There’s something so primitive, so exhilarating, so untamed and wild about cliff jumping. I grew up having river guides for cousins on the Salmon River in Idaho. Also coined as “The River of No Return,” I first rafted it when I was a mere 5 years old. Since then, I’ve spent many days and nights experiencing the wild whitewater that has carved its way through that pristine mountain canyon. On one favorite stretch of river, we’d always pull over at what we’d call the jumping rock. Standing up there for the first time, looking down at the dark, deep pool that lay waiting below, the jumping rock seemed a lot higher than 25 feet. And then, just before the leap, things got quiet and time seemed to slow down. When my feet left the rock, there I was, suspended for a few precious seconds, completely given over to exhilaration and freedom. As I plunged into the sunlit river and emerged again to my family cheering, I knew that first cliff jump would certainly not be my last.
The summer before my senior year of high school, a group of friends and I drove up to Duluth, Minnesota to visit our friend Jared. It was a hot, beautiful day on the rocky shores of Lake Superior (the best of the great lakes.) We had packed our swimsuits since Jared had promised to take us to his favorite cliff jumping spot. I don’t remember who went first. What I do remember is leaping off that tall rock, spreading my arms and screaming during the fall, and losing my breath completely as I entered the coldest water I’ve ever felt. It was the kind of water that stung like a thousand icicles on my skin, and caused me to gasp for air as I tried to remember how to move my body to get back to the shore. We laughed at the shock of it all and lined up more than once to experience it all over again, basking in the warm sun in between jumps, every sense heightened.
One of my very best recent memories is from my summer working at another dude ranch in Colorado. There were five of us that had one particular Tuesday in July off, and we decided to make the most of it. We had 36 hours and a full tank of gas, so we squeezed into a little Volkswagen and turned the wheel towards Utah on Monday night. We slept very little that night, under a sky lit up with the Milky Way. When daylight broke, we hiked around Canyonlands and then Arches National Park, exhausted but so happy to be filling our day off with such adventures, even in 105 degree heat. We were dripping sweat when we collapsed in the car back in the parking lot many hours later, but our day wasn’t over. One of Moab’s best kept secrets is a small swimming hole tucked back in the red rocks, only accessible by hiking across rivers and maybe taking a wrong turn once or twice. This oasis was waiting for us, vacant, ready to cool us off with its secluded, quiet waters. It’s one of those places that you see in movies and imagine in books, wondering if any such perfect places really exist. We took turns scrambling up the waterfall, offering hands to pull each other up because it was nearly impossible to climb up that slippery algae without some assistance. We jumped from the rocks over and over again, never being able to get enough of that day. I remember that feeling—feeling so privileged to get to experience such a place, my heart feeling so full that I think it might burst, so completely in awe of a God that has created such extraordinary places and such extraordinary people to share it with. I remember walking slowly back to the car through the creek, in crystal clear waters feeling those smooth river rocks underneath my feet, drinking in every second and thinking that this is what it means to really live.
John Eldredge talks about cliff jumping in one of his books. He talks about the thrill of it, the moments of freedom, an excitement that you can’t get from a high dive at a swimming pool. Then he says,
“I want to live my whole life like that. I want to love with much more abandon and stop waiting for others to love me first. I want to hurl myself into a creative work worthy of God. I want to charge the fields at Banockburn, follow Peter as he followed Christ out onto the sea, pray from my heart’s true desire.”
So suddenly I find myself thinking of cliff jumping as one big metaphor for what I want my life to look like—loving and living with abandon, surrendering my comfort, letting go of whatever it is that’s keeping me on the cliff and jumping in without always testing the water first. Getting out of the boat when Jesus says “Come,” without first thinking of the sea beneath my feet. Saying “yes” to the adventures I’m offered, even if it means exhaustion, even if I don’t feel like it. Throwing myself into the unknown, into beautiful places that were made for us to explore and enjoy. Opening myself up, cracking myself open, letting my vulnerability shine through to show people my heart that beats for the days where I feel truly alive and in love. Allowing myself to feel things in their deepest and truest sense. Taking the road less traveled. Soaking in those few seconds of free fall. Jumping, and trusting that I will be caught.
That’s what Jesus invites us into, I think. Even though we all find ourselves in patterns of monotony, that’s not what we were created for. These risks, these moments of blind trust and full reliance on God, are so often what fills us to the brim with a sense of purpose and that “heart-so-full-it-could-burst” feeling. Thats what faith is—stepping off the cliff when Jesus asks us to, trusting the adventure He has in store, and plunging into a life that will leave you forever changed.
For right now, the World Race is my cliff, and I can’t wait to jump in.
