is why most of you have likely not seen much emotion from me (aside from normal hyperactivity and animation). My wife sometimes complains that I never get excited about anything. That's why.
Emotions make me vulnerable. I associate vulnerability with weakness (wrongly), and I subconsciously steel myself. My range of emotions are limited to a child's vocabulary (happy, sad, mad) and pale in comparison with those of an actual child (like Baby Seth!).
And while this defense mechanism has proven a burden to my marriage, requiring a good bit of counseling, it has proven a blessing on occasions like the one described and now on this deployment. I am often cautious, but rarely ever afraid. In a convoy, while others sweat, snap at each other, and stress out, I sit quietly, scanning the scene for potential threats, and beside that think and feel nothing.
I gave a homework assignment to a soldier I counseled recently. He also has a problem with vulnerability. This past week, we both committed to spend time individually kneeling before the Lord in prayer--a position of vulnerability. This was once suggested to me by a wise counselor (and as Irving Yalom points out, all counselors should themselves be counseled).
And even as I continue to grow out of this defect, with stubborn sluggishness, I rejoice that like all circumstances, internal and external, this has been used in the providence of God for my good and His glory. We can stand unashamed of our various psychological defects, knowing that the Father's love secures us, Jesus' blood has redeemed us, and the Spirit's power sanctifies us. And God's strength is manifested in our weakness.
God has raised me up to counsel the broken because in me, the worst of sinners, He has made the bones He has broken to rejoice (Ps. 51). I pray that I can do so with emotion!
