“I have to be quite honest. I am absolutely terrified.”

The words came off my lips in a slow, deliberate tone. Even as I said it, I could hear them drift away into the vast opening of the canyon below my feet. While the words of my terror did not linger, the meaning took root in the knowing look of my canyoneering guide that day.

Joe, our rappelling guide, was standing in front of me on the ledge of the 100 foot cliff, holding out the carabiner for me to clip my harness into as a safety precaution. Only then could start setting up my line for the greatest thrill of my life. I wasn’t catching the excitement. But good old Joe caught my drift and looked at me straight in the eye:

“Well that’s good. That means you have a healthy understanding of the task before you. But I’ve watched you now successfully rappel down 180 feet of the canyon walls. I’ve watched you and I have confidence in you. You are stronger than you think.”

This conversation took place outside of Zion National Park just last month on a three foot ledge on the side of a canyon wall. It was a canyoneering outing in beautiful southern Utah. While it was my first time rappelling, it was not the first time I was calling out my fears. In fact, I had said almost the exact same thing to my mother, 25 years ago.

Back then, I wasn’t afraid of rappelling – I was afraid of reading.

That’s right – reading. (Go ahead, laugh.) I remember sitting on my parents bed, holding the Boxcar Children in my hands, waiting for my mom to finish giving my baby brother a bath so we could continue the next chapter. I wanted to know what happened next in the story and I was getting anxious. Mom’s voice came from the bathroom, “Go ahead and read it without me, Mary! Don’t wait for me.” And I froze. . . Read a grown-up book, by myself? Dive into another world on my own? What if I can’t do it right? Does this mean I’m growing up?

“I’m afraid.” I stood before my mother as she leaned over the tub, calling out the fear and exposing my frailty to the one I loved most. My mother looked at me and said, “What are you afraid of?  I’ve watched you read so many times. I know you can do it.”

I nervously climbed back on the bed and began to read. One word after another turned into a sentence, then a paragraph, and a finally, a chapter. Before long I had finished the Boxcar Children, the Nancy Drew Series, and every mystery or historical fiction series I could get my hands on.

Fast forward 25 years. Here I was on the side of a cliff, faced with a familiar fear and a very similar message of encouragement. There was no turning back. This wasn’t a rock climbing trip. (And airlifting me out of the canyon seemed a bit expensive, though I seriously thought about it for 2.5 seconds!) I knew the only way out was forward. But unlike the Camino or every other hiking excursion I have been on, the way out wasn’t an actual road I could walk – it was a state of mind I had to overcome.

I asked myself out loud the same question my mother asked me about reading, “What are you afraid of, Mary?” Was I afraid of the ropes? No. Was I afraid of the harness? No. Was it the speed of the wind about me in the open air? No.

There was only one thing left to fear – me.

I was afraid of letting go of that rope, even while clinging to it. It was as simple and as silly as that.

I distrusted the strength of my own hands, which had proven themselves over and over again. Why? Was it really about the fear of letting go… or was it about clinging too hard to what I thought I controlled in the fear of getting hurt? (Bingo!)

This moment on top of the cliff was a metaphor moment for the rest of my life. It explained so much about the various fears that have impacted my life – from the fear of reading to the fear trying big things. How many times did fear get in the way with moving forward? How many times have I halted, wavered, and even hesitated to open a door, simply because I held the key? After all, there comes a time when we must trust in our preparation, discernment, and God’s grace to catch us if and when we fall.

Well, it wasn’t about to get in my way this time! My feet were already making their way to the edge of the drop-off. With my ropes tied and checked by Joe for safety, I began backing to the open space. “I can do this,” I said to him, “but only if I can do it without looking down,” I said without apology.

Joe smiled. “You can walk down this cliff however you need to, Mary.” 

The fear was in my own hands. And so was the ability to overcome it. Friends, there were three things that went through my mind as I walked down that cliff, step-by-step, inch-by-inch:

– The fear was exposed. (Take that, fear!) It didn’t have the same weight as it did before, hidden and obscure from the vision of my heart. Now that it was out there, so was I. This was a battle in letting go of “turning inward” and mistrusting the good and capable things that I can do. “You are stronger than you think,” I muttered under my breath, “because it’s not about you in the first place!”

– The hard times. I thought about actual times of crisis in my life. Somehow, without using any of my own strength, I was able to survive things I never thought I could withstand. If I could get through those things, this should be a breeze!

– This was part of living my best life. (Definitely a post all of it’s own, but I’ll summarize it here.) Walking down this cliff was a part of an adventure not only bigger than fear, but as a way of living beyond it; of giving it less credit than it’s worth. Our life is not just a collection of misadventures! Those are just the footnotes to the bigger, grander adventures – the choices we make to live an intentional, purposeful, and joy-filled life.

The result? A white-knuckle trip down the side of a canyon cliff, knees shaking and teeth clenched! And those hands! They were sturdy, steady, and as strong as ever. Of course, we know it wasn’t about them, anyway!

Like the adventures of reading, I learned that sometimes in order to discover new places (both in literature and in real life) I must be willing to take a step with courage toward an unknown, not allowing self-doubt to steal my journey moving forward. Unlike reading, however, I will not be looking intentionally for further rappelling adventures. One was probably enough. 🙂

Love, Mary