I DO NOT LIKE HEIGHTS. Get me on the edge of a cliff, and I will crawl along cursing, crying, and praying to get down. I like to be stable. I like knowing I’m not about to fall and break my neck.

On vacation, however, I was forced to face this fear by climbing four mountains—which meant a lot of rock scrambling and on two occasions, climbing ladders or rungs up the sides of cliffs. After all that, I went on a ziplining and rappelling tour.

This was all way out of my comfort zone, and I was so proud of myself—for making it through the mountains, for not being so afraid of the zipline tour, for actually stepping off the platform when it was my turn on the rappel.

Then we came to a lake in New York. A lake with a diving board and a natural waterfall you could sit by. My roommate jumped in eagerly and waved to me from the water, begging me to get in.

I don’t like diving boards. I have never done one, and I have no interest in doing it. Maybe that’s another comfort zone that needs pushed—I don’t know. I just know I climbed up that ladder and walked gingerly across the diving board, gripping the railing.

The moment the railing ran out, I stopped short, frozen with fear, hearing my roommate call, afraid to let her down but even more afraid of stepping out.

“Absolutely not!” I told her, and went back down the ladder.

She was insistent. “Come on,” she said, climbing out of the water. “It’s really not so bad! The water doesn’t even hurt when you hit it! Here, I’ll go again and you go after me, okay?”

“Okay,” I said reluctantly.

She went in—splash!

And with arms like wet noodles and legs made of jelly, I climbed back up the ladder. I was determined to do it this time.

Facing My Fears

I walked fast across the board. I kept going past the railing, even as the board quaked beneath me. I reached the edge—and stopped.

I couldn’t do it.

I don’t know how long I stood there, shaking, crying a little, before I got back down. I just know I kept telling myself to jump but my legs would not cooperate.

I was happy to be on solid ground again, even as I berated myself for my failure. I just couldn’t believe I’d done four mountains, nine ziplines, and three rappels, but I hadn’t been able to do this!

I got into the water the much-less-scary way, using the steps, and joined my roommate by the waterfall. I was still pretty shaken up. She was sympathetic, telling me I’d done a good job and she thought the diving board was scary too. I let the waterfall hit my back while my throat burned and I wallowed in my miserable failure.

Five Questions

Unfortunately, the practical voice in my head decided to wake up. Or maybe it was God speaking to me. Either way, I heard a voice in my head that was definitely not me, and it basically said, You can wallow and look back at this with regret, or you can choose to think about it a different way.

I did not want to think about it a different way, thank you very much. I knew I’d regret being miserable later, but right now it felt nice. I wasn’t letting myself off the hook for failing.

But did you really fail? the voice nagged. I groaned inwardly.

Ugh, fine. I had to do this for school anyway, might as well try Kyle Peters’ five questions!

I got this exercise from a book I’d just read at school. The book was Every Bush Afire by Kyle Peters, a pastor who realized he had the wrong idea about God. He lived as though God was distant and inactive, but after witnessing an answer to prayer he realized there could be more to his relationship with God than he thought.

Kyle describes a process he calls the five questions. He uses these questions to determine what he is feeling and to keep himself from trying to escape the problems. He asks himself what he is feeling and why, how he is tempted to cope with these feelings, what is missing from his life that causes him to feel this way, and what lies he is believing.

What am I feeling? I asked myself. That was easy. I felt sad and guilty for letting my roommate down. I still felt the panic from standing on the edge of the diving board. I felt stupid for backing out of this, the least terrifying thing I’d done on vacation.

What happened? Well, I stood on a diving board (that everyone else jumped off no problem) and backed away crying because I’m afraid of heights!

How am I tempted to cope? By feeling miserable, of course. I failed my roommate, so I should feel guilty. I was too scared to jump, so I should feel like a coward. And later, when I look back and feel sad for feeling sad, I’ll just know that’s what I get for backing away.

What core longing is absent and in need of care? Kyle lists some of these: love, security, belonging, understanding, purpose, and significance. I had to think about this one a little, but finally I settled on love.

I have a works-based love for myself. I will treat myself based on how much I accomplish. I expect other people to judge me the same way. Because I failed, I deserved to be viewed as a disappointment.

And now the last question: What lies am I believing?

“Ugh, I really don’t want to face this one,” I thought. Because I knew the lies. I’d seen them from the beginning, but I’d written them off. I thought I had to jump off a diving board to prove myself, that I’d regret not doing it later. Instead, I realized I regretted getting off the first time, but not the second time.

Why not the second time?

Because I stood on the edge, holding onto nothing. I hadn’t been able to do that the first time.

No Regrets

The more I thought about it, the more I realized I really didn’t have any regrets. I thought backing off a diving board made me a coward. But this wasn’t the same as climbing up a mountain, where there’s always something to hold onto. This wasn’t like ziplining, where the tour guides were right there clipping your harness and telling you when to go.

On the diving board, I had nothing to hold onto, I didn’t have anyone guiding me, and I knew if I got off I wouldn’t be holding up other people. In fact, I was holding up people by not getting off!

It took a while for me to accept these things. I still felt pretty sad. But as the day went on, I stopped thinking about how scared I’d been and started feeling happy I’d stood on the edge. I congratulated my roommate for doing it and felt no jealousy.

I thought about it later without guilt, even with some joy. ‘No regrets’ had been the motto of our trip, and I truly had none.

Kyle goes through this exercise in Every Bush Afire, and at the end of it he prays, Jesus, these things feel true, but I know they aren’t. I repent of believing these lies. I reject these lies. Holy Spirit, show me what’s true. This is the most important part of the exercise—acknowledging that our feelings don’t really determine the truth. And thank God for that!

I may not want to jump off a diving board, but that doesn’t mean I failed. I pushed myself in other ways, and I know God doesn’t think I’m a failure.

Since when did a diving board determine my worth anyway?