Over the past
three days I’ve experienced falling out of control in two completely different
ways. I’ll provide an analytical
comparison, a question, and an inferred analogy at the end of this writing, but
as with most of life’s experiences, it’s more about the journey than the result.
Falling Out of Control: Anecdote #1
I may be a
missionary, but that certainly doesn’t mean I’m going to sit on my butt during
a rare day off of “work.” Amidst the
embroidery and dogs without leashes in the market, there reads a sign that
says, “Fly like a bird with Roger.” As
our inaugural extracurricular activity, team Dub E (Ekklesia Epikos) went
paragliding. (A former racer told me he
spent most of his personal money on trips and activities, not additional
food. I’m probably going to follow in
his shoes.)
As I stood
500 meters above the lake that Panajachel is adjacent to and my peers snapped
pictures galore, the thought struck me how incredible our brain and sense of
vision is that can capture such a vast beauty.
(Don’t get me wrong. I love
cameras, though. Especially when I’m
captured jumping. Click on “Las fotos” for team pic.)
I suited up,
ran towards the ledge with Roger bringing up the caboose, and ever so briefly
fell. Not tripped. Not stumbled. But fell at the mercy of dozens of nylon
strings, a gauze thin chute, and a classic rock loving Canadian. For the next 30 minutes I had no control of
my life’s direction, velocity, or altitude.
It’s an odd feeling spiraling toward earth, nearly clipping mountainside
trees, and sensing the lake was going to become an impromptu landing
strip. By “odd” I mean peaceful yet
stomach turning, graceful yet saliva forced its way out during some turns, and
confined yet freedom from earthly constrictions.
We landed on
a soccer field while children were playing.
I had to pay for the opportunity to fall out of my control, but it was
money well spent.
Falling Out of Control: Anecdote #2
Over the last
week or so, I have been helping to cut, grind, weld, solder, and paint a
gazebo-like structure. (Pastor Benjamin
works on projects like this for free-only asking that materials be paid for-in
order to let the gospel be shared through his selfless lifestyle. As he balanced on a 10 foot high beam today,
teetering as hot ashes flew into his boots, he said aloud, “Sometimes I
question whether or not all this is worth it, but then I remember that it’s for
a man’s soul.”)
After we
transported by boat the tools and metal pieces we had worked on all last week
to the proper location, electricity had to be borrowed. (At Isabela’s house, Ben tapped directly into
the electric wire hanging from the telephone poles. Oh, life in a third world country.) There was a slight problem, though, so I
began to ascend a surprisingly steep wooded area to address the issue. I made it about twenty yards when I hit a spot
without much to step or grab onto. I
found a rock, but as I pulled myself up my support gave out. No big deal.
I dug my hands and shoes into the soft dirt and slid down a few
feet.
A few feet
became a few yards and the downward acceleration caused by gravity took
effect. The next 2.7 seconds are still a
blur, but some things I am able to recall and/or infer. According to the cuts on my arms, wrists, and
hands going in at least three directions, I’m assuming my subtle slide
transformed into a tumble. The brain I
marveled at two days before once again lived up to my expectations. I recall being surprised that I wasn’t able
to grab onto any substantial tree or rock, that I felt myself going faster and
faster, that I knew what the people falling on televised home videos felt like,
and that I was suddenly stricken with fear that I would slam my back into a
tree.
As I sat down
to write this blog, I had to do so gingerly because of the bruise developing on
my lowest vertebrae. No, it’s not nearly
as serious as you’re imagining, but far less comfortable than I would prefer. My tumble ended abruptly as I rolled squarely
into a tree about 2 yards from the bottom.
I knew I had broken something.
(I’m so glad I’m wrong more than times than I would like to be.)
The rest of
the day climbing and descending walls was the most apprehensive I’ve ever
been. My faith in my abilities had been
shaken. I had fallen out of control and
it rattled, nay…bruised me to the core.
Aforementioned Promise:
Two experiences.
Two times falling out of my
control.
Two completely different reactions and
outcomes.
Too bad I don’t give up more control
of my life more often to someone who can steer it far better than I can.
To not be in control brings either
peace and freedom or fear and anxiety.
The fact that I’m merely cut and bruised today bears witness to my
support of the former.
Tonight I am pondering the
question: Where in my life am I grasping
for control when I really just need to run to the ledge and believe?
Y tu?
