At one point during my high school career cliff jumping was all the fashion.
With full parental approval, of course, my little group used to drive up to the mountains on sunny weekends feeling particularly dangerous and alive.
And at one point during one of those outings I found myself climbing the rocky cliff face between two boys.
The one below me was constantly checking in, “Are you sure you got it? We can go back down if you want.”
The one above would look back only occasionally, his eye on the top of that cliff, “C’mon, Barb. You can do it.”
The one made me feel frail. The other made me feel capable.
It was a little thing. But for years after that I prayed that God would give me a man to follow, one climbing hard with his own vision.
A year and a half ago my husband reimagined life for our family. He sold our house and most of our furniture. He pooled our savings and moved us into my Mom’s. He turned his back on his established network of business in Sacramento and traded it in for the bigger dream of living and working in San Francisco.
And now we’ve been here for two weeks.
Tonight we held hands.
“I’m proud of you, baby,” I said, “You dreamt it. And you did it. We’re here. Thanks for bringing me along for the ride.”
“Thanks for keeping up,” he said.
“I’m trying,” I said.
He squeezed my hand.
So here we go, another week of catching my footing, another day up the cliff.