Just Let Go

He has climbed high on the rock, higher than ever before, and now he is paralyzed. I hear his weeping before I even step from the car, the small voice shaking with fear. He looks small up there, eight-year old limbs clinging desperately to the granite face, and my heart squeezes tight with the pain of his terror.

“Let go of the rock, son,” my husband’s voice is patient but just beginning to fray around the edges. Two hours of coaxing and coaching have gotten him nowhere.

“I can’t,” he sobs. “It’s too scary.”

Ben looks at me. What do we do? Having climbed three quarters of the way up the rock face, Malachi suddenly realized what he had done, and now his only thought was of falling. Never mind the rope attached to his full-body harness, running through an anchor that could hold up a car. Never mind his father on the other end of that rope, keeping him from falling. Like Peter who boldly walked onto the raging sea, only to realize his danger and sink, Malachi can see nothing but his own piece of the story, and he knows he doesn’t have what it takes. He’s going to fall.

“All you have to do is let go. You aren’t going to fall. I’ve got you, son. Let go of the rock.”

“No! No, no, no!” His foot slips, and he screams, scrabbling to maintain his precarious hold.

“You have to trust me. I’m not going to let you get hurt. Just grab the rope and I will let you down.”

“I can’t! It feels too scary, Dad. It feels like I’m going to fall.”

We gaze at each other in frustration. In his present position, I can’t climb up to him or reach him from the top. There is nothing we can do for him until he lets go.

“Please, Malachi. Just let go.”

“I can’t. I’m too afraid.” He sobs into the unfeeling stone, ashamed, trembling with terror. My heart wavers between pity and frustration. If only he could see what we see! That if he would just trust the rope and the one holding it, he would be safe on the ground in a matter of seconds.

But how often have I said the same to my own Father? “Let go,” He says. “Grab the rope and trust me.”

“I can’t, Lord. I’m too scared. It doesn’t feel safe.”

A small crowd of boy scouts gathers, waiting their turn to climb, and I can hear the guide quietly using my son as an object lesson. Driven by embarrassment, Malachi begins to inch his way down the rock. Still refusing to let go and lean back, he scrabbles down bit by bit, crying with each slip of the foot, making his descent an agonizing scrape instead of the graceful swing it could be. What amazes me is that he rappelled before only a few moments ago, leaning back confidently into the strong hold of his dad. Why is he so afraid when he has done this before, when he has witnessed firsthand the strength and safety of the rope?

Yet this too is my response time and again, even after I have witnessed my Father’s faithfulness over and over. This time it’s too scary. This time the rope will not hold me. Surely I will fall. I live just as the children of Israel, who “forgot what he had done, the wonders he had shown them” (Ps. 78:11).

I want to be angry at two hours of the afternoon gone, at having to cancel plans to take everyone swimming and have dinner with friends, at the embarrassment of trying to explain that my son is stuck on a rock and won’t come down. I can’t be angry because he is me. I have been clinging stubbornly to my own fear, staring into an immovable granite face, while my Father calls gently to me over and over, “Just let go. Really. I’ve got you. You aren’t going to fall.”

Feet on the ground again, the shame washes over Malachi and he tries to say sorry, tries to undo the two-hour barrage of abuse he has heaped upon his dad. “I wasn’t bothered by his fear,” Ben tells me later. “I was just so frustrated that he wouldn’t listen to me.”

I wonder if the lesson will sink into Malachi’s heart. I wonder if it will sink into my own. Next time, will he let go and trust? Will I?