Dead Poets Society

As my friend Mike likes to say, it was more about the journey than the destination.

And so it was, that though the entrance to the forest was five flat steps beyond the path that lead me to it, I went around instead.

On the other side, nestled in a clearing, stood a wall of discarded tree trunks and limbs at least twenty feet high. The snapping of wood as I began my climb only seemed to confirm the dedication to reaching my destination...after all, presumed peril that exists only because I chose it, to a teenager, is still peril.

The branches scratched my legs, leaving stinging red welts. I made it to the top and sat for a moment, studying the trees in front of me. The leather bound book I carried under my shirt pressed awkwardly against me, reminding me of my purpose.

So, despite my fear of heights, I began my descent. Those who know me well know that I fell more than I rappelled.

Finally, I was on the ground. Twenty years have passed since the last time I did this, and yet I still remember everything about it. I remember the damp, mossy smell...the stillness...the silence...and most of all, I remember the power I felt, there in the forest alone.

My true destination was a cement slab that sat discarded in the middle of my sanctuary. I perched myself on top of it, kicking off my shoes. (Those who know, know poetry is best enjoyed barefoot.) Finally, ready, I pulled the book from the waistband of my jeans and cracked it open in my lap.

Tennyson. Whitman. Emerson. Thoreau.

My confidants. My teachers. My friends.

And so their words spilled from my lips. Giving life to that which was immortalized only on paper, I became their voice. I was the Dead Poets Society. And, for that moment, I was complete.

But life and perspective are amazing creatures. Twenty years of life have passed between who I was in that forest and who I am now. As much as I love that fourteen year old teenage girl I was, her emptiness makes me so sad.

Now I understand what I needed back then.

It wasn't twenty minutes of feeling like I had purpose because I spoke the words of those long dead; it was an eternity of knowing my purpose because of the Word.

It wasn't pretending to be okay being alone because I had chosen my own path; it was knowing I am never alone because He walks the path beside me.

It wasn't the blood that ran down my legs serving as proof of my dedication and commitment to the journey, it was Christ's blood spilled on the cross serving as proof of His dedication and commitment to me.

I didn't need the dead poets, I needed Christ.

I still love reading poetry barefoot. I still love the feeling of old leather books resting in my hands. I still love giving voice to the words of long-gone men and women who shared their hearts with the world.

But they no longer define me. That experience no longer completes me. Because I know the One who loves me so much that He sent His Son to die for me. The One who gave us the Book that truly guides our paths. The One whose Holy Spirit indwells within us so that we are never alone.

He is my confidant, my teacher, and my friend.

The Dead Poets Society has been replaced by the Living God.

“For God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that whoever believes in Him shall not perish, but have eternal life." (John 3:16)