"Burn the ships!"
In 1519, Spanish Conquistador, Hernando Cortez landed in Mexico on the shores of the Yucatan peninsula. His quest? Acquire the treasures said to be owned by the Aztecs.
He had 500, 100 sailors, and eleven ships with him from Spain. Their goal was lofty: overthrow a powerful empire that had been in place for six centuries.
no big deal right.
ha. where do I sign up?
So he turned to these men and made things simple in one statement that included two options: Accomplish the goal, or die. And he said it in these simple words.
"Burn the ships! If we're going home, we'll go home in their ships."
And because failure was not an option, they succeeded.
I identify strongly with ships (and anything that requires navigation). I know if I was born in an earlier era I probably would have been a sailor.
I have a huge independent/explorer/wanderlust/pioneer streak inside of me. Sometimes I imagine an alternate life, it exists in the recesses of my mind. It's a solitary lifestyle, but it burns in the back of my mind, in the back of my busy, people-centric, professional ministry lifestyle.
Shaped by my travels to Massachusetts, the books I've read, the short stories I've written on rogue waves, visiting the Queen Mary, walking the decks of the battleships in Norfolk, the interest I've had in nautical terminology, the two marine biology trips I took to Catalina living on a 3-masted schooner for a week...
In this alternate life, I live in Maine all by myself, operating an old candle-burning lighthouse, on a remote island with only a vessel to get me around. I'd stay there reading old books by the light of the flickering lamps, sitting up high all hours of the night. Early morning, stepping through the fog to search for clams on the shores. Tinkering with equipment in my wooden garage; shafts of light peaking through the old boards. As the twilight sets in, sitting at a wooden desk with my Ham radio.
But there's a storm approaching my tiny island: an ongoing battle with anxiety and fear is coming.
Like a weathered captain leaning up against the railings overlooking the horizon with cautious eyes that have seen a lifetime of close calls, I too have stories of my battles with anxiety. But this next storm is quite the maelstrom; I can tell it's a Category Five. And my instant reaction is to get supplies, board up my lighthouse, load up my vessel, prepare, brace, protect myself, and escape.
This time I'm going to throw my maps of alternate routes overboard--the maps that have the paths of least resistance.
I'm going to tear down my crow's nest. The place where I stand and scan the horizon for potential threats, and pain. The place where I ruminate about the past and wring my hands about the future.
I'm going to break my compass of Unattainable Expectations. The compass that never points due north.
I'm cutting my sails that are only ever filled with the winds of Fight or Flight.
I'm dismembering my rudder of Avoiding Disappointment.
I'm hacking my Masts of Doubt with a large ax, and then tossing them overboard.
I'm not just going to annihilate all the navigation portions of my ship, I'm going to burn the entire thing. I'll be trapped on my island as the unholy waves approach, but I'm ready for it.
Think of the shuddering that occurs as every brick, every stone, struggles to hold shape as the powerful wave rails against it.
The chaos, the abyss, the tempestuous nature of the ocean.
The vastness that separates, invades, and conquers.
The unpredictable, angry temperament.
It seems that the ocean and men's hearts have a lot in common.
Two strong and stubborn forces can play the same game.
I have a big God. If I take the option of failure away, this impossible task can be accomplished by God alone. And as the powerful waves rail against me, God holds together every brick, every stone; the very fabric of the mortar rooting me to the solid foundation.
So the ships are burned, and I'm bracing for the storm; what is next?
"Hold fast."
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