Riding into Adventure November 3, 2019
The bar came down across my lap. I was trapped! I wrapped my hands around the padded surface, gripping in extreme hope,
There was a jerk of forward motion and I took a quick grasp of air. As we rounded a curve, I looked at the mountainous track and listened to the clicky-clack of the wheels. I could see the chain groaning in effort to lift us and the cars behind us.
I asked myself, “Why did I let Pat talk me into this awful adventure?”
Here the two of us were in the very front seat of the front car with nothing to see but a couple of rails and blue skies. “Why am I here? What’s going to happen?”
My cousin, Pat Hall, had said “Riding in the very front is the best ride!”
Why did I believe him? Was it because it was in his hometown of St. Louis? Was it because he had claimed to have ridden it many times? It looked like the worst seat with nothing but air in front of us as we went over the top.
“This is not so bad.” I thought as the cars behind held us back and I got my first look straight down.
Suddenly they were no longer holding us back! Suddenly we were falling and gaining speed as we fell!
With a sharp curve in front of us and traveling at never before attained speed, I knew the end was near. I dared a look at Pat and he was smiling!
The cars banked around the curve, shot up an incline (more sky) and dropped down again (more downward rails). Another curve, another rise, another drop, another jump of my stomach and we were rolling into the start point. I looked at Pat as he jumped out still smiling. I pried my hands loose from the bar. I stood on weakened knees. I took a deep breath to make up for the ones I had failed to take in the 60 seconds of the ride.
Then Pat said, “Let’s do it again!”
Again? Another? I managed a smile, slowly filled my lungs with force and replied, “Okay!” And we were off for another crazy minute.
About 4 years before that wild adventure in St. Louis, Our family lived at Ouachita Baptist College. We didn’t have a roller coaster anywhere near.
What we had was a sidewalk that ran straight down the hill. It stopped just past our house into a ravine that had washed out over the years.
For us little neighborhood kids, it looked like Mount Hood and the Grand Canyon. The thrill was flying down the hill on our trikes or in our Radio Flyer wagon and make a sharp turn up toward our house, just before plunging into the void. (No skateboards, then.)
The canyon had a special interest because, with heavy vegetation, all kinds of varmints lived there. We had seen the masked faces of raccoons. A possum would occasionally venture out to our delight. Rats grubbed enough to grow big. Most of all, we knew there were snakes with their beady eyes, watching with anticipation for us to venture close or, worse, to fall into the pit. Their forked tongue would quickly smell our location to quickly attach their fangs deep in us and we’d never be heard from again.
Once I was leading the way down the hill, fast and furious. Behind was the neighbor boy in the Radio Flyer with Jerry, about 2 years old, riding behind him. I felt a thrill as I swung wide, turning up to our house.
The sound of the wagon told me, the neighbor boy had missed the turn and was continuing at breakneck speed toward the end of the sidewalk and the carvious ravine. The neighbor boy yell, “Jump!”
I looked in time to see the boy leap from the wagon leaving Jerry to survive on his own, without even the wagon tongue to steer. I saw the wagon go over the edge and, then, caught in the grass and small bushes, flip over throwing Jerry head first into the dangerous pit.
All the kids rushed to the edge to see what was happening to Jerry, expecting the worst.
I knew there was only one hope, my dad. He would rescue anyone. I headed up the stairs yelling, “Daddy! Daddy! Jerry fell into the ravine!”
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He met me halfway up as I yelled again, “Jerry fell into the ravine!”
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My dad took the steps two at a time as I tried to catch up. My mind was already picturing Jerry’s body, scratched, bloody, broken and surrounded by multiple huge snakes trying to decide which one should strike first.
We rushed to the edge of the ravine. There was the wagon and beyond it was my little brother. Jerry had already started his long climb out of the ravine. Dad reached down and grabbed the wagon and pulled it out and tossed it behind him. I knew he was ready to jump down, grab the snakes by their tails and snap their heads off. Much to my surprise, I heard him say in a calm voice, “Come on, Jerry. You can climb out.”
I looked at him, trying to figure out why he didn’t jump in there, grab him up, stomp a few snakes, brush off the spiders, kick the raccoon and protectively carry him out. All he did was encourage Jerry to continue to climb. When Jerry got near the top,
Dad reached down, took his arm and lifted him up and into his arms.
After checking for injuries (only one little scratch) the two of them headed up the stairs.
I stood there puzzled. “Why had my dad, my hero, not acted like a hero and rescued my brother? Why did he stay at the top and encourage the poor helpless boy (I thought he would be helpless after the snakes chewing on him) to climb out all himself?”
It took a few years before I realized the many times my dad had encouraged Jerry and me to do something that we thought was too difficult. He had been there in case we really needed him, but most of all he was the voice of encouragement.
Twelve years later, I returned to Ouachita as a student. I went to see the house where we lived. I looked at the slight rise of the sidewalk, I saw the ditch, and wondered what had happened to make it so small now.
As I stood there remembering my dad encouraging Jerry, I thought how that I had now returned to that school. My parents were across the state. I didn’t know anyone on campus. I didn’t have a scholarship or income. I was on my own. As I stood there, I could hear my Dad saying, “Come on, Bob. You can do it.”
“Thanks, Dad, my hero!”
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Jeremiah 29:11 New International Version (NIV)
11 For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.
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