The Year of No Fear

Last year was my year of no fear. At the start of the year, I was living and working in my home town, making a life for myself in the five square miles between work, my parents’ house and my own. By the end of the year, I was living and working in a developing country, 4,000 miles and many light years from home.

How I got from there to here is a mystery to me, genuinely. All I know is that I christened 2016 my year of no fear openly, publicly and then I had to follow through.  I asked myself, ‘What would I do if I felt no fear?’ and then I tried to do that thing. Most of the time. A one-degree turn every day brings a full revolution in a year.

All the tiny turns involved saying, ‘Yes’. ‘Yes’ to change and growth and scaring the shite out of myself in the name of both. ‘Yes’ to finding out who I am alone and in community, with all the planks of a little life removed, like loved ones and language (they were my favourite planks). ‘Yes’ to Jesus on the sea, beckoning me.

Please don’t stop reading just because I brought Jesus into it. It’s really Peter who inspired me. Peter walking on waves, like no man should. Jesus stands on the sea in front of him and says, ‘Take heart, it is I; have no fear’. What would you do? Peter walks on water too. His fierce love and loyalty carry him across the waves until he becomes afraid and starts to sink. Jesus saves him and says, ‘Why did you doubt?’

That friendship tears the heart out of me. There’s Peter, all rash and passionate, making extravagant promises he can’t keep. There’s Jesus, loving him anyway, tenderly, through chaos and heart-scalding hurt. Poor Peter is torn between terror and triumph permanently, for all of history but, good God, the glory of that moment. The mind-bending, universe-upending glory of that moment, advancing towards a face you love, all lit up with delight. It must have been a half-blinding sight.

Triumph for me is only ever about doing God’s will. If I wanted to try for Peter-style triumph, I would have to leave my boat. I would have to lock eyes with Jesus and hold that steady gaze. My boat is security and it always has been. I left it and took one watery, wobbly step at a time.

And these are some of the blessings that the boat-leaving brought; I did my first job interview in fifteen years, got the job, took the job, applied for a career break, moved to Haiti, started to learn a new language and survived a hurricane. I spoke in front of 14,000 people at an Irish Cancer Society event, was involved in raising €14,000 for charity, wrote an honest article about depression, had it published, met my favourite band and started a blog. I also became a landlady and lost weight (not unconnected).

It was the best year of my life but I can’t claim credit for it; the whole chain of events was fuelled by the goodwill of others and electrifying grace. But the whole chain of events started with my foot in the water and I can claim credit for that. I’m proud of my year-younger self for that much at least. That much at last.

So, there I was at the end of 2016, admiring my foot in the water and singing, ‘Ripples in the Rockpools’ to myself (a bit random but I’m trying to continue with the nautical theme). Then it all came crashing down. I was homesick and heartsick and suddenly appalled by what I had accidentally, incrementally committed myself to. Haiti? For eighteen months? I was saucer-eyed at my own folly. Like Peter, I took fright and sank. I spent Christmas back in my boat.

Travelling back to Ireland, being welcomed like a lost sheep, it strengthened me. Nobody judged me, nobody probed; there was only kindness from every quarter. My friends asked about my work and the people I work with and I cried trying to express the goodness of both. My nine-year-old nephew invited me to his school to collect money that he and his friends had raised for Haiti; €470 for children in a country that is only real to them because Conor Clarke’s aunty lives there. I must be long-sighted because I only see clearly from afar.

I started to look forward to going back. I opened my diary to check the details of my return flight and saw ‘Flying Home’ written beside the departure date. If the words hadn’t been in my own handwriting, I wouldn’t have believed I put them there. Flying home? Flying home!

My journey back was totally serene. I landed in Port-au-Prince to music and mayhem; a Caribbean brass band and shouty fights about who skipped the queue. I stepped into the sunshine and felt it, the knowledge that had walked with me through four airports; ‘Take heart, it is I; have no fear’. I jumped into the jeep that was sent to collect me and smiled as it pulled out. I thought, ‘Why did you doubt, Tracy? Why did you doubt?’