The threshold was within reach. My parachuting excursion all
those years ago still holds a treasured spot in my memory. I can feel my heart
beating louder than the whoosh of the wind through the open door. The cracked
white paint on the helmet of the brave soul in front of me reminded me this
could be dangerous. Most vivid, though, had to be the countdown.
I stood into a squat and shuffled to the open door. Standing
tall, I was silently freaking out. My instructor’s eyes were kind. “You’ve got
this, Lisa” he said. He glanced out at the open sky and started to count.
“Three.”
Hours of training and suddenly I had amnesia. What was I
supposed to know? How to land. How to throw the reserve chute. How to steer the
chute itself. Why I was there.
“Two.”
In an attempt to calm down, I concentrated on my breathing.
Breathe in. Breathe out. It’ll be okay, I said to myself. Almost time…
And then the heavy-handed pat on my shoulder pushed me out
the door. I fell into the most glorious five seconds of freefalling before my
chute deployed. I finally exhaled, and descended three thousand feet.
The instructor knew I would’ve gotten stuck on Two. But with
a little boost out the door just before I was ready, I could then move forward.
As it is with my faith.
So many times I find myself stuck at Two.
I want to trust God for His plans in the world, despite the
ongoing pandemic and unfathomable events at the Capitol and in the White House.
I want to believe God for His provision as I reset my finances
after my divorce and reentry into the workplace.
I want to know I’m fulfilling my purpose in this world,
where I am free to be the source of light God designed me to be, and allow
myself to simply be me.
My faith boosters push me forward. Prayer. Waiting.
Journaling. More prayer.
“One.”
