The Jump

Tennis courts and a swimming pool, a climbing wall, zip line, and rope swing were prime Saturday afternoon draws at our church’s recent family weekend at the Alpine Camp for Boys in Mentone, Alabama. All through the forested grounds, kids (and adults, too) played hard, laughed freely, and were getting dirty. 

Kids aged 4-14 stood waiting their turns at “the big swing”, where Dean and I joined the other adults assigned to help with activities. Youngsters in their shorts and t-shirts were guided through the necessary safety protocols; a climbing helmet was clipped onto each little head and a red-webbed climbing harness pulled up and adjusted around tiny waists and pencil-thin legs. At the base of a sturdy tree, a trained ropes assistant waited to clip a carabiner through the harness of the child at the head of the line, then directed him or her to ascend a tall ladder up the tree to a small platform. A second course assistant waited on the platform to clip them out of their initial safety line and onto the safety rope required for the swing itself. The trained personnel, young women likely in college, used capable words like “on belay” and “clear” to let everyone know what was happening and to keep everyone safe.

With all safety measures in place, at last the child was directed to hang his or her legs over the edge of the platform. Hands on the rope, they allowed themselves to drop forward off the seat. The swing rope safely arced their body, whoosh, down through the air between the shaded trees and up the other side, swooping and rising, back and forth.  

Some riders whooped and relaxed into the motion of the swing, delighting in the sensation, eyes sparkling, broad smiles on their faces. A few riders looked scared the whole time  – anxious, unsmiling, uncomfortable. Almost all found the initial drop from the platform to be startling, but were able to relax once they realized that they were okay. They – and the cheering folks on the ground – could celebrate their own bravery in pushing past their comfort level to risk a new, potentially dangerous thing.  

Dean and I watched from the ground, safely out of swing range, rooting for each participant. Dean’s job, after the swing momentum subsided, was to gently grasp the swinger’s feet and guide them toward a metal step ladder I carried forward. Once they stood safely on the ladder, I unclipped the carabiner from their harness and passed it to Dean, who attached it to the rope leading back up to the swing platform. I made sure each young person stepped safely down the ladder before they scampered back to their celebratory parent. The line of waiting children moved up a step.  

Charlotte Emerson* stood in the safe zone beneath the jump area, phone in hand, ready to record each of her daughters as they rode the swing. From the ground we could all see her 5-year-old daughter, Lucy*, white-blond curls poking out from under her helmet, as she stepped carefully off of the ladder and onto the platform. Lucy stood, quiet and sober, as the swing carabiner was attached to her harness. The course assistant directed the child to sit onto the edge of the platform, pale legs dangling, and to look toward her mom before sliding off of the support to begin her swing.  

Lucy sat, looking serious. Slide your bum a little closer to the edge, she was told. Reluctantly, she scooted forward. Her mom, and the other adults on the ground, smiled up to where she sat, face puckered with worry, and they cheered encouragingly. “Okay sweetie!” “You can do it!” “Just slide off!” Everyone waited.  

Tears welled up in the child’s sad blue eyes. Opening her mouth to draw in breath, face red with emotion, she began to cry. Lucy gazed longingly at her mom, who still smiled up encouragement. “It’s okay, honey,” Mom soothed. “Just slide off.” The helmeted head shook, no, as the sobs continued and we onlookers ached in response.

Finally the question became “Do you want to come down?” “You don’t have to jump. You can come down the ladder. Do you want that?”  The teary face, relieved, nodded yes. The course assistant stepped her back to the middle of the platform, switched the carabiners, and Lucy carefully backed down the ladder into her mother’s arms.  

I’m reminded of a moment from my childhood when I stood in my little bathing suit at the bouncy end of a high diving board for the first time. From the pool far, far below, my adored older brothers called up to me, encouraging me to make the jump. They spoke kindly, using all the positive language you might imagine. But like Lucy, I couldn’t or didn’t want to make that last move from safety to a long drop. From my spot on the diving board, I cried for what seemed a long time before turning around and making my own climb down the ladder. My brothers were kind, but it wasn’t a feel good moment. Clearly, the memory imprinted itself in me.

Ten years later my oldest brother invited me to join him on a rock-climbing adventure not far from his home in the Rocky Mountains. He had all the correct safety gear and, as a certified mountain guide, he knew how to use it. Following his instructions, together we climbed the popular, 1500-foot spire called the Tower of Babel (adjacent to Moraine Lake in Banff National Park). Unlike today’s constructed climbing walls, as we made our ascent I became very aware that the rope didn’t provide support; rather, it was there to catch me if I fell. The success of the climb depended on each foothold and handhold – just me clinging to that high rock face. At the top we celebrated, rested, and then repelled down to the base. I was really proud of myself and genuinely grateful that my brother took me. But upon reflection I decided that I just didn’t want to do that again – that such a climb was not for my own pleasure but simply to impress and please someone else. I’ve never regretted that decision.

Ours is a culture that encourages us to extend ourselves, to try new things. Our growing up is a succession of events which involve risking and learning, acquiring skills, many of them necessary for living in our world. Learning how to walk safely in the world, over and around obstacles, is necessary. But parkour is not. Learning the basics of swimming is genuinely important; I would argue that jumping or diving from a high board is not. The pleasure of physical play, discovering the capacities of one’s body, is one of the joys of childhood. But discovery need not be an imperative. Because while we’re learning those things of which we’re capable, we also need to learn how to respond when we come up against a wall we’d rather not climb or a jump we’d rather not make.  

I believe that the kids who climbed the ladder to the rope swing learned one of three things:  

1. That in a safe space, surrounded by my peers and family, I can risk a new thing and find it fun;

2. That I can safely risk a new thing, find that I don’t like it at all, and choose to do other things instead; and 

3. That, when I’m safe and loved, I don’t have to make a choice that feels against my better judgement.  

I like to imagine that Lucy came away from her experience feeling, not shamed, but more aware of her own capacity, able to feel good about her choices in the midst of pretty strong peer pressure. She’d been taught all her life, rightly, that jumping from a high place into thin air is not the right decision. Perhaps there will come a time in the future when she will be ready to trust herself to the harness and rope, but it was not on that Saturday. That’s okay. She came down the ladder into arms that love her.  May we all.

*Names changed for privacy. Story told with permission.