Scaling Pyramids: Finding Brave as Abba’s Child

I started my first period among Mayan pyramids in the jungles of Guatemala. I’m quite certain that was not what the Mayans were thinking when they offered blood sacrifices, yet there I was. It was the summer following fifth grade and I was at the top of a pyramid with a mysterious tummy ache. 

To say my parents were adventurous would be accurate. To say they were a little crazy would also be true. But to say that they were wholly surrendered in their calling from the Lord, and were willing to do whatever it took to follow Him, would be the truest statement of all. 

When people ask me about my early years, I find them difficult to explain. There is no cookie cutter shaped like my childhood. My dad was likely the reason for most of our adventures. My mom chooses to be brave even when it goes against her natural tendency, but my dad was brave all the way to his bones. 

The calling on their hearts was to bring Jesus to the poor and marginalized. That same call brought Mom from a farm in Kansas and Dad from a potato farm in Manitoba to the inner city of South Central Los Angeles. There, they met, married, and had four children. I spent my early childhood immersed in and embraced by a vibrant culture very unlike the one that most little white girls are born into. 

My parents devoted more than thirty years to vocational ministry. They planted a church in the heart of South Central Los Angeles. Later, they planted other churches in Wichita, Kansas, and Winnipeg, Manitoba.

The year following the L.A. Riots (which happened largely in my neighborhood), burnout fell heavy on my parents. Guatemalan friends suggested that our family take a sabbatical in their homeland. So, we loaded into our minivan and drove through Mexico to the colorful and beautiful country of Guatemala. That’s how I found myself atop a pyramid during a pivotal moment in a young woman’s life. 

The Guatemalan people refreshed us with the beauty of their culture, breathing Jesus into my parents’ burnt-out souls. But it was not to Guatemala that they were called. A year later, we drove back north through Mexico to resume the ministry God had written on their hearts in Wichita, Kansas.

Dad’s purpose in life was clear: to bring hope to the hopeless—more specifically, to work with the poor of the inner city. He walked the streets alongside gang members and the homeless, getting to know their families and stories. He was passionate about planting churches where these communities would find belonging and healing. If I had a nickel for every time a parent of mine prayed with a stranger—well, then again, my dad never met a stranger.

My daddy was unafraid. He had the same kind of courage the Apostle Paul must have had. Had he lived in the early church days, I have no doubt he would have had a shipwreck story or two of his own to tell. He was bold and zealous.

I was rarely afraid during my childhood, so long as my dad was there. His strength and confidence was infectious, and it was easy to accept and embrace any given person or situation because my dad showed me the way. In high school, I went through a period of chronic night terrors. I was afraid to even sleep in my own bed. Despite countless prayers, the only thing that brought me comfort was the presence of my mom or dad. I spent many nights finding peace by sleeping alongside one of them. 

The only time I saw my dad afraid was when cancer invaded his brain and forced him into it. 

My brave, fearless daddy was suddenly the one who was scared of the dark. He feared the hospital noises, and needed constant supervision and reassurance. The legs that had once climbed steep pyramids had forgotten how to walk. And the voice that preached a thousand sermons could no longer form simple phrases. 

Unable to read, I read to him from a book that he knew better than his own face: “He alone is my refuge, my place of safety; he is my God, and I will trust him” (Psalm 91:2b, NLT). 

I read until my throat was dry. I wanted to fix the illness that was taking hold of my dad’s body, but mostly, on that day, I wanted to fix the unfamiliar fear that had moved in on him. 

He seemed only able to sleep during the light of day, while someone familiar was present. At one point I had to wake him to engage with one of the many hospital staffers who would filter in and out to attend to his needs, but I couldn’t. I shook him and put water on his face. I hollered in his ear, “Daddy! You need to wake up now.” 

I tearfully apologized to the medical professional in the room. The crushing helplessness and sheer terror that I felt in that moment still lingers.

During those few days I spent with my daddy in the hospital—living a thousand miles away at the time—I stole away regularly to an outdoor terrace in order to catch my breath. I would pull out my journal and a book I was reading at the time. It was in this place, away from the hospital air, that I began to breathe the meditative prayer taught to me in Brennan Manning’s book, “The Furious Longing of God.”

“Abba” (inhale) “I belong to you” (exhale). 

When it all became too much—which was often—I would breathe Abba into my lungs and breathe out the fear. The pain. The worry. The helplessness. Over and over, I continued to breathe in and out until I could settle into my identity as Abba’s child for even one brief, peaceful moment. 

What I didn’t recognize at the time was that those moments of quiet were a transference. The dependency that I’d always had on my dad was unsustainable. And as he faded away from us into heaven’s light, I fell into the arms of my Abba. 

I took this prayer with me into the ‘after,’ when grief was still so fresh and when the painful waves were relentless. It became a habit.

Now, it has become a regular meditation of mine. When I'm curled up alone in my bed while my military husband is away (which is often and extensive), waiting for my name to be called at uncertain doctor appointments, or in the midst of uncomfortable procedures, I return to my prayer. I find myself saying the words when I have to surrender my children out into the world, when I’m in bad traffic on the highway, or experiencing turbulence on an airplane. 

I have begun to realize the first part of “Abba” as a gut cry. Often, in my spirit it is an exclamation or jolting plea—help! 

Abba!—a child’s cry for her Father. 

I belong to you. Exhale. 

What can mortal man do to me? When I walk through the fires they will not sweep over me. I find shelter in Your wings, and belonging in Your presence. I am Yours. 

There is nothing wrong with wanting to feel safe, but I’ve realized the fallacy of gripping it so tightly that trust is placed in the strength of your own hands or even in someone else’s. Sometimes I live as if my quota for adventure was met in my childhood. I cling to the coattails of my parents, forgetting that while that is my foundation, my journey is still going and it is my own. I must not waste it.

I want to be fearless. I want my children to take holy risks and to know the feeling of eternal invincibility, to walk with their chins held high into dominions of darkness and challenge the status quo because they are supernaturally secure in knowing that their souls are untouchable. I want them to breathe Abba Father into a world that believes itself orphaned. 

But—for now—they watch me. They take my hand as I walk along. 

I’m looking for my own pyramids to climb, and my own ways to cross lines and social boundaries. I believe God’s callings are as vast and as varied as creation itself, but heaven help me if I cling to safety more than my Savior. 

I am not brave. In fact, fear has a very real presence. And when I am afraid, I am quick to feel every bit fatherless. But fear lies. And bravery is not something I have to inherit to embrace. Although my dad is not here, his source of courage is, and it is as much mine as it was his. 

I breathe deep. I breathe Him in. 

With my lungs full of belonging, brave isn’t far away.