and we jump.

Why is it so hard to hold on sometimes?

Why is it that in the midst of any kind of suffering,
mental or physical,
to them or me,
internal or external,
it's hard to hold on?

Why is it that we feel like we're struggling,
losing our grip on some divine power or stance --
something we feel so grounded in when everything is going fine
but then, at the slightest breath of a disaster,
suddenly everything gives out?

First you try to hold on.
And it's hard.
You take a deep breath. A few.
You close your eyes
and calm your mind
and manage to whisper to yourself those reassuring words,
"I can make it."

Sometimes you have to say them over and over again to yourself
and you have to do it quickly
so the tears don't press through your voice.

Sometimes you have to close yourself in a quiet room,
ignore the rebellious, edging archers that your thoughts have become,
and say it again, this time louder so you can hear it clearly.
"I can make it."

The truth is,
you can,
you will,
and you already have.

It isn't rocket science.
It isn't hard to understand.
It's a very simple principle that our parents have all taught us to learn from a very young age.

Some call it believing.
I don't.

The word "believe" is one of the good that died young.
One of those golden words we used to admire and revere
and fasten as the crown jewel in our sentences.
One of those beauties who was forced into prostitution
and who's name now leaves a sad taste in our mouths.

The word "believe" has been used time and again,
passed on,
abused some more,
then passed on some more.

I say abused, because there is no greater way to abuse an innocent word
than to create a misconception about it.
To create in the heads of nearly everyone who reads it
a certain image
a picture
a place
and a state of mind
that is so far removed from that word's true original meaning.
So far removed and so outlandish a misconception
that if words had hands and feet and brains,
they might craft weapons against us and use them to defend themselves.

But words don't have hands
or feet
or brains.
They can't defend themselves,
they can't speak for themselves,
and they can't take care of themselves.

Which leads us to trust.
Which leads us to tiny babies in incubators,
depending on us to take of them
and feed them
and keep them alive.
They're trusting us.
But they don't even know it.

Do you remember the first time you trusted someone?
Likely not.
The first time your mom or dad held you in their arms,
you were trusting them to not drop you.
You didn't know it,
but you were trusting.

Trusting is something that we're all born with.
It comes natural,
so it isn't hard.

Trusting isn't what's hard.
Holding on is hard.

When I was little, there was this 7 foot slate wall  behind our house.
My sister and I would climb it
and our dad would stand at the bottom,
waiting to catch us when we jumped off.
It was considered fun,
the jumping off
the flying, falling, free feeling,
and then dad would catch us.
And we would laugh.
And do it again.

There was a moment,
a place in this
where I would feel somewhat nervous.
Too nervous to jump.
And then dad would reassure me that I could jump.
My sister would convince me and nudge me closer to the edge.
And I would hold on to edge of the slate wall.
But nervousness and fear is never long-lived in the young, fresh mind of a little kid.

"Jump. I'll catch you."
I didn't believe him.
I trusted him.
I would take one more look,
seven feet down.
And then I would look back up at him.
And jump.

So maybe it isn't believing.
Maybe it's trusting.
Maybe the two are more like antonyms than synonyms.

We can't hold onto the wall forever.
There comes a point when the hurt increases,
when you let the tears unleash themselves from your eyes
and come down.
When you stand in front of the mirror
and watch yourself cry.
And whisper through a broken voice
which has now become more like one achy, choked sob,
"I don't want this."
"I just want everything to be perfect."
"I will get through this."
"God help me."

Maybe we have to let go of the wall,
let our tears stop
and feel the gentle presence that dries them from our faces.

Maybe we have to let go of the wall
and realize that the war has been won
and that our dad is waiting right there to catch us.
And he isn't going to leave until we jump.
And he isn't going to drop us.

Maybe we have to understand that we don't deserve anything
and that's what opens our minds.
Maybe we have to realize that there's this love that is so present
and here
and now
loving and embracing us
and waiting for us to let go of the wall
and jump.

In our heart of hearts, we trust.
Like eyes
and a heart
and lungs
and a brain
we were born with it.

Breathing his name
and our name
an inhale
and exhale.

A hand
and blood
and love
and thorns
and nails
and a savior
and a kiss
and love letters that got sent back
address unknown.
And a God that came.

We inhale
and we exhale.

And we know
deep within our bones
what it feels like
to be loved.

And we let go of the wall.
And we jump.


  1. dude, you are freaking amazing. i love you. you're words are like the best thing since mister spock. just sayin. jesus is doing awesome stuff through you. you're his hands and his feet. kiss hug!


    1. thank you, Kate! and back atcha. ;)


kind words are like raindrops on the desert. they make me bloom with happiness, as absolutely cliche and cheesy as that sounds. even if it's just a simple alt+3 i will heart you for it. so, go ahead! MAKE MY DAY. literally.