In the late ’90s, a British band called Chumbawamba filled the radio waves with these words:
I get knocked down
But I get up again
You’re never gonna keep me down
It was a drinking song, mostly, with a festive beat perfect for party atmospheres. (I was present at a few of those back in the day and now I’m old.)
Such confidence in the words: “I get knocked down, but I get up again. You’re never gonna keep me down.”
But they’re such a lie. Not that I expected to find truth from a band whose name sounds like a bubble gum brand or gibberish.
The truth is getting knocked down hurts.
And getting back up again is hard.
And sometimes, it’s tempting to want to stay down. Because what if I get back up and then get knocked down again? Won’t that hurt more?
—
To say our family experienced a fall seems an understatement. Like saying Humpty Dumpty tripped. I’m not sure I realized at the time, now four-and-a-half years ago, just how far we’d fallen. Or how hard it would be to get up again.
And I certainly didn’t consider that falling, which seemed to happen so fast, meant we’d somehow have to make up the distance between where we landed and where the fall happened.
Staying down never seemed like an option. But that was before we started climbing.
For the inexperienced and untrained, climbing requires strength, muscles we might rediscover along the way. And it might take time. We’re not going to climb a mountain or crawl out of a pit in an hour.
It might be days, weeks, years.
There will be pain. Fatigue. Disappointment. Discouragement. Bitterness. Despair. Blame.
But no matter how the fall happened, the circumstances that led to it, the final step over the edge, the reality is it happened. And time can’t be reversed so it was otherwise.
When you find yourself at the bottom of a pit, for whatever the reason, the only way to go is up.
Staying down is admitting defeat. It might as well be a death sentence.
—
When we’re down, all we want is a way out. Rescue. I want someone to throw me a rope and lift me out of my trouble.
But even then, I don’t want to be the one to do all the work required to get out. I still might have to hold on and climb. I still have to believe it’s possible.
I want to think that getting back up after falling down is glamorous. That restoration is immediate.
What I’m learning is that it’s less like a dramatic movie rescue and more like clawing your way up out of the dirt. It’s a slow crawl into light. It’s squinting at the brightness when all you’ve known is darkness. It’s finding your feet again and re-learning how to walk. It’s pressing on, even when you slide back and feel like you’re losing ground. It’s inner strength and internal drive. It’s heart, mind and body working together to get to the place you were before.
And beyond.
When I think about our situation, I don’t want to go back to where we were before the fall. I don’t want to fight for what was but to strive for what could be. I want to climb out of the pit, rest on the plateau and then tackle the mountain.
Still, it takes work.
And for some reason, I didn’t expect that part of it. Or I wanted it to happen at a quicker pace. Or on my terms.
But all significant change takes time.
Seeds take root and become plants, but it doesn’t happen overnight. The tallest trees were once seeds and now stand as living testaments to the beauty of growth over time.
Buildings begin with a solid foundation, then walls and support beams and a roof. Who would decorate a house on the inside before the roof was finished?
Even Jesus’ resurrection from the dead required a whole day in between. (Couldn’t He have risen immediately? I’m not debating theology here, just curious.) And the Kingdom He started with that revolutionary act is still being built.
Why should my own resurrection be any different?
—
So maybe Chumbawumba had it right after all.
No one will get through life without falling.
It’s what we do after the fall that matters. <Tweet that>
Will we stay down and curse the ground on which we lie? Will we search the skies for rescue, praying and hoping for help to come, for someone else to do the hard work of getting us out? Or will we choose to start climbing? To determine to NOT stay down. To dig our hands into the rocks and dirt and pull with everything we’ve got. Will we struggle to the top, weary and with shaking arms and legs, having spent every ounce of strength, with bloodied and dirtied hands, covered in sweat?
Will we hang on just a little longer when everything in us wants to let go? (There is a time to let go, but make sure it’s the right time.)
Because while it’s true that restoration makes us new, that doesn’t mean it’s easy. It is grueling work to get back up and not stay down.
So whether you’ve fallen or grown discouraged or are on the verge of giving up on something or someone, consider how far you’ve already come.
Measure the distance between the ground where you fell and your proximity to the light. Choose to keep going toward the light, whatever that might be. A dream. A goal. Healing. Wholeness.
Get back up again.
Don’t let anything keep you down.
