A Reflection on 20 Years of Redemption

Twenty years ago, I was fractured and aimless—a grayed-out version of what was once a kid with a lot of potential—stumbling along on the edge of an abyss that beckoned me to take that final step and fall irredeemably into its deathly, devouring maws. Tragedy had dealt such a fateful blow to my spirit, leaving me to die a lonely, agonizing death—and I was helping it to get me there even more quickly. I was staring death in the face, and not only was I unafraid, but I even took its cold and thorny embrace as a welcomed companion.

I suppose God had other plans, and I was given a glimpse of the light that could be. I only had to make the choice between death later or death now; between a brief life of meaning or a briefer life of nihilism; between upward striving toward purpose or a downward spiral toward chaos and destruction. It was the most important logical decision of my life. I knew that one choice was certain of its outcome, I chose to strive instead.

Yet, death’s embrace had left a thorn in my side—a thorn of solitude. Nevertheless, I began to climb out of Hell, struggling mightily to find the slightest foothold on the slippery and jagged slopes of the enormous mountain of my life. The scrapes and cuts I endured on my already bruised and battered soul revealed the immensity of the quest at hand. Cold, bleeding, and lonely, I persisted.

Twenty years later, I still persist—as does that thorn of solitude. But now it provides me the opportunity to look back at how far I’ve come, and I see so many previous versions of myself imprinted into the slopes of the mountain at various elevations. And I’m fond of them. I even miss them sometimes. I reflect back upon these versions of myself, and it’s as if they are each someone else.

They were companions who guided me up to the next elevation, handing me over the next version of myself, the next guide. All these different former versions of myself represent the transformations I’ve undergone. So strange to see them as someone who guided me rather than simply different times in my life. It makes me wonder: What version I am now? What guide am I now? Who is the essential “me” that’s being guided along? Why am I seeing it this way now for the first time?

Perhaps this is why milestones are significant. Perhaps, at certain points in life, we need to see the bigger picture; to peer more deeply into the abyss from which we narrowly escaped; to see that the abyss still lurks below, that the fall into it would yield the same outcome as before, only that the fall would be from greater heights. Perhaps such milestones are also meant to show us how surefooted we’ve become, that we more masterfully find strong footing on the slightest of edges—that we have developed “hinds’ feet on high places.”