On the edge of the cliff

“Okay, I need you to take two steps back to your left.”

I glanced over my shoulder. My already-pounding heart began a consistent presto beat inside my chest. The only way to go left was to move closer to the edge of the 100-foot cliff. And I sure did not want to lessen the distance between me and certain death. I reluctantly took two small steps. “Is that okay?”

“Good. Now cinch up the rope. Now take another step to the left.”

Cue cardiac prestissimo.

Everything in my body was screaming at me to step away from the edge—to clamber back up to safety, back to my little perch on the rocks above me where I could enjoy the beautiful scenery and the gentle breeze through the canyon. I was safe there. Close enough to see the beauties of nature, but far enough away to not take a 100-foot tumble. If I’d learned anything in my 24 years of life, I knew that cliffs were to be avoided, not approached.

And yet I was approaching this cliff, slowly backing up to a sheer drop into the canyon. And I was doing it because, for some reason, I trusted this man who was gently coaching me through my first day of rappelling. His experience was much greater than mine. He’d coached who knows how many people through this very event that was terrifying me. And none of them had died. And he himself had done this many times. He’d helped my friends safely down the cliff just minutes before me. These ropes had supported all of them down the cliff. The carabiners had held up. The knots had remained firm. I could trust the equipment. I could trust my coach. In fact, I had to trust, because, after nearly seven hours hiking through that canyon, the only way out was to go down that cliff.

So I shoved my fear into one corner of my mind and ignored it, focusing on the mundane task I was being asked to do. One step. I’ve taken millions of steps in my life before. It’s just a step.

I hugged the rock wall and shuffled my feet backwards. A shaky breath escaped my lips as fear started to crawl back out of its corner. “Is that all right?” I asked, a slight tremor in my voice serving as the only outward indicator of the trepidation in my heart.

“That’ll do it. Now cinch up. And I’m going to drop this rope and release the safety.”

I nodded numbly. “Thanks.”

Who thanks the person who is telling them to walk backwards off a cliff?

“Okay, you’re good to go.”

I turned off my brain and took that final step—the step from solid rock to thin air. The step of uncertainty. The step of commitment. And suddenly I was free. A thrill of exhilaration coursed through my body as I felt myself suspended in the air, 100 feet above the canyon floor. As my body twisted around in the harness, a beautiful landscape opened to my view—a vista that had been concealed from me while I sat on the safety of my rock perch. The cool fall air rushed into my lungs and I felt alive, the former fear dissolving into the security of the rope in my hands and the harness controlling my descent. Those  fears suddenly seemed irrational. Why had I been afraid of this beauty? Of this security? Of this freedom? Why hadn’t I trusted more completely that the unknown could be better than the safety I hadn’t wanted to leave?

Almost before I realized it, my descent came to an end. My feet once again touched the mortal earth. My heart was calm. My soul rejuvenated by the beauty. My body exhausted from the battle I’d fought with fear. That step into the unknown let me not only enjoy the beauty and thrill of hanging over a canyon, but also allowed me to continue my journey—to hike through the rest of the canyon back to the car that would take me home. As tempting as it had seen only minutes before, I was now grateful that I hadn’t chosen to stay on the top of the cliff for the rest of my life.

Later, as I rested my aching body on the back seat of our home-bound car, I stared into the expanse of stars surrounding us and pondered those moments I’d spent on the edge of the cliff. How many times had God likewise stood with me at the edge of a cliff, urging me to take that step into the unknown? Promising me that I’m not going to fall. Gently reminding me that there is no other way to get where He needs me to be than taking that step. That there is something better for me in the future than there was in the safety I was loath to leave.

Sometimes the things God asks of us seem illogical. Leaving your family for 18 or 24 months and cutting yourself off from the world in order to talk to strangers who yell at you doesn't always make a lot of sense. Dating so often defies our logic and our comfort zone. Moving to the other side of the country to go to school is not comfortable. But we have a Coach who knows much better than we do how to navigate the cliffs and canyons of life. We can trust him to lead us where we need to go. We can trust him to protect us in our descent. And, in fact, we have to trust him. There is no progression if we are not willing to take those leaps of faith off our cliffs of life.

As with most people my age, I feel like I'm standing with God right now at the edge of one of those cliffs, trying to have faith in his plan for me. Trying to gather the courage to step into the unknown. Trying to believe that the descent and the subsequent progress are going to be worth the current fear and uncertainty. 

But because I trust the God of heaven—because I know that he has provided for me to be safe, because I know that He knows how to help me progress—I’m willing to step off this cliff for him. I’m willing to suspend and fight and face my own fears, my own logic, my own understanding, in order to move in the direction God has asked. I'm willing to trust him.

Because sometimes the only logical thing to do is to step backwards off a sheer cliff.