Whimpy New Heights

“I totally whiffed, man!”
Saturday, after less than five hours sleep, I jumped into a two-door Civic with two equally-tall buddies, Jack and Mike, and rode five hours north to a hang gliding park. I had been there two different times, taken rookies with me every time I’d been. Each time, my groups had slid into their harnesses, got pulled up to 2,500 feet off the ground, then floated (or dove) back to the grass strip from which we had launched.
But this trip, I was paying double to get tugged up to a 5,280± feet—roughly a mile—before my release from the tug plane. Mike went first. He and Adam, our instructor pilot, did some crazy-wild stalls and maneuvers, then heart-grabbing adrenal dumps hundreds of feet off the ground. Then Jack and Adam dove and curled, swooped and swirled into and out of weightlessness and extra g’s.
When it came to my turn, I nonchalantly jogged to the glider and enjoyed the scenic ride up into the clouds. I could see the Chesapeake Bay, rectangular farms, random rural subdivisions, and a blue, curved horizon. Despite bumpy winds of up to 25mph, I enjoyed the perch. But fear pushed me to tell Adam, “Hey, the other guys were in this for the adrenaline rush. I’d just like a long, scenic flight. Give me a good stall at the end, but I just want to enjoy the view.”
I chickened out.
I knew people would give me a pass, since I’ve travelled the world in chase of stunts for others to see and add to their bucket list with my recommendation. I held enough man cards to spare. I could tell people I chose to chase the longest flight possible (which I did get at roughly 30 minutes). I knew Facebook nation would be impressed enough by me 5,000 feet in the air from a glorified sleeping bag dangling from an oversized kite. Despite the safely-landed flights and rave reviews of my fellow adventurers, whom I trust dearly, I played it safe. I just coasted. When I landed, Jack jokingly asked me if I were getting conservative in my old age. I had not challenged myself as I’ve grown the reputation of doing, and we all knew it.
It has been eating at me for the past few days; but I’ve found a sovereign, somewhat-redeeming lesson.
Monday night—hopefully—was the end of a high-altitude faith descent for me. On and off over the last month or three, I’ve been coasting spiritually. Even in my intermittent floating, the view has still been better than the vistas (or lack thereof) I’ve had at other times in my life. I’ve had some big spiritual updrafts in the past three and a half years, and I have recently been content to let those moments hide the slide—even with spiritual risk takers on either side of me. I’ve settled at times for going through the motions.
But Monday night, I got to be present when God showed up in a big way. He moved all around me and seemingly through me. His Wind brought tears to my eyes, shouts from my throat, group hugs from my arms, and hands raised in Presence. The experience revisited my first hang glide, when I couldn’t shout because my stomach was in my throat—the kind of glide where you get your money’s worth out of a steeper, shorter flight.
It was the rewarding, risky faith flight God wants me to want. It was the contagiousness with which I sell my bungy jumping and skydiving, the longing to return to my base jumping and Indy car driving. It was a spiritual adventure. It was the real deal.
And it made me want again that satisfaction of pushing past a comfort zone, of not settling for the safety of the ground. I don’t know what I’ll do the next time I’m in a hang glider; but I know for at least the next few days (and hopefully more), I will be pursuing the life that jacks my soul—that leaves me undone and grateful for it.