Part of what makes an adrenaline rush so euphoric is the sense of accomplishment afterward. The physical sensations definitely contribute. But one of the biggest ingredients of that concoction—at least for me—is the relief from the nervous anticipation.
It’s the wait (and the view from where you’re waiting) that pushes the water higher and higher against the dam until it breaks.
It’s the glass elevator ride up to the top of the building from which I’m about to leap. It’s the bumpy ride in the back of a small plane next to the door before a sky dive. It’s the rumble of the helicopter coming to take you to an alpine landing, the echoes of a huge rapid coming from downstream, the thunder of race cars on the track before you slide into a Mario Andretti Racing School car.
I don’t pay just for the drop or the speed or the sensory overload. I get my money’s worth, when the pending feat gets in my head—when I struggle to sleep the night prior, when my limbs feel heavy, when my heart races on the bus and then goes crazy on the precipice.
My acquaintances call me brave and fearless, but my friends and adventure partners know better. They know I’m a wreck sometimes.
Last night, sharing a pizza with my mom, she pointed out (with a little bit of surprise in her voice), “You’re nervous!”
I conceded that reality.
I wasn’t wearing a helmet or any of my GoPros. There was no kayak atop my car and no airplane tickets in my pocket to a foreign country where I would go play with gravity. Nope: I had a stack of notecards in the pocket of my khakis. (I rarely use note cards for my talks.) It was one of the rare occasions of the year where I was wearing glasses and had product in my hair.
I was about to speak at a women’s book study group.
I love public speaking. I enjoy teaching classes and leading people through table discussions. I love telling stories and getting people excited about things that excite me. I’ve been told I’m really good at guiding men’s gatherings. I get great feedback from when I lead groups of both genders.
But this was my first women’s group, and there would be fewer than ten ladies circled around the living room furniture.
The irony of the situation was that I was asked to speak about what I’ve seen God do in odd or uncomfortable ways over the past few years of my life. Using Bob Goff’s book, Love Does, as a filter, I told my story of life change and the stories of sovereignty that affirmed my spiritual journey. I challenged the circle to respond to God’s promptings, even when they don’t understand the reason or efficacy of that obedience.
Then, at the end, I revealed my secret: coming to speak to them was my scary, mysterious assignment. I admitted that I didn’t know why God brought me to them or laid the specific outline on my heart. The stories I shared, though, had the common theme that God knew better, that those moments accomplished his plan.
I ran over my allotted time, and most of the gals hurried home to their families. After the initial wave left, one excited mother—unmoved from her couch spot—declared, “You were here for me!” In tears, she told a part of her story and how she felt alone in it—how she wanted better for her son who, apparently, is a 12-year-old version of me. (That poor mama!) The rest of the conversation cemented the sense of sovereignty from the night.
On the slow drive home through a dark, rainy night, I felt something similar to when my feet touch the ground on a big jump or a big rapid tumbles over a section of river I just paddled. That’s the moment when I realize that I just passed from “This scares me,” to “I just did that!”
Only last night added, “That was part of why God put me on this planet.” That feeling of usefulness to an omnipotent God proved surreal. It was joined with a sense of purpose. I don’t mean this sacrilegiously, but it was as if God said, “I told you so” with a smirk on his face.
So, what is that assignment you have in front of you today—that prompting that gives your stomach butterflies or makes you squirm? What are you going to do with it?
Take the leap. You can thank me later.
