When I was growing up (some of you probably think I still need to complete that task), my family and a bunch of our extended family would often go to a place near Tishomingo called Devil’s Den.
There were picnic areas and multiple places to get down to the creek that was the highlight of the place. For the most part, the creek was shallow enough to wade but there were a couple of holes that would require you to swim through or get out and walk on the bank to where the creek was again wadable.
On one particular trip, we made it to one of those particularly deep pools of water. There was a huge boulder that jutted out over that pool. Somehow, we had missed this set up on our previous visits. But now the whole place was shouting our names.
My dad, a couple of uncles, and several older cousins took turns scrambling up that rock and jumping off into the pool of water. Every one of them made the whole thing look so easy and like so much fun. There was only one thing for me to do. I had to take my turn and scramble up that rock so that I, too, could jump into that pool of water.
So, I scrambled up that rock. That part was easy except my mom was yelling at me to be careful and not kill myself. Once I got to the top of the rock I didn’t, what you would call, run to the edge and leap into the water. What I did was more like edging my way to the launch point on the rock. Actually, I kind of crept my way to the edge. But at least I wasn’t creeping on all fours.
In the water below me, the men folk in the water were cheering me on, waiting to celebrate the jump with me. It was going to be a Kodak moment.
So, I hunkered down to maximize my lift off trajectory. I remember extending like a skier going off the end of ski jump, but I didn’t go anywhere. Somehow my toes had dug into that rock, and I was stuck.
I wanted to jump. I wanted to leap into the air and splash down in the water where I would be welcomed as the newest he-man in the Ligon clan. It was a marvelous picture that I had in my mind, but I could not convince my body to cooperate.
So, I tried a few more times to take the leap. I would hunker down. I would extend as far as I could. I did that enough I probably looked like a Singer sewing machine. The men in the water were still cheering me on. My mom was shaking her head and mumbling something about telling me not to go up there in the first place.
But I was stuck. My toes were dug into that rock, and I wasn’t going anywhere.
So there I was on that dumb rock overlooking that dumb water. I kept trying to jump off. I could imagine myself jumping off.
But it looked a long way down there. The possibility of paralysis, drowning, or other serious personal injury loomed large. I hunkered down one more time. As I started up that time an amazing thing happened. My toes turned loose of that rock, and I launched myself into the air.
My splashdown was horrific. But I did it. I did it! And I wasn’t dead. Oddly enough, I wanted to do it again. But my mom said nobody had time for that. So we all headed back to our picnic area and the promise of some Spam sandwiches and some Vienna Sausages for my victory meal.
Here are a few things to think about. One, sometimes that next step is the hardest step until we actually take it. And then we discover the next step may not have been that big of deal after all. Two, don’t let fear or unfounded threats keep you from taking that next step. Sometimes, we all have to hunker down before we can find the courage to launch ourselves into the near future. Three, never doubt the value of a good Spam sandwich as a victory meal.
