My obsession with jumping off of high places started when I was three years old. The apparatus was a typical bunk bed. The technique was amateurish, and involved a lot of flailing about. The reason was… well… actually it was an accident; the kind of accident that happens when you are supposed to be napping, but instead lean a little too far over the edge so that you can chat with your brother. Thirty five years later, I still see the floor rushing up to mar my cherub-like face. As I write this, I can reach up and run my fingers over the bump that still exists on my forehead. (It’s the one blemish that gives my sister the right to claim the beautiful sibling award.)
As I grew I tried a variety of other heights, different modus operandi, and various landing surfaces. In February I wrote about my first big attempt at jumping a bike. At a later date I may explore the memory of a certain cliff and a very cold mountain river (another tale involving my friends Troy and Rus), the feeling of standing on the girders of a train bridge (screaming is nothing to be ashamed about, my brother said), or the sensation of jumping out of a tree to test the springing action of a climbing rope (a shout out to the Ecola Bible School Nature Crew!)
Most of the aforementioned experiences occurred on a wing and a prayer. There was one time, though, when I was carefully walked through the fine art of the controlled fall – repelling. It was during a camping trip for a small group of boys from church. I don’t remember which one of my parents signed the waiver, only that there was a document that explained in legal terms their lack of concern for the welfare of my skeletal system.
I tried to tie the knots correctly, but couldn’t figure it out. Someone with patience and strong hands came along and cinched me up. Another dude held the rope at the bottom of the chasm- he was the belayer, and it was his job to compensate for my ineptness.
And here I am, safe and sound all these years later!
(Since this is my blog, we’re going to assume my descent was fluid, graceful, and ultimately successful due to my inherent outdoorsiness and an unusually high level of testosterone. Think Tom Cruise and Mission Impossible.)
So where’s the lesson in all of this?
Well, there are times in life when we assume that a wing and a prayer is enough; fun can be had, and life can be enjoyed.
But there are other times when Someone stronger and more experienced than you should be strapping your soul into a harness, and double checking the knots in your worldview. Whoever is holding the other end (compensating for your ego and lack of discipline) had better be trustworthy, and wise enough to ignore you when you holler, “CUT ME SOME SLACK!”
Here’s the kicker: we never know when these moments of potential freefall are going to occur.
One day you’re unwrapping Christmas gifts, the next day dad’s moving out.
One second I’m asking my girlfriend’s parents for her hand in marriage, the next I’m asking their forgiveness for betraying her trust.
One day we are breathing, the next… maybe not.
Let me ask you a question: who is standing in the abyss of life holding the other end of your rope?
My mom spent her early childhood in Africa. I grew up with bedtime stories about pet monkeys, crocodile infested swamp crossings, and my mom’s little friend Ebungu. It sounded like a big adventure to me, right up until she told me how her mom had died suddenly when she was only 8 years old.
As I got older I learned more about my mom’s childhood- the separation from siblings, the foster families, the dysfunctional Christian institutions. Oh, maybe it wasn’t all bad… but thinking about my mom’s childhood still makes me flinch.
I tell you this, only because the reality of it highlights the fact that she is one of the most joyful people I know. If some of her experiences carved caverns in her heart, she has made the choice over and over again to have them filled with a Spirit of Grace instead of bitterness.
It’s quite inspiring, really.
If you’ve met her, you know what I’m talking about.
One of the best stories of my mom’s unquenchable thirst for Life took place on a Halloween night many years ago. A group of adolescent boys had come out looking for a good time, and met my mom in an alley as she was closing up my parent’s shop for the night.
(I went to school with those boys, and they made a point of sharing the details with me.)
Armed with the courage a group provides, they strolled right up to my mom. She turned to face them, asking them point blank about their plans for the evening, and the cans of shaving cream they carried. One of the boys actually held out a canister for her, displaying his lack of regard for consequences on this particular night of mayhem.
My mom took the can of shaving cream in one hand, and what happened next made my schoolmate grin as he told the story.
My mom took that shaving cream and unloaded on the young lad; up one side of him and down the other before any of the other boys could react. My mom spun around then, took off full speed towards her truck, jumped in and locked the doors.
She put the Suburban in drive and calmly drove away. The boys ran after her and foamed up the truck as best they could; my mom exited the situation unscathed, and no doubt quite pleased with herself.
And that is how she solidified her position as the Cool Mom.
Mom, your unrelenting quest for Life has always inspired us kids. You’ve demonstrated to us that the pain we all experience can be met with a straight back and an open heart.
You held my hand when I was little, and led me straight to Jesus. Thank you.
I love you.
Happy Mother’s Day.
p.s. Do you know my mom? Leave a tribute to her, or one for your own mom, in the comment box!
It’s raining so hard that the worms are out. Which is another way of saying my daughter’s birthday party in the park has been cancelled.
I was feigning sleep at about 6AM, with my pillow strategically placed over my head to keep out the early rays of sunshine. Except there wasn’t sunshine- just a dull grey blanket of soggy nastiness posing as morning. I half opened one crusty eye when I heard the shuffle of 5 year old feet and sensed the corner of my pillow being raised; I looked into my daughter’s eyes already brimming with tears.
My paternal synapses started firing, so that I could translate her preschool lisp and charming suedo-grammar into something that could be construed as English. I believe that she was communicating her disappointment with life in general and the injustice of today’s weather in particular. She sat down in a huff as if to punctuate her feelings.
(She’s a cheeky little girl, and not only in the sense that her ballerina costume is getting a little small. She has always been very honest about her feelings. I appreciate that, because I’ve never enjoyed playing emotional hide-and-go-seek with the opposite sex.)
I think if my little birthday girl could see my heart, her perspective might change. The circumstances surrounding this special day pose a logistical problem, but they don’t change how much I love her.
She can’t see too far ahead into the future. Neither can I, but I suspect I’ll get a chance to sing to her today. It will sound like the typical out-of-tune rendition of Happy Birthday, but it will communicate to her that
I love her,
she’s beautiful,
and I’m so glad I’m her Daddy.
What do the clouds of your life look like today? Have they dampened your spirits? Have your plans for celebration become a series of puddles filled with drowning worms? If so, I hope you’ll make time today to listen to your Father’s voice:
“For the LORD your God is living among you.
He is a mighty savior.
He will take delight in you with gladness.
With his love, he will calm all your fears.
He will rejoice over you with joyful songs.”
Zephaniah 3:17 New Living Translation (NLT)
