They joined the Bruce trail at Old Baldy on the Niagara Escarpment: the Preacher and our teenage son. It's been decades now - just yesterday in memory for them both.
I likely warned them before they left the house, exuberant, eager. "Baldy's lumpy. Tree roots and stuff. Stay away from the edge."
Eye-rolling. "We'll be fine."
That evening, after everyone was home again, calm again; son in cast and both subdued, I pieced the day together. Our son, tackling a cliff, had tumbled. Tree branches broke the speed of his fall. Thirty feet or so down, the landing broke his arm.
No way up - except for his father, who clambered down to fetch him.
Ever tried to climb a cliff face with only one good arm?
"Dad, I can't," he said, terror splashed naked on his boy face. So the father stuck his child between himself and the cliff. Spidered him up. Leg on leg, arm on arm. "You'll be fine, Son. Just do what I tell you."
I still shudder at the final moment, the one just before safety: boy alone on a ledge reaching up, father stretched full out on a tree limb, reaching down. Hands meeting, grasping. Guts twisting. A one, a two SWING. Child traces an arc through clear blue.
Terra firma.
How much do you trust God? Enough to believe he meets you at the bottom? Enough to know that even when you feel abandoned, terrified - even when it's YOUR fault - he has a plan?
You can trust him that much. Do what he tells you. He's your Father.
