The Line of Personal Truth

The line between successful and unsuccessful can be as narrow as an incandescent light bulb filament or as wide the as an icy North Atlantic. The line between life and death can be as long as months on life support or shorter than a blip on an EKG monitor. The line between married and not, graduated and not, thirsty and not—well, you get the idea.
There’s one line, for me, that always seems as thin as a moment, at most a few minutes: the line between I can’t and I just did.
I love that moment! I pursue it. I try to bring others to the other side of that line, that ledge. It grows me, emboldens me, enlarges my dreams.
Two weekends ago, I was rock climbing at ClimbMax, an indoor climbing gym in the Phoenix, AZ, metro area. I was tiring, my muscles tightening. John and I had conquered 5.6’s and 5.8’s—I think even a 5.9 (Maloney could tell you). While I felt a sense of accomplishment as a relative novice with those ascents, I wanted to walk away with some bragging rights. John and I tried some tricky runs and got as high as 10, maybe 15, feet off the padded floor—barely even halfway—before tapping out. Kids and moms and pouched-bellied men scaled unbelievable runs around us, as we shook our heads.
But then I spotted a 5.10 or 5.11. It grabbed me. I had to try it. I harnessed and checked my belayer, took some deep breaths and bounced on the balls of my feet. Then I was up. I quickly moved through the first ten feet and slowly maneuvered through the next ten feet. This is where the run got its rating.
I got to a difficult switch and almost frantically looked for the next hold. My breath was building heavier. My forearms stretched tight. All of a sudden, I lost my footing—first one foot, then both. I was hanging from one grip with both hands.
Panic. I felt a hot strain sensation in my surgically-repaired right shoulder. My peripheral vision seemed to narrow, as John intuitively shouted potential solutions for my feet. I felt exhausted, frustrated—desperate. Inside, I yelled at myself that I could do this. Don’t let go. Don’t let go! Get up! I didn’t want to lose. I would never be back in this gym—maybe not even in this town—ever again.
I don’t remember now exactly how I recovered. I’m sure skill wasn’t a factor. I remember pressing my feet against the wall (without a foot peg) for some friction. But somehow—literally gasping—I pulled out of it, reached with trembling limbs, and scrambled to the final grip. Fatigued, I almost couldn’t hold onto the top of the wall, as I waited for John to release the rope for my repel.
I don’t remember, but I probably found enough wind to bellow a “Wooo!” before or during my descent. I usually do. It’s almost instinctive after beating my insecurities or perceived inabilities.
It’s a moment of truth. You discover something about yourself you didn’t know—more than just an ability. You find more of yourself, a wider horizon, a fonder memory. Without intention, you’ve required your core to dream bigger and expect more from life. You can pay for whatever outfitter or environment takes you there, but you can’t buy that feeling. You can’t pay for true accomplishment.
That’s the addiction, as much as the adrenaline, in many of my jumping stunts. It’s not always big things or expensive ones. You don’t need to consume as many American Express points as I have in the past three years (500,000±). Benching more than my body weight or chipping a golf ball in the hole from off the green [for par] or pulling an e-brake slide in my Cooper . . . these have gone on my “retroactive bucket” list alongside some of the publicly-larger ones.
I get a smaller dose of that feeling when I pass on a sinful temptation. After emails where I’ve shared the Gospel or rising from the tank on my recent baptism—booyah! After hearing that God used me for something bigger than me . . . man! I get ready to charge the next one.
I wish every life I touch keeps moving the boundaries of their respective comfort zones. Hopefully, I make the chase contagious.