As I've mentioned, the group took a trip to New Hampshire's White Mountains late last month, which I tried to summarize as comprehensively as possible in 15 bullet points. But there's something I didn't really mention.
The initial inspiration for that getaway was a ziplining tour, suggested by Magen.Now, I don't normally do stuff like this. I like city comforts, and I prefer to be propped up high in the sky in a strongly-built highrise building, not some string and a few carabiners. But I signed up for the sake of group bonding, carefully choosing to ignore the fact that I would be flying hundreds of feet in the air on wires, dependent on the physics of a harness and the skills of the ziplining staff who set up the contraptions.
The first 36 hours of the trip were so fun and invigorating, I continued to ignore this fact. I even managed to push it toward the back of my mind when I got geared up at the tour company's building. The realization that I would soon be confronting my fear of shaky, unstable heights only began to enter my mind as we took a safari-style ride up the mountain, in a vehicle made for the Australian military.
My heartrate kicked into full-gear as soon as we all stepped onto the tiny square of wood where the first leg of the zipline tour began, hundreds of feet long and at least 60 feet above the ground. The others continued to crack jokes and laugh, while all I could hear was the ringing in my ears. The one consolation I had was that I didn't have to do this one alone. This leg of the course was set up as a race, with two lines side by side, and Magen, who's seen me through far worse than a heights phobia, was my partner for the event. (I say partner rather than competitor because there was no way I was going to win this one.) As the line in front of me shrunk and my turn approached, Tara continued to flash me reassuring smiles, another incredibly bright spot.
When it came time for Magen and I to go, I felt my heart in my throat as I stepped off the platform into air. Luckily, it cleared out soon enough for me to scream through the entire length of the line. But before I knew it, my feet went from punting pure air to touching the ground. We had arrived safely, soundly, and to the smiles and cheers from the rest of 30cent.
I think life often puts us in situations that are in many ways similar to what I felt on the tiny wood platform, several storeys high in the trees. The best, but most terrifying option was to jump full-force into what I had started. Sure, at any point of the tour I could have told the guides that I wasn't having it and that they needed to take me back. But continuing was the only entrance I had into the rest of the adventure and story that awaited.
That first step was terrifying, but successfully completing it showed me that the mechanisms in place to make the zipline safe and functional were there, and that the likelihood of me falling and dying was slim. Similarly, trusting God initially is terrifying. It is a complete plunge into the unknown. But we won't know unless we try. We won't experience the beauty of surrender and trust and grace and faith unless we start by just jumping into it.
The second stop on the zipline tour was a solo line, and was the longest, slowest, highest-from-the-ground part of the entire tour. It was an adjustment, but beautiful in a completely different way. I knew a bit more of what to expect, but I was still scared. I had more time to think about it all, and take in my surroundings. So, as I went at this one alone, I tried to repeat everything I knew in my head about fear and trust. And I absorbed the beautiful landscape below, reminding myself that I would never have this view at any other time. Similarly, I've been working to enjoy the view from areas in my life where I feel suspended in thin air. God has so much to teach in these areas of patience and waiting, so rather than fighting and kicking my way through these times, I'm hoping and praying for the eyes to enjoy the beautiful landscape of the present.
With each successive zip line, the source of my screams moved from fear to exhilaration, and I started to wish the tour were longer. The last line of the tour was basically a trust fall on crack. It began as an almost-perfect vertical drop, that propelled you into a U-shaped line where you swung back and forth until your body lost the momentum from the initial fall. On that one, I let out the biggest scream by far, followed by the loudest shriek and giggle of delight.
I think it was the perfect end to the tour, and the extended metaphor that comes from it. It showed me that God can bring you through everything, even life's version of that free-fall. Each challenge builds us up to better and more beautifully weather the next one. Here's a passage that I think speaks to that idea:
"...but we also rejoice in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. And hope does not disappoint us, because God has poured out his love into our hearts by the Holy Spirit, whom he has given us..." Romans 5:3-5
Sure, I'm going a bit profound here with my fear of heights and flying through the treetops, but bear with me. The experience gave me a concrete, physical reminder of how when you have nothing left, all you can do is trust. And that trust is not disappointing and does not feel like a last resort once you've taken the leap. It's beautiful, strengthening, and unlike anything you could experience in situations that seem less scary on the surface.
Oh, and making leaps with others alongside you is far less harrowing than doing it alone. Ziplining is just one of many things in my life that has been made more beautiful by community.
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