When I was growing up the city swimming pool was a short bike ride from our house. Built in a neo-Moroccan style in the late 1920s, a wall divided the public facility into two separate areas: a shallow, boring pool for children and a much larger (and deeper) side for adults.
The shallow pool didn’t have diving boards; the deep end had two.
The low board was just that … so low it seemed to skim the water’s surface. But the high board was something else.
From my 7-year old eyes the rung ladder leading to the diving platform loomed like a rocket gantry rising from the pool deck, and the big kids tackling the high board seemed as brave as astronauts as they voluntarily climbed the ladder toward the clouds.
More than a few kids got to the top of the ladder, walked to the end of the board, peered down and had a good look at what was waiting, and unceremoniously climbed back down in disgrace.
Any thought of stepping out over that lofty, invisible edge into the unknown was scary, but I started wonderng what it might feel like. I figured the experience would be either utterly terrifying … or the one of most exhilarating sensations of freedom imaginable.
Then by the end of the summer, with the pool about to close for the season, my friends and I nervously accepted that the high board was beckoning.
I can still remember climbing the ladder, standing at the edge of the high board, looking down at the pool and thinking Wow, it’s a lot higher up here than it looks. I felt the first pangs of panic as I started reminded myself of everything that could possibly happen on the way down.
What if I jumped and missed the pool? What if the water suddenly drained out on the way down? What if my trunks flew off when I hit? What if something happened I hadn’t thought of … what would I do then?
“Just look,” my 7-year old sense of self-preservation scolded, “at what you’ve done and gotten yourself into this time.”
My internal warning lights flashed like my brain had been lit by an electric storm because I was finally confronting that one last step, and I was up there all alone about to find out firsthand What it’s gonna feel like to step out over the edge.
I wasn’t sure I wanted to find out … but the diving board was much too narrow and unsteady to even think about backing up or turning around.
So I ignored everything common sense and the little voice inside my head was screaming, and jumped. What happened next was totally unexpected.
I lost my fear of the high board. It was awesome! I couldn’t wait to climb up the ladder and go again, and realized what my own fear had prevented me from experiencing all summer.
The point is that none of the awful, nerve-wracking things I was afraid of happened when I stepped out over the edge.
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We learn by making mistakes and try to avoid unpleasantness by fine-tuning our decisions based on past experiences. We remember what hurt and, consciously or not, steer our involvement away from people or situations that start igniting our warning lights.
Survival instinct tells us jumping off the high board is a bad, bad idea. Because we’re not sure of what could happen once we’ve let go of our control.
-We say we trust God’s plan, but keep a fall-back ready … in case things go wrong
-We say our eternal faith is in Christ, but depend on ourselves to live day by day
-We say God is perfect, but feel confident we’ll “Get it right this time”
-We believe Christ was resurrected, but continue living our lives as though we’ve got one foot in the grave
Just look at what you’ve done, and see what you’ve gotten yourself into.
We profess Christ died for our sins, but somehow never get around to letting go of them. Even though being born again means that we can. Wow, it’s a lot higher up here than it looks.
Ever wondered what it might feel like to stop fine-tuning and making excuses, and finally step out over the edge?
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