The Front Porch

          In 1957, our house in Bettendorf, Iowa was one of those arts and craft bungalows built by the thousands in the early 1900s all across America.  You know the kind.  The Norman Rockwell houses you still see in the old part of town; the ones that make you think of home, Thanksgiving and Christmas.  I vividly remember the wide   front porch on ours because it is where life introduced me, a four year old, to daddy long leg spiders.  My seven- year old brother and I had strung a sheet across the porch forming a makeshift tent and we had permission to camp out that night.  All went well at first and I fell asleep without any trouble.  Sometime later in the night, however, I woke up to a tickling sensation on the back of my right hand, which was resting on my down filled pillow in front of my face.  So when I opened my eyes I saw the most frightful creature I had ever seen staring back at me, not two inches from my nose.  My shrieks and screams woke my parents who came running, angered my brother, and probably disrupted the entire neighborhood.  I finished the night in the safety of my bed, but my brother braved it out on the porch.  To this day spiders still give me the heebie-jeebies. 

          That porch also had four steps leading down to a narrow sidewalk that turned left and went around the east side of our house into the backyard.  Each side of those steps was flank by a large brick pillar with a flat concrete slab on top.  Those slabs were about thirty inches off the ground and it was easy to get on top of them from the steps.  I had been ascending these flat topped mountains all during that spring of the spider, but had not yet mustered the courage to hurdle myself off, when one day my father meandered around from the east side of the house.  My brother and some friends were playing on the porch.  He was perhaps telling them I was chicken of spiders because I remember them laughing. 

          Dad must have known I was contemplating a daring feat by my stance at the edge, and sharp focus on the sidewalk below.  I was hesitant though, so he stopped in front of me, perhaps four feet away and said, “Go ahead.  You'll be okay.”

          His reassuring words and smile helped, but were not enough.  “Are you sure?”  I asked. 

          My brother, being not as reassuring, teased me with, “Na, you're going to fall!”

          I looked at my dad with pleading eyes and he replied with an even bigger smile, “Yes, I'm sure,” and holding his arms out said, “I'll catch you.”

          That was all I needed.  “Okay, I'm going to jump!” I proclaimed and with my eyes locked on my father's, focused all the strength my forty-eight months of leg muscle could summon and flung myself out into the great and terrifying unknown.  In an instant, the safety of his arms banished the fear that had gripped me for days and I was running back up the steps to do it again. 

          After two more safe landings in his arms, he stepped back and said, “Okay.  Now do it without me.”   

          After a moment's panic, I said I would, raced back to the top, moved to the edge, looked for the strength in his eyes again and risked my first solo flight.  My eyes were squeezed shut as I landed on my hands and knees expecting disaster, but found none. 

          Wiping the grit off my palms and knees, I looked up at my father in delight. He said kindly, “See, I told you,” and then continued around the west side of the house.   

          With the new courage that swept over me, I don't remember how many solo jumps I took that afternoon, but there were several.  Now, if my father were alive today, he might not even remember that moment.  It didn't take more than a minute and to him, it was probably just a break in his day, lost in yard work, and taking out the garbage. 

          However, it was a liberating moment for a four year old; not unlike what God has waiting for us in his arms.  He is always around the house somewhere, coming around the corner, engaged in running the universe.  He is never too busy to stop and take a moment out of his day just for us, just for you, and say, “Come on.  You can do it.  I'll catch you.”

          It is in those moments when we do not really believe, when we squeeze our eyes shut anyway and fling ourselves out into the great unknown, that we experience real faith.  Standing on the edge and talking to God may be gratifying, but proves nothing.  He will not push nor grab us off the ledge.  The action is ours now.  His Son already died for us, for you.  Faith is jumping into the dark.  There is no other way of proving God's love to yourself, and that his arms really are there, outstretched and waiting.  Jump while he is calling you.  Jump before he walks around to the other side of the house.