It's Easy to Say You're Going to Jump Off the Cliff on the Car Ride to the Canyon

When I was eighteen years old, my senior class went on a trip to Hawaii. If there's one good thing about attending a small private school with only 16 other classmates, it's that you can easily justify and raise the necessary funds to take your senior trip in paradise.

One day on the trip, our tour guide took us to a beautiful, secluded natural pool surrounded by colorful aging rock. The beautiful orangeish brown from the side walls of these cliffs climbed way into the sky (or at least in the mind of a wide-eyed teenager), as if hands reaching out in gratitude for being left in such a peaceful place of purpose.

My classmates and I followed our guide, a stocky Samoan man with a feather in his pony tail and tattoos painted across his back like a mural, to the top of one of these cliffs. The edge of it stood about 40 feet out of the water, but felt more like hundreds from our high altitude vantage point. And of course the ledge, the one from which we were about to jump, dipped down gently in a quiet terror towards the pool below. God forbid our final moments be enjoyed on a flat, level diving board.

As several of my buddies and I inched our way towards the edge, the resounding thump in my chest began to thwart my ideal plans of a quick 'run and jump'. Several of us motioned these intentions, only to cower away in fear at the last second.

Then suddenly, without warning or a reminder of her presence, my classmate Casey pushed us aside (or at least that's the sit-com image I recall) and with a running leap jumped into the sky screaming something epic that only our past selves will ever recall from that moment. And then with a distant splash, it was over.

Now, we HAD to jump. Mind you, our obligation to jump at this point was not because of some gendered pressure or some ignorant need to maintain some patriarchal advantage. Rather, it was because all of us had talked such a big game all the way up to that ledge while Casey had quietly, presumably, calculatedly measured her fears and whether or not she would ultimately jump. But jump she did. Without looking. Holding her fears tightly. A running start.

We all eventually jumped, experiencing various levels of fear and pain from the power of the water's gritty welcome upon landing. Many fears were felt and faced that day, and we all found a way to conquer them. In fact, after the first jump, each jump afterwards became easier and easier. Then we'd go higher, and it was like starting over again. The lessons of facing fear and conquering it were real and realized that day. We were all better for it. And Casey inspired us.

13 years from that memory, almost to the day, I came face to face with this same experience again as a youth counselor on a boating trip with some teens from our church. There I stood, feet on the edge, facing the exact same fears and uncertainty. Only this time, maybe because of the mortality we feel in our thirties, I couldn't do it. A crowd had even gathered on a boat nearby, friends screaming my name and encouraging me to jump. I refused. In the midst of dozens of people, I was alone. I had my fears in front of me, and Casey was nowhere to be found. You see, everyone else had already conquered it. It's easy for those who've gone through it to tell you it will be ok, but sometimes it takes someone braver than you who hasn't jumped to give you that extra push.

Regardless of why and why not, I never forgave myself in that moment. It bothered me for days. I felt like I had failed. Later that night the experience itself was used as an example during a small talk devotion about having faith and facing fears. I could only stare at my feet.

Fear is a constant. It doesn't go away even after you've gone around it. It gives you amnesia. It makes you think something you've already done can never be done again. It doesn't matter what it is- jumping off a cliff, starting a small business, giving that speech in front of a large audience, standing up for that friend who's been bullied in school, or getting a cavity filled. It always comes back and tries to trap you, to keep you stuck and still.

And the truth is- we can convince ourselves that we can face it alone by the sheer will of our own self-pride. Yet always it's easier to say you're going to jump off the cliff on the car ride to the canyon. But once you're standing there, something else has to push you forward.

In Hawaii at the edge of that rock, it was Casey. For you, maybe it's your spouse. Or a friend. Or your children. Or your faith. For Casey, perhaps it was showing up a bunch of scaredy-cat boys.

But something always pulls us beyond the edge and convinces us to jump. We never go at it alone. But we do have to jump.