#ItGetsBetter

Somehow, someway, this photograph became the bookmark for the Bible study I’m currently going through—which I highly recommend, by the way. It’s called Ever After: Life Lessons Learned in My Castle of Chaos. Mariners Church selected the book for their summer women’s study, and I am devouring, gleaning and obsessing over the insights. Chapter by chapter, accompanied by a DVD, the book chips away at the fairy-tale ideals we tend to construct, comparing today’s many social pressures and our long-held fantasies to what God has to say about life and love.

But the photo! It recently sneaked back into my life. My older brother Brad brought a massive stack of old family photos to our little brother David’s rehearsal dinner last month, spreading them out on the entry table for everyone to peek and peer as they pleased. Many of the photos, randomly, were from our family trip to Israel in 1998. I was 12 going on Miserable, overalls were terribly cool, and Bill Clinton was about to get busted. The pure fact that overalls have arrived full-circle at coolness again makes this photo feel especially vintage.

Every time I crack open my study, I see this picture from our trip, and I remember that day, because it was one of the WORST of my life. I exercise frequently now; not so much 16 years ago. In fact, I was always one of the slowest in running the dreaded “mile” every Wednesday in P.E., wheezing and wobbling and barely finishing in under 10 minutes. Boys would laugh. I would cry later.

But, being in the Holy Land somehow blinds you to your own humanity. My mom, Brad and I decided we were up for the challenge of forgoing the tram and hiking the notorious Snake Path to Masada, King Herod’s fortress in the sky. The 2.5-mile path winds steep and quick up the face of the tall desert mountain, arriving at the former palace perched atop a high plateau. It seems overalls were the unanimous apparel of choice. This was clearly before Lululemon.

Like all athletic challenges, the hike began with a surge of adrenaline and determination. I was one of the big kids with my hero and fitness goddess mama and cool big brother hiking one of Israel’s most famous symbols of strength and heritage. Below us laid the salty Dead Sea and above us loomed regal ruins.

Then, though, maybe halfway up, my breathing grew shallower and my steps became heavier. The drastic incline was overwhelming my lungs and I was slowly starting to panic. “Keep up, Steph!” My mom and Brad kept charging ahead, while the obvious settled over my ill-equipped seventh-grade body: This was a dreadful mistake.

From that point forward, we had to stop, every few minutes, for me to catch my breath and stretch in my overheating overalls. My mom rubbed my back patiently while adventurer Brad probably rolled his eyes at his little sis cramping his style. I remember feeling so embarrassed. So insufficient. So very pudgy, and so very slow. It was like every inadequacy that haunted me frequently as an awkward pre-teen came to meet me on those cruel desert switchbacks. On that trail, I wasn’t fast enough, I wasn’t good enough, I wasn’t pretty enough, and no boys would EVER like me. Junior high girls can be a little irrational; some things never change about women.

The hike should’ve only taken an hour, but I’m pretty sure it took at least two. We finally arrived at the top, and my blood-red face and foul expression made it clear to the rest of my family that things had not gone very well. I remember that the mountaintop gift shop sold shirts boasting, “I climbed Masada!” I didn’t want one, since I didn’t really think I deserved it.

The ruins, though—the incredible ruins. After catching my breath and downing some water, I meandered through the crumbling architecture. Every ancient bit of it echoed something of former beauty and grandeur: the intricate bathhouse mosaics, the former quarters of powerful royalty. This is cool. This feels important. This was maybe even worth that horrible hike.

Recently reignited with curiosity about that very very very bad day, I read more about Masada and schooled up on its interesting history.

Herod the Great built Masada as his extravagant, luxurious palace. After his death, a group of brave Jewish rebels seized the site, to serve as their fortress in defense against the Roman conquest of Israel. These Jewish zealots, called the Sicarii, stood firm behind the walls of Masada, avoiding capture by the Romans for three whole years.

Eventually, though, the Romans planned a strategic and violent attack of Masada—a siege that could not be defended. So, rather than die by attack of the Romans, the 967 Sicarii decided to commit mass suicide. As the last remaining band of Jewish freedom fighters, they chose death above submission to Imperial Rome. The Romans arrived ready to fight, with no one there left to conquer. Met with a silent self-massacre, they had no use for the fortress. From there it was left to ruin.

The story is horribly tragic, of course, yet also heroic. Essentially Masada symbolizes the unwavering resilience of the last Jewish radicals to remain free in their own land—to refuse surrender at the hand of their enemy.

If people can die for their freedom, I can certainly climb a mountain.

As I look at this photo almost daily now, I remember that hike, and I remember that day. I remember my painful pre-teen fears and rampant insecurities, and I remember the dramatic story of the steadfast Jews on that mountaintop.

I also think about my life now—and how, even though it’s certainly not a perfect fairy tale, as marriage and motherhood have plenty of challenges, it’s actually pretty wonderful, with infinite things for which to be grateful. I think about how Seventh-Grade-Me would never dream, in a million years, that she’d have everything I’m blessed with now.

I think of the things I’d want to say to the girl in this picture from ’98:

It gets so much better. Someday, a wonderful handsome man will love you and marry you and give you a beautiful daughter. You’ll grow more comfortable in your body over time, even though that’s a work in progress. The braces will come off, and you’ll smile tons more once they do. You’re a bit nerdy and you love to read; that’s good. Stay nerdy. Keep reading; it will make you a better writer.

Also, guess what?! Someday you’ll run FOR FUN!!! Like, in RACES! It’s CRAZY! You’ll also hike Half Dome with the man of your dreams; it will be one of your favorite days.

The rest of junior high and the beginning of high school are going to be brutal on your self-esteem and body image: lean into Truth. Please don’t worry about being cool, or hot. Both are subjective and fleeting and so painfully unimportant. Love God; love others. Say no to drugs. Rock those incredible overalls because they’ll go out of style for a bit and it will be very tragic.

Mostly, stay on the path you’re walking and keep the faith. Do not surrender at the hand of your enemy. Because someday, believe it or not, the pain you’re feeling now will be gone, your seventh grade dreams will come true, and you’ll look at this picture and smile and think it’s the most perfect bookmark that ever could have been made.

Of course, I have plenty of new and surprising fears and insecurities now. But, maybe Steph in 16 years would have some words of wisdom for me:

God knows exactly how many children you’re supposed to have and when.

You’re doing a great job with Emerson; let go of all that horrible mommy guilt.

Enjoy that 28-year-old body and stop hating on it so much; 44-year-old you would kill for it!!!!!

Maybe it keeps getting better. Maybe as we overcome new challenges, develop new character qualities, and discover new faith, in each new season of life, we continue to see God’s love and become more like Him in the most unexpected of ways, marching onward toward glory and grace.

Maybe we’re quite often conquering old struggles and fulfilling old dreams—we just sometimes fail to notice.

Maybe we just keep climbing, even when it hurts, or when we can’t even breathe, until one day we’re home, in our one true fortress in the sky.