Fear of Falling

Ah, Alberta and its wonky weather winters. It’s the last week of January, and the unusual warmth has made me wonder if I should head up on the ol’ roof early this year and take down the Christmas lights. Even though I stop turning them on after New Year’s Day, they usually sit up on their precarious perches until at least the end of March.

I don’t look at it so much as procrastination… more like self-preservation. You see, there is one second-story strand that cannot be reached from below with a ladder, thanks to a crab apple tree that is slowly becoming one with the front of my house. To reach that second-story strand, I have to climb onto the roof and get at it from above—an experience that never ceases to get my heart pounding and my mind questioning my sanity.

I clearly remember the first time I made my way onto that second-story roof. My parents were arriving that day for a brief pre-Christmas visit, and I wanted to welcome them with a festive-looking house. So up I went, strands in hand. As it happened, I ended up too terrified to get within three feet of the edge. After a few agonizing attempts, limbs trembling and sweat pouring, I finally left the roof in defeat. As I descended the ladder, my parents drove up.

The sight of me stepping down from the ladder with a strand of Christmas lights coiled in one hand must’ve been enough for my Dad to get the picture. He gently offered to help me out, and, in that confident manner he always had, began climbing the ladder. Chagrined and a little embarrassed, I followed with the lights. Soon we were on the roof, Dad eying the situation, and me beginning to feel my pulse racing again. Then he reached out for the strand and, as comfortable as if he were on level ground, knelt by the edge of the roof and began to attach it to the eaves.

Now, my Dad is not a small man. He’s always towered above me at his 6’ 3” height, and has that imposing farm-bred physique that reminds me every time I see him that I’ll probably never be able to take him in an arm-wrestling match, even when he’s 100 years old. But somehow, seeing him kneeling right at the edge of that rooftop without a hint of fear did something in me. With jaw set, I stepped to the edge of the roof and knelt beside Dad. Mimicking his posture, I began clipping those tiny lights to the eaves, one at a time.

And just like that, the fear evaporated.

Soon the strand was in place and plugged in. Standing there on that rooftop, admiring our handiwork, I couldn’t help but reflect on the difference between how I had felt when I had been on the roof alone and how I had felt when Dad was there with me. Somehow, the simple fact of my dad’s presence changed everything.

I could have resisted my Dad’s offer to help, mind you. I could have played the bravado card and tried to salvage my pride. I could have made excuses or tried to distract him. But I knew Dad could see through all of that. Besides, his wasn’t an offer that mocked my shortcomings; it was an act of love that bore the potential of revealing new possibilities.

The same is true with our heavenly Father, isn’t it? So much of life is daunting. Some of it is even terrifying. Many of us are right now standing near a relational, career or health-related precipice, scared out of our wits. Perhaps we’ve even come face-to-face with our limitations, but are resisting God’s gentle offer to help—choosing self-reliance instead.

If that’s where you’re at, let me remind you: God is there with you (Deuteronomy 31:6). He is for you (Ephesians 1:3-14). His perfect love banishes fear (1 John 4:18), and His presence has the power to change everything.