To Leap or Not to Leap (that is the question today)

Just before I entered third grade, my family moved from Traverse City, Michigan to Wooster, Ohio where it was safe enough to walk to school or to the community swimming pool without needing to hire a body guard or pack a weapon. Of course "safe" may be a relative term; when I was in third grade parents could legally leave children unattended in cars and drive at high speeds with no belts or car seats. It seems that my parents' generation generally worried less about our safety than I did about my kids'; much, much less than my kids worry about their kids. Perhaps when my generation was emerging, the news on TV was all good (except for the Bay of Pigs incident); perhaps the stories our parents read to us (like grandmother-eating wolves and abusive stepmothers) were felt to be instructive enough --that if we avoided woods and wolves, we'd live to tell about it. Given today's media, however, it's no wonder we arrest young mothers who assume their daughters to be safer in parks than fast food restaurants!

But I digress.

I've lately been remembering the days spent at the pool during the summer we lived in Wooster--particularly the day I decided I was old and big enough to jump off the high dive. Just how high above sea level that platform was raised I don't know, but when my turn came to walk the plank, I felt very small and vulnerable. Glued to the edge of the board, I stood long enough for people behind me to begin asking if I might be jumping that day-- long enough to win the attention of the entire population of swimmers and sun bathers who also began shouting their advice--advice that basically amounted to, "Jump!"

People on the ladder behind me offered words of encouragement like, "We're frying out here!" Clearly aware of their desire for a swift decision so they each could take their own turns, I remained frozen in place, shivering. The lifeguard on duty finally leaned forward in his chair, offering support, assuring me that it was safe to jump. He eventually jumped into the pool and spread out his arms, but to no avail. I remained statue still, unmoving.

In the end I un-walked the plank and backed down the ladder, requiring everyone to step aside. The comments from the waiting kids were not kind and I heard booing from around and in the pool. The lifeguard, however, after pulling himself from the water and returning to his high chair, waved and smiled. I walked home alone, wet mostly from my tears.

Why didn't I feel safe enough to jump that day? Especially given the fact that I had already performed a variety of stunts that could very well have ended in maiming or death--stunts that should have frightened me into backing away. Perhaps the distance between the board and the pool seemed too great to overcome, or maybe the fear of pain resulting from my body hitting the surface of the water proved too formidable. Quite possibly the leap I didn't take represented the great unknown. I know for sure that I'm still not ready to jump voluntarily into that.

Whatever the reason, practical or existential, the little girl that ascended and then descended the ladder is someone with whom I'm in conversation today. As brave as it may have been to leap, she's grateful to have been left to decide on her own--grateful that she wasn't overpowered by a push or stern command. And backing down also took courage, she says. Yes, she cried at the booing, but that didn't stop her. And where is it written, anyway, that a ladder-climber is required to jump? Shouldn't there be an option to just appreciate the view? Whatever the case, I congratulate the little girl, knowing well how hard it was and has been to go against the grain of popular opinion. Good for you, I say; bloody but unbowed.

Over the years, other "high dive" experiences have followed that one; among them, singing that first solo, saying "I do," waving goodbye to each of my children from my front porch. Boarding a plane to Kenya, Bosnia and Tunisia and entering seminary as an older adult were also high dive experiences. Those were times I leaped, and it's easy to feel proud of those moments. But there have also been times when I weenied and then booed at my own self for backing down or pulling out--times when I listened to inner accusations that God was sad or mad or disappointed; that his pleasure in me or love for me was compromised; that I'd have to do something really brave and terrific to make up for it.

My third grade memory of not jumping has been with me for more than half a century. Though I've remembered the incident at different times throughout my life, I feel presently quite alert to the sensations experienced while hovering above a particular "unknown," feeling myself close to choosing whether to jump or to weeny. As I draw closer to the edge, I may very well feel myself to be small: there may be people behind and around, telling me to jump, asking what's taking so long, reminding me that everyone has done it or will have to sometime. But I hope to carry with me the awareness that the decision is mine to make; hope that I'll jump (or not) from the wisdom, faith and authority that's been growing and developing over these long years; pray that fear will not get any part of the vote. 

As I reflect, I'm aware that the little girl who didn't jump is reminding me to consider the lifeguard who jumped into the pool that day long ago. Remember him, she says. Remember his words of encouragement, his offer of help, his response when you backed away. Remember especially, she says, that he didn't boo.

*By the way, not many years later, I jumped off an even higher board than the one from my third grade experience. I found that the thrill of the success never quite made up for the feeling of my body slamming into the water below. And interestingly, no one paid one bit of attention. So much for success.