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The thirty-foot pole stretched
straight up like a telephone pole, tall and intimidating; and we were
told to climb it.
Why would I climb a pole if I didn’t
have to? The truth was—I didn’t want to. But this pole stood in my
way—representing a barrier between God and me, between the world and me;
and perhaps, between me and the rest of my life.
I just completed a class that
encouraged individuals to move from their comfort zone to their stretch
zone. The lessons we learned in the classroom were now going to be
applied experientially. The end-result was the concept that by taking
part in such an exercise called “challenge by choice,” we could create a
model for life.
The thirty-foot pole occupied a
notable spot on the challenge-learning course. The facilitator explained
that we were to climb the pole—outfitted all the way up with heavy metal
staples to create a “ladder”—mount the disk that was attached at the
top, turn and face our group—and jump!
We would wear harnesses, and trained
course technicians, who would manage the belay lines attached to the
harnesses, would control our suspension. Our fellow team members operate
the belay ropes that would lower us safely to the ground after our jump.
And, our instructor reminded us; we could stop at any point. The purpose
of the exercise was to challenge us to take just one step more that we
normally felt comfortable taking.
For whatever reason, I was willing
to give it a try knowing I could stop at any point.
For me, climbing the pole was the
easy part; it took only seconds. But as I approached the top, I saw the
disc mounted there was only the size of a pizza pan. Surely this was a
mistake. My feet were bigger than that!
Just two more steps. My hands
reached for the disk above me. Reality took on a new dimension. My
leaden feet felt glued to the staples; I couldn’t seem to lift them. My
team members yelled encouragement. “You can do it!”
I cautiously tested the disk. My
instinct urged me to kneel, and then rise to a standing position. But
the platform was too small. My coach called to me, “Don’t kneel. You
have to stand.”
Fear set in. How could I stand?
There was nothing there to support me!
Minutes passed. My coach yelled out
again, “You’ve got to let go in order to stand.”
“Let go?” I yelled back. “You want
me to let go!”
I suddenly realized that this moment
in time was no longer about “challenge by choice.” It was something far
greater—a chance to rise above my fears. If I could do this, then just
maybe I could overcome the other obstacles in my life that were holding
me back.
My mind raced thinking about those
obstacles: insecurity, uncertainty, and the great unknown that lay in
front of me after the recent death of my son, Chad. My faith was
bruised. I wanted to cry out to God, “You’ve given me this mountain. Now
teach me how to climb it! Show me what to do!”
I looked down. My support system was
in place. My team members cheered, urging me to take the next step. The
chorus of encouragement range in my ears.
But I was afraid. Truly
afraid. I could turn back now. I already went one step beyond what was
comfortable for me. It was my choice.
In that moment of indecision, a
sudden wash of supreme peace swept over me, surrounding me with a loving
embrace. I felt as though my son reached out, hugged me, and said, “You
know you can do it, Mom.” The feeling lasted only a moment, but it was
long enough to give me the courage I needed.
Fearfully, awkwardly, I reached my
arms out into empty space. I felt as though someone literally
lifted me up. The pole swayed back and forth; and my breath caught in my
throat. But in that moment I felt warmly secure. I let go and lifted my
feet on the platform—and found that I could stand!
I stood as high as the treetops. I
surveyed the golden colors of autumn around me, awe-struck by infinite
beauty. My heart swelled with euphoria a wonderful sense of
accomplishment. Surely God was there with me—and so was Chad!
The pole continued to wobble as I
turned 180 degrees to position myself to jump. Oblivious to the echo of
my team member’s cheers below, I was aware only of God, my son,
myself—and my choice. I reached for the sky—and jumped. Y-E-S!
Words cannot describe my sense of
elation in that brief moment of flight before my body was caught in the
security of the belay lines, and my teammates lowered me gently to the
ground. I’ll never forget it. ( In fact, I have it on video to remind
me!)
Looking back, I realize now that the
climb and jump were much easier than the challenge I’d been facing every
day since Chad died. Climbing upward through my grief was much more
grueling than climbing the thirty-foot pole. Some days, lifting my legs
to walk forward was the biggest accomplishment of the day. Moving, just
moving was an accomplishment! No plan. No destination. Oblivious to the
world. Carrying out the tasks that we as survivors carry out because we
have to, with very few people cheering us on.
Climbing the pole was nothing
compared to what I knew now was my primary task: finding the courage
to live again. My position on top of that pole paralleled the
personal crisis in my life. To move forward, I needed to overcome my
fears. I needed to face my predicament, make a decision, and let go of
my fear. Let go of my grief.
Letting go doesn’t mean forgetting;
it means cherishing the memories. It doesn’t mean ignoring the past; it
means accepting the challenge of living in the present. Letting go is a
choice that can lead to peace and purpose.
I made that choice on top of that
pole one fall day. Victory over the pole! Victory over the sting of
death!
Published 1994, Wings,
Published 2002, The Hidden Hand
of God, Turning Points, A Guideposts book of True Stories, Carmel,
New York, 10512. |
