Dog Sledding and Deconstruction

When Daniel and I got married in early 2019, we took our dream honeymoon to Canada’s Yukon Territory; we wanted to see the Northern Lights.

The trip did not disappoint. Not only did we get to sit for hours in an outdoor hot tub while the aurora borealis swirled across the sky like curtains, but we also went glissading down an icy mountainside, took a 4 am drive where we encountered a pair of red foxes and a lynx, and froze our butts off while we tried our hand at ice fishing. And I fulfilled my lifelong dream of kissing a moose. It was paradise.

But there was one particular excursion that got my adrenaline pumping a bit more than anticipated: dog sledding.

We arrived at basecamp unsure of what to expect. There were probably about 100 dogs all lined up in their own personal kennels, gnawing on massive pieces of meat and snarling at one another pretty aggressively. It occurred to me that this might be a bit more intimidating than I had anticipated, so I listened intently as the guide gave us our instructions.

He showed us how to maneuver the sled, how to brake, how to go faster, and told us a series of things we should avoid doing at all costs. But the number one, most important rule that he drilled into our heads in no uncertain terms was this: “No matter what happens, do NOT let go of the sled.”

He painted a picture of the horror that could ensue if we didn’t get this right, and I felt the butterflies flurry around my stomach, my performance anxiety increasing rapidly as he spoke. I looked nervously at Daniel as if to ask him whether he was sure this was a good idea. Daniel doesn’t get nervous, so off we went.

The first 10 minutes or so were a bit shaky, but once we got out onto the massive frozen lake, it was a pretty streamlined, thrilling experience- nothing but a blanket of white as far as the eye could see. There were about eight of us in our group, and Daniel and I took up the rear, with Daniel trailing about 100 yards behind me. We felt free, and I started to understand why this kind of lifestyle might appeal to some people.

But that was short-lived.

Before I knew it, we were leaving the lake for a more rugged terrain, and as we rounded a corner, my sled tipped over on its side. My dog team did not stop to accommodate my dilemma. They kept on running full speed ahead, dragging me behind them face first through the snow, every muscle in me working to steady my sled and return it to an upright position. After about 45 seconds of desperate heaving and ho-ing, I was able to get my sled back on track, exhausted from the effort, but incredibly relieved to have survived it.

We traveled another five minutes or so before it happened again. My sled tipped over sideways, and I lost my footing. My (possibly rabid) dog team did not care. But this time, not even my greatest efforts were effective. I felt the muscles in my hands tighten around the sled as the guide’s words rang out in my ears: “Whatever you do, Kaeley, do not let go,” I coached myself.

So off I went through the snow, my face bumping up and down in the ice with each step. The guide was way too far ahead of me be of any assistance whatsoever. I cried out, “Help!” but it was absolute futility. He couldn’t hear me. Finally, my dogs slowed down to rest, and I lay there motionless on my side, afraid to move an inch in any direction, lest they tear off again, dragging me behind them. I had no strength left in me. I did not know what to do.

As I lay there like a beached whale, praying for a miracle, I caught a sudden glimpse of my husband in my periphery. His dog team was not with him.

“What are you doing?!” I cried out in panic. “You can’t let go of your sled!”

Daniel laughed. “So you think their dogs are more important to me than my wife?”

What I didn’t realize is that Daniel had been watching the entire saga from a front row seat about 100 yards behind me. He had calmly taken the little anchor attached to the sled, secured it into the snow to hold his dog team in place, and come to rescue his damsel in distress.

It had not occurred to me that this was an option. I was so focused on the rule, so terrified of what would happen if I broke it, that I had essentially paralyzed myself, too gripped with fear to move an inch in any direction.

It dawned on me that this real-life situation is a pretty accurate analogy for what happens to us in life sometimes, and especially what can happen to us in our faith if we aren’t walking in careful step with the Spirit. We can allow a dogged commitment to following the rules to prevent us from necessary growth and recalibration.

I’m not going to connect all your dots for you because your dots may be different than mine, but in my case, I’ve found this to be especially true in regard to my understanding of the way God views women vs the way much of the church does. In my commitment to believing the inerrancy of the Word, I had mistakenly believed in the inerrancy of popular leaders’ interpretation of the Word. They are not the same. I was so afraid of what would happen if I broke their rules that I was rendered completely unable to see how paralyzed I was while trying to follow them. Their interpretation was broken; God’s Word was not.

There’s a lot of talk lately about “deconstructing the faith,” and I fully understand peoples’ hesitation to encourage deconstruction. It seems like a lot of the people who go this route end up embracing full blown heretical views. I am not recommending that. We can’t afford to just abandon inconvenient truths because we dislike them. But we also can’t afford NOT to carefully examine our beliefs. We can’t afford NOT to scrutinize them with openness to the possibility that we’ve gotten a few things wrong.

The difference here is one I learned from my husband. In order to even risk deconstruction, you first have to be anchored. Anchored in the truth of who God says you are. Anchored in obedience to conscience. Anchored in relationship with the Holy Spirit. Anchored in surrender to His will, even when it conflicts with our own. It’s our anchoring in Christ that allows us the freedom to hold every thought captive and risk forward motion.

Without this anchoring, deconstruction is the equivalent of going face sledding in the snow; I wouldn’t recommend it.