Hold Fast

part 1 of a three-part series by Tara Cruz

I tend to surround myself with words. Metaphors, symbolism, imagery—this is how I make sense of the world. And often I am drawn to something before I fully understand what place it has in my life. This is the case of the three pictures now hanging above my sofa.

Three images torn from a book and framed, rather inexpertly, by me. (I rarely take the time to measure things properly.) They’d hung on my wall for weeks before I really studied them and grasped the story they so clearly were telling. It was the story of our last seven years broken into three parts.

The first is an image of a hand clinging to a branch, a bit desperately in my opinion. It reminds me of a Robert Frost poem about grapes. In the corner there are two words, “Hold Fast.”

“Hold Fast” sums up the first three years as succinctly as the smell of lilacs sums up spring. Hold fast was all I could do. I held fast to a husband I feared, if given a chance, would slip off a precipice and be lost to me forever. I held fast to a son, just entering junior high, whose catastrophic first week left him homebound in our 1600 square foot house. And I held fast to a daughter starting tenth grade, who wrenchingly wanted to make things right for everyone.

I also held fast to God. Not in a nice, friendly let’s-hold-hands sort of way, but rather a white-knuckled-dangling-over-the-abyss sort of way. My hand clenched. My fingernails gouged deep. The tendons in my wrist were tight to the point of snapping. My whole arm grew numb. How could I even be sure I still held on to something?

We were not dashed upon the rocks. -tc

I Have a Limp

I went surfing for a picture depicting the story of Jacob wrestling with God (Genesis 32:22-31). It took me longer than I anticipated because most of them looked like they were playing London Bridge. This one looks like they're doing the Tango:

I decided to go with this one because they look like they're getting after it:

While serving as a chaplain for the Laramie Police Department, I participated in a Custody Control training class where we did a ground fighting exercise. When they told us they were 30-second rounds, I thought to myself, "These are COPS?! That's a pretty low bar". It was the most exhausting thirty seconds I've ever experienced. I've never been that sore for that many days.  It hurt more than the tazing I once got at another training.

Jacob was actually winning the match, refusing to let him go until he received a blessing.  God dislocated his hip and, as a result, walked with a limp for the rest of his life.

For the REST OF HIS LIFE.

When the panic attacks started a little over seven years ago, I understood very little of what was happening. I did, however, know that God and I had started a ground fight, that I was getting my ass kicked and that it would somehow mark me for life. I also knew that nothing would ever be the same.

A gross overprescription of Xanax for the first year and a half caused an array of bizarro symptoms (trembling, facial twitches, stuttering, agoraphobia, and startle responses to name a few). Getting jacked on psychotropic meds actually amplifies the symptoms it's intended to treat (reader beware). Once discovered, these symptoms had reduced by half within a couple of weeks. The next 40% took about 5 years.

That leaves 10% and I'm still waiting. Loud, crowded places are hard. I hate going into Walmart (I think it's where Satan shops). Weird, high pitched noises freak me out. I get shifty-eyed when I get confused.

On August 25, I'll hobble through the classroom doors at Denver Seminary with a limp. Maybe I get to keep that 10% to remind me that God has a not-so-funny way of blessing me. -rc