Remember Bill Murray as the neurotic in “What About Bob”?

Fear immobilized him. Reduced him to a ball of nerves.

Thwart a Woolly Bear Caterpillar’s autumn walkabout and, terrified, it curls up. Instantly. A sable muff.

Then it commences playing dead—

—no matter how long you hold out that cell phone to film The Big Stretch.

While you wait, Google will tell you a caterpillar’s body houses 4,000 muscles. (Can we take a moment to marvel?)

Playing dead is their defense, a way to feel invisible. Safe.

Think introvert at the company party. Or a women’s retreat. [Read more…]

The Wind-up

They sound like bees in a snit, a low, zizzery, grinding noise.

Wind the knob and eight fish the size of a thumbnail rotate, mouths gaping open, closed. The toymaker has baited the two-inch fishing pole with a magnet the size of a baby tooth.

Wanna play? Connect the swinging, magnetic bait with magnets inside the merry-go-round of motormouths. One flick of the pole lands the fish. Catch and Release.

It takes concentration and patience to pull those fish free. Just ask my 4-year-old grandson.

“I got one!” he cries. And then, as he shakes it into a waiting cup, “There you go, little fishie.”

Catch and Release, revisited

Recently I posted “Catch and Release, a New Angle.”

Since then I have been practicing, along with some of you (as your comments and emails relay), catching self-defeating thoughts, then releasing them.

I make a game of it. How fast can I identify the mouth telling me a lie (usually my own), then let the lie go?

Last week’s game-changer

My husband led me outside. (I grabbed my camera, just in case.)

“Did you mean to do that?” he asked, pointing.

In our backyard cast-off birdcages artfully nestled among perennials. But the blue cage contained a real bird!

Blogger-brain said: Catch this. There’s a lesson here.

I focused the camera. Click. The poor bird flapped against the bars. It must have ducked through the door, causing it to slam behind it.

Click. Zoom in. Click. Scolding chirps came from overhead, maybe the mate.

Why was I chronicling the event when I could be setting a prisoner free?

Chastened—by now the poor bird was throwing itself at the bars—I handed off the camera, then knelt and eased open the door.

The bird cowered in a corner, eyes wild. As if I were the enemy.

Tipping the cage forward, inch by inch, spilled the bird free. Off it sailed—along with its partner, still scolding.

All the other cages were closed. I didn’t remember propping the blue door open. And why would a living creature enter a cage?

Well, catkins and marjoram seeds had dropped through the bars. Bird Bait.

Why didn’t I think of that?

How often has God tipped me free from a trap?—like the expectations of others. Or those I inflict on myself.

Conversely, how often do I inadvertently entrap someone else with my assumptions, or actions? My words, or my expectations?

My friend Roberta, a reader in our online community, put it this way:

“That which I catch affects not only me, but those with whom I interact. It affects my mood, my conversation, my thoughts, my well-being.”

“Being aware of the catch is crucial,” Roberta added. “And the act of releasing is what opens my heart to Christ. And closes the door to the enemy!”

The more we pause during a stressful day to check in with our heart, the sooner we become aware of what hooks us. Or traps us.

 

If we’re willing to release the bait we mistakenly take, how faithfully Grace works the barb from our lip. Our mind. Our soul.

How gently Grace tips us toward freedom.

“There you go, little fishie.”

MAKING IT PERSONAL:

Do you have an experience with Catch and Release you’d be willing to share with the rest of us?

What’s the Catch?

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I’m jazzed about the mutual encouragement and insight Grace will foster among us.

 

No engine noise that I recall, not even a searing, drawn-out whine.

Electronic kiddie tunes filled the living room, where my little grandson’s delight entranced me. Peek-a-boo was the game: Now you see me, now you don’t.

I glanced outside just as the small white plane fell out of the sky.

Nosedived into the woods across the street.

Struck the ground with a crash still resounding in my bones and imagination.

Call 911 . . . now!

A helicopter landed. Emergency vehicles sped into view, red lights flashing.

Could anyone survive such a wreck? My prayers shifted from those I imagined onboard to include those who knew the pilot and passengers. Their lives had just been changed. Forever.

I prayed for the workers. I prayed the wreckage wouldn’t explode.

Scooping up my grandson, I checked Twitter and learned the pilot was dead. He carried no passengers.

Moments before I’d reveled in the baby’s delight. Without warning, horror ripped open the day.

Was a game of Peek-a-boo ever so ironic? So wrenching?

Now I see you, now I don’t.

I’ve kept vigil at deathbeds. I’ve grieved the horrific end of a young soldier I loved.

Now I have witnessed catastrophic death. I saw someone who was soaring perish.

Someone I didn’t know. Someone cherished by family, friends, co-workers. Someone cherished by God.

Holding the baby closer, I trembled to be standing there with him: alive. Safe. We rocked back and forth, me kissing those apple cheeks and the delicate crown of his head, over and over.

Maybe the pilot had aimed for the woods: one last parting gift to strangers, to me and my grandson, to the world he was leaving.

I was written into this story—without my consent.

Craven as this is, I avoid standing up to be counted. I mistrust the media’s power. Fret I’ll commit some awful gaffe. Dread facing public opinion.

Two reporters interviewed me. Was I scared? they wanted to know. Did I worry about fire? Worry the plane would hit the house?

Leading questions probed for answers. They wanted Story.

I wanted stillness, to quiet adrenaline’s aftermath. To block out visual horror.

What had I felt as the bright mechanical bird tore through tree limbs at the far end of the yard? Aghast. Shaken to my core. Shock, not fear engulfed me.

And wrenching compassion for what this tragedy would force upon others.

Who will bear witness?

I didn’t want to be seen either. No makeup, limp hair. The raw and unvarnished me.

Petty, I know. As if, God forgive me, I can only testify to my experience when I look good.

As if I am not a citizen of a wider community, one whose truth telling might help somehow.

The camera zoomed in. I told what I saw. Described the shock of knowing I’d witnessed a life, extinguished.

Later, the news:

I would watch myself objectively.

The woman being interviewed looked tired and sad.

“A moment like this makes you so grateful,” she said, “for how precarious yet precious life is.”

In every line on her face I read empathy. The saggy chin didn’t matter. She spoke with her eyes, from the heart.

“You never know what’s going to happen to change your life,” she said.

Now I see me . . .

Real. Raw. Caring. The words came as I needed them.

I may never meet the pilot’s family or friends. But each time I re-live that plane falling out of the sky, I’ll pray. I’ve shared one small part of a journey that’s only beginning for them.

And I’ve taken a step of my own toward showing up. Speaking up.

The old nemeses of our souls reappear, again and again. “You’re going to blow this. And then you’ll pay,” they whisper.

I feel called to move deeper. Or is it higher? Maybe it’s both.