A Large Leap of Faith

By nature, I am not a gambler. I neither particularly enjoy riverboats nor Kenny Rogers' music, although I did quite like his duet with Dolly Parton - Islands in the Stream. It's a catchy tune, I think, but lyrically not Shakespeare. Gambling does not light up any particular pleasure center of my brain. Taking risks does not really thrill me; I am perfectly comfortable making few waves and testing the water with my toe instead of my head.

For me, it is always enjoyable to go to the swimming pool and watch people to see where they are on the Risk Factor Scale. The RFS can be used in all sorts of places besides swimming pools - the RFS works at airports, amusement parks and public restrooms. Using the scale at swimming pools is quite easy. Those lowest on the RFS are usually the mothers of plural children who have simply come to the swimming pool to enjoy the liquid babysitter. Mothers of plural children (MOPC) wear bathing suits but never fully intend to use them. MOPC's usually have five or six different swimming suits gathered over the years of bearing children, but are hesitant to throw them out - and why would they? They've never really gotten them wet before. MOPC's on the low end of the RFS usually wear floral colored bathing suits with little skirts attached to the waist and are covered with a bathrobe. As they deftly prepare all the children for their afternoon of swimming, they are careful not to come in to contact with the water - generally for fear of ruining their coiffure, or more importantly, getting their hands wet so they can't read their Danielle Steele novels. After administering all the sunscreen and instructions to their plural children, the MOPC will check the surroundings and approach the water very carefully. If there are any splashing children in the vicinity, she will offer a visual reproach letting any child in the area know that she is not in the mood for any Tomfoolery. After the area is clear, she will sidle extremely close to the edge of the pool, swaying this way and that and slowly dip the largest toe of one of her feet into the pool. Satisfied that the 90 degree pool water is definitely too cold, she will retire to the plastic chairs affixed under an oversized rainbow umbrella where she will submerse herself in the lives of rich and romanced.

On the mid range of RFS sit the parent of small children (POSC). Usually, the POSC have only one child, although there have been instances where POSC's will have twins or other multiples. But, the parent of small child must go into the water with the child. The humor arises when the parent places the child into his or her flotation device and begins to follow him or her into the three feet of water. As the water level arises, the parent begins to bob a bit like a the head of a duck, the water chills each rising inch of skin. Of course the POSC has to avoid being splashed and sprayed by nearby children. There are certain impossibilities, and this is one of them. Measures are taken to make sure that no water is splashed either on the chest or back. As the parent goes farther and farther into the water following his child, his chest makes a concave shape, his mouth forms the letter "O" and he breathes in and out deeply sounding like a locomotive. Then, when least expected, he is splashed from behind and the supercooled water hits his back. His chest turns convex and he turns around wanting to impale on his gaze, the impish child who dares get him wet in a swimming pool. But, he has overcome the medium risk factor.

The Maximum on the risk factor scale are considered the kamikazes. They take no notice of their own bodies or the bodies of anyone else in the general vicinity. Often, they are swimmers who where cutoff jean shorts and sleeveless t-shirts to the pool. Kamikazes are basically adult children who come to the pool and actually beat their kids to the water. Kamikazes will race to the deep end, ignoring the screaming whistles and shouting of the life guard to "Walk!" and hurtle themselves through the air oblivious to the icy immersion that is coming. Because kamikazes have little regard for their bodies or their lives, they are also the ones who would dare push into the water a low risk MOPC.

I've known a few kamikazes over the years; I have never been one but I was surrounded by them in college. One bright sunshiny day in the fall of 1994, my five college housemates and I, along with 6 other young men, traveled to do something that most TV commercials will put disclaimers on shouting "Do not attempt this at home!" Once per year, classes are cancelled for a day of rest and relaxation. The 12 of us men decided to board up into two vehicles and drive north for a bit of exhilarating fun. The crisp autumn air pinched our cheeks as we squished all 12 of us into two vehicles. My friend, Tim, owned a late '70's Ford LTD that could have carried all twelve of us, but wisely we separated for the journey to near Nashua, Iowa.

We were full of laughter and expectation. During that same summer, my workmates from Godfather's Pizza had taken me on the same journey, to the rockpits to do some cliff jumping. I am not afraid of heights, nor am I ponderous, normally, when it comes to trying new things. It was fun flinging one's body from three stories to fall into 12 feet of water - kind of. After the initial rush of adrenaline and a slight degree of "Uh oh, what have I done," hitting the water, albeit like a bowling ball hitting the floor, there was a sense of accomplishment. To a young mind, it might be something like this - "Well, I've succeeded in surviving another bout with stupidity."

We 12 had decided to try out the pits. Of course with young males, braggadocio is a constant. Puffing out our chests we boasted who would jump the highest and the farthest; who would scream the most and who would not utter a sound. We laughed and joked until our chests hurt, but all the while a gnawing sense of anxiety permeated our large automobiles.

As we arrived, Tim's LTD doors screamed in protest as we pushed them open. The ticking of the engine provided a backdrop for us young roosters crowing and clucking out of the cars. We journeyed briefly through a patch of trees to the edge of the water and across the pond we saw the cliff. "That doesn't look that big!" Curtis exclaimed. Everything looks smaller from a distance, I think: mountains, buildings, problems. We took off our shirts as we swam to the other side of the pond. The water was freezing - perhaps it wasn't that cold but my blood was not pumping as well because of an increase in nervousness. The closer we swam, the bigger the cliff got. At the base, where the footpath led up to the ledge, 10 young men treaded water while two convinced the treaders that everything would be all right.

Shaking our heads, up farther and farther we climbed until I stopped them at the place we had jumped last - about thirty feet above the water. My brother Ryan shook his head, "Anybody can do this - come on, girls - let's go to the next level." In reality, there was no next level but higher my brother took us - no one wanted to be the one to say stop; no one wanted to be the one labeled as a chicken.

At forty-five feet above the water, my brother stopped at a very small out cropping and said, "Here is where the rubber hits the road, Boys!" In my own mind I thought, "Here's where my brain has taken a vacation." "Well," Ryan said, "Who's first?" Surprisingly, no one raised their hand.

Ryan looked over the edge, took a deep breath. I wanted to shout, "Stop! This is ridiculous!" But isn't it funny, how at some of the most important moments of life you can only move in slow motions, almost as if you are living in a dream? Ryan's body hurtled, plunged off the side of the cliff hitting the water forty-five feet below. A tremendous splash attempted to reach us as the rest of us carefully peered over the ledge hoping to find a young man swimming and not lay broken on the rocks below. For a few moments, nothing, and then Ryan's head came bobbing up to the surface, his first yell, "Yaaaaaaa!" His second, "Oh man, that stings!" A sense of relief huddled over us; the sense of foreboding left us -palpable sighs of joy. Tim said, "All right, who's next?"

None of us should have gone next. Just because one person made it doesn't mean the other 11 of us would have the same luck. But, one by one, we took the leap. Like lemmings, we followed a leader off the side of the cliff to the sparkling greenish-blue water below. I was the last one to jump. I'm not sure whether from personal fear or I wanted to make sure everyone was safe first. Leaping without knowing the resolution is a difficult thing. It's one thing to know the consequences; it's another thing to know the consequences and still jump.

I took three steps back, the gravel crunched under my tennis shoes. Quickly taking breaths in and out I ran forward and jumped into open space as far as I could. At first, there was a feeling of being suspended, perhaps somewhat like a puppet on a string, a kite flying, a dandelion seed finding a new home. But then the plummet. I'm not sure that I actually hit terminal velocity but I was going plenty fast. The whole trip took maybe two seconds at most but the water rushed up at me like a runaway train. There was no stopping this trip. The water and I met quite hard. I had been leaning back a little bit and the slap of the water on the skin of my back echoed in the pit. My brain registered the pain milliseconds after impact. I was underwater, trying to take a breath and scream at the same time; when I came up, my friends were all standing on the shore holding their hair and laughing. I wanted to scream but all the air had been knocked out of me. After being under water for a brief time, it was almost like coming out reborn.

Water is a funny thing - it's crucial for life and it can kill. Its chill is a salve for warm skin. Hit hard enough it can burn. When water is in us, we have life; in it we can die.

It was a baptismal like day. My life truly changed that afternoon. My friends and I experienced a transformation. Into the water, braving death, we went - scared and afraid. Out of the water we came, confident of life.

I'll let all of you finish the analogy in your own lives.

Wouldn't It Be Shocking?

Our minibus pulled up in front of a small white house. The dilapidated porch seemed as inviting as a warm soda on a hot day. The final rays of light were sneaking behind the house illuminating only the tops of the trees. I looked at my bandmates, Jason and Aaron. Aaron put his head down and began to shake it slowly. Taking a deep breath, Jason pulled the door handle towards him and we disembarked to the cracked, cement sidewalk.

We'd been on the road for months. By this point of our tour, I knew Jason and Aaron very well. As part of a Youth Encounter band, we did not stay in hotels and almost always we, the men of the group, stayed with the same host families. Sometimes the houses were big and we'd have a bit of space to spread out the clothes that we'd been wearing for all these months. Many times the houses were owned by people who simply enjoyed having others stay with them. Their generosity was astounding and humbling at the same time. We were attempting to live out the command of Jesus to enter a town with nothing (we did have a few extra-clothes) and live on the gracious hospitality of others. Most days Aaron, Jason and I would pick up the women in our group and drive multiple hours to the next location where we would play music, interact with youth and peddle our t-shirts, cd's and other curios.

This town was like almost any other non-descript towns that we had encountered on our journey. Somewhere in the northeast (the exact location has escaped through the barn door of my memory) we alit onto the sidewalk and cross the crinkled grass avoiding hardened landmines of dog excrement. Small poop. Small dog. That was good. We had encountered many canines whose heads were larger than mine. One family had two great Danes running through their house. When Desley, who was a smidge over 5 feet tall sat down, she disappeared behind the horse-like beast. Jason pulled his suitcase up over the side walk to the house while Aaron and I took in the surroundings. The house was small; likely at least two of us would be sleeping in the same bed tonight. After spending so much time together, comfort of sleeping in bed was much more of a need than fear offending our own hetero-tendencies. Jason rang the doorbell, a lonely sound, much like one hears in the movies when doomsday is about to spring up from the backdrop. Not a millisecond after the first ring, a shrill noise assaulted our tympanic membranes. Dogs - plural - little ones. The door opened and the little Cujos attacked our feet. Three chihuahuas - a regular Taco Bell commercial. Not only were we greeted by dogs but also by a billowing, roiling cloud of cigarette smoke. My own pyrophobic self prepared to stop, drop and roll. A heavyset woman in a nightgown greeted us.

"Hello," she said. The sound of her voice was more like the sound of heavy machinery clearing snow off roads than human. "You must be the boys."

And a genius to boot.

Jason extended his hand. "Hi, I'm Jason, this is Aaron, and Reid." Aaron began to make his way to the threshold when the guard dogs stopped him with their menacing fangs and roaring, growling voices. Aaron held up his hands as if the dogs were trying to put him under arrest rather than repel an intruder.

The woman reached down and grabbed all three dogs by their collars and nuzzled her nose into the midst of the wriggling mass. "Be quiet little babies." She was talking baby talk to them. "They are just nice little yummy wummy boys. You let them come inside. Yes, oh, yes, little ones." Jason had to stand in front of me to keep me from running away screaming. The woman tried to extend her hand, failed once, and then placed one of the dogs under her meaty arm. "I'm Gladys. This is Carlos. This, Jose. And this one," she squeezed her arm a bit, "is Pete." Aaron said, "Shouldn't his name be Pedro?" Gladys tilted her head to the side like a dog trying to understand a human. "You know, they are chihuahuas, from Mexico - the other two have Mexican names - shouldn't it... be... Pedro, Peter, get it?" Gladys didn't get it thereby losing her genius status.

"Come in," she said glancing sideways at Aaron. "Make yourselves at home. I'll show you to your room."

Jason looked at me. I, too, caught the singularity of her word - room. Not plural, thus it would be a cosy night for the Watermark boys. She took us down the hallway to the farthest room. I wanted to crawl along the floor where the fresh(er) air was. It was like walking with one's head in the clouds - literally. She left us to peer around our (cell) room. She stayed in the hallway like a jailer preparing to shut the barred doors. I almost touched Jose, I think, but Jose reared back and prepared to gnaw the skin off my finger.

Gladys pulled her dog back. "He doesn't like strangers."
"Stranger danger," I said lamely.
Gladys stared at me as if I had green horns growing from my temples.
"Right, I'll just go into our room."

After depositing our bags, we three kings went back to the living room to find Gladys on her sofa petting her pooches. After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, I asked about the oversized dog-collars.

"I'm training the boys. I just had an invisible fence installed. I don't want them going out into the road. See, what happens is," Aaron held up his hands. "We know what an invisible fence is." Gladys ignored him. "the wires underground are set to give a small electric shock through these collars when they try to cross. After a while they will know exactly where the fence is and I can take the collars off. I don't want any unsightly fence surrounding my property." As apart from the beautiful dog doodoo strewn throughout the yard. I didn't say that out loud. Fortunately my internal monologue filter was turned on.

Jason said, "I hope that turns out well for you."
"So do I," Gladys said.

About 11:00 p.m., I was startled awake. At first I thought that Jason had elbowed me in his sleep or Aaron had kicked my leg - yes, all three of us were in the same bed. A noise had come from the front area. My light sleeping habits had done me in again. The front door had opened and shut. At first I thought it was an intruder but then realized that if an intruder had, in fact, entered the premises, the three trusty attack dogs would make quick work of his ankles. Slowly I fluffed my pillow and attempted to flag down the Sandman again. Then, a noise. From outside, the noise sounded like a crow being strangled. Then, it happened again. This time, like the sound a balloon makes when you pull the opening tight. A high pitched squeal. I opened the slats and peered outside. There were Peter, Jose and Carlos finding the invisible fence. Not just once, but over and over they walked tentatively around the yard finding the jolts of electricity that would send them flying head over heels. Yip. Yapyap. I snapped the blinds back shut. Dumb dogs. Don't the realize they just have to stay away from that area of the yard. You'd think after they got shocked once, it would sink in to stay away from...

I am often times a chihuahua. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to see that underneath much of life is an electric fence. But time and again I keep testing the boundaries and cursing myself when I feel the pain. I am shocked - I should have learned my lessen the last time. Irresistibly I am drawn to the apparent freedom of the world outside the fence -but death awaits on that road. I curse the fence sometimes; I explode in outrage that something is outside of my will. Yip yapyap. If only life came with a visible fence. If only my life came with my very own angel standing at each dangerous intersection pointing me out of the way saying, "There is danger here! Turn round and flee-eth." But should I really need an angel like the one guarding the garden of Eden? Should I not already know what danger awaits?

Perhaps, but I am drawn still to sin like a moth to street lights. And each time I stumble, I am shocked - physically pained, yes, but shocked that I can fall into the same habits. I think the Holy Spirit is that electric fence undergirding my life and I the jolt I receive from sin is a benefit to me so that I will not receive the ultimate punishment for my revolt against God. Freedom is within the fence. The Spirit keeps me safe even though it hurts at times.

This is a precursor to my college years and perhaps a few of you can relate to a young man, after leaving home, discovers there are no visible boundaries. A young man who learned from trial and error - usually by error.