The Parachute

I grew up a devoted church goer. My denomination was the Church of Pop Culture. The esteemed and charismatic leader? Oprah. She led worship every afternoon at 4 o’clock and I rarely missed. I so ordered my life as to be in attendance with millions of other followers as she imparted wisdom and knowledge and universal spiritual truths over the airwaves into my home.

One of the most profound and lasting lessons that I learned from Oprah was that I had the power to shape my own destiny. Whatever I wanted, I just needed to say it out loud and it would all be mine.

I did that for, like, ever. And it worked. My life was a living testament to this truth: Just say it, and it will be so.

I wanted to grow up and get married.  I did, at the age of 22 to a guy I met when I was 14.

I wanted to study French and be a teacher. I lived in France for a year, came home, got my degree and a certificate and started teaching.

I wanted to have a family. We conceived three beautiful, healthy children in the first months we tried.

I wanted to stay at home with my kids when they were little, so I did.

Eventually, I wanted to go back to work in a challenging job that was close to home and fit perfectly around my kids’ school schedules. Check! Not a problem!

It was exactly like Oprah suggested. I put my heart’s desire out to the universe and the universe returned it to me just as I’d wished.

Although I worshipped Oprah devoutly throughout my early years of life, I was always curious about God. (I felt pretty good about this because I’d heard Oprah speak reverently of him.) I perked up when I noticed any references to God. In my teens I found this poem that struck me. It was so profound that I wrote it on a stationery card in violet with my very best felt-tipped Le Pen. The poem was called “What God Hath Promised" by Annie Johnson Flint and it goes like this

God hath not promised skies always blue,
Flower-strewn pathways all our lives through;
God hath not promised sun without rain,
Joy without sorrow, peace without pain.

God hath not promised we shall not know
Toil and temptation, trouble and woe;
He hath not told us we shall not bear
many a burden, many a care.

God hath not promised smooth roads and wide,
Swift, easy travel, needing no guide;
Never a mountain rocky and steep,
Never a river turbid and deep

But God hath promised strength for the day,
Rest for the labor, light for the way,
Grace for the trials, help from above,
Unfailing sympathy, undying love

That poem was my introduction to a God I had not grown up knowing and to life's painful realities that I couldn’t really fathom.  As I grew older, the promise of a loving God made me want to know Him more and I sought opportunities to grow in my faith. The suggestion that pain and suffering could happen in this world kept me grounded and I strove to stay humble despite my good fortune. But I never shed the foundational principles that had been reinforced for me daily in my formative years– that this life and everything I enjoyed in it were of my own choosing.

From time to time as an adult I’d run across the card with that poem recorded in my neatest teenage girl script.  It always prompted me to take a moment to reflect and remind myself -- things may not always be this great! You’ve got to give thanks for this amazing life you’ve made for yourself.

And therein was the rub. I never questioned it then but now can clearly see its flaw: I was building this great life. God was standing by in case I needed help. On one level I knew that was ridiculous. But, at my core, it’s what I truly believed.

This was my deeply ingrained worldview, brought to me by modern American culture with a dash of Christianity sprinkled in. The universe had affirmed it for me time and time again. It cheered me on, “Erin…you ROCK at this life stuff. You’re NAILING IT! But if you ever get stuck and need help, God is your Phone a Friend.”

So this was the composition of the parachute that was strapped to me right before I was shoved from the airplane as I described here. If you ever find yourself in similar circumstances, you’ll also get a parachute to guide you as you careen towards the earth.This parachute will be of your own making. You’ve either taken the time to carefully craft a reinforced safety apparatus or you’ve accepted a flimsy substitute As Seen on TV. Your handiwork will either bring you down gently or barely make a difference as you and the ground become reacquainted.

I was fortunate to have stumbled upon that poem so long ago and to be reminded of it over the years. It is a profound foreword for the life I now know. It, along with the introductory work it prompted me to do to build a relationship with God, helped soften the blow when tragedy struck. 

But my parachute had some pretty big gashes in it. They were caused by the notion that I had control over the circumstances of my life – that a mere thought could be shaped into reality and a worry would prevent any catastrophe. Because of these gashes, my landing was harder than it could have been and my suffering was compounded as a result.

So, at the risk of sounding so cliché, what is the construct of your parachute? Have you prepared something that will soften your landing when things come undone? Or will it fail you when the inevitable crash takes place?