The leap into the absurd: that moment when you take on a task that could only end in disaster, and yet somehow believe that it will end well.
Think of Abraham taking Isaac, the son he wanted and waited decades for, up into the mountain to be sacrificed. He was commanded, he was obedient. He would lose his son, but somehow it would be okay.
My first college class was all about this leap into the absurd. We read Fear and Trembling by Soren Kierkegaard. We talked about faith, about trust, about the suspension of ethical laws in the face of divine commands. And in between classes my classmates and I practiced leaping – leaping into the absurd, from half-walls and down dorm hallways.
It was all theoretical to us then – stepping into the unknown, the odds stacked impossibly high against success, but hoping, trusting, that there would be something there to catch us on the other side.
It’s real now. Ever so real.
I have often thought of our move from Hawaii as our first big leap. We had no job lined up, no apartment to move to. We trusted everything would turn out okay, that we would land on our feet, on solid ground. And we did. We landed, got our bearings, started to get comfortable. But not too comfortable – things have always been a little shaky, a little dizzying.
So I wonder if we ever really landed. Have we been leaping, little leaps, our entire lives?
I just didn’t notice because I didn’t have so much weight to carry with me through the air.
There is more than just me now, more than me and Micah. We have three little people to carry with us when we leap. Each time we do, it feels more precarious, more dangerous.
There is more to lose, but also more to gain.
This whole year we’ve been up in the air, flying in the darkness.
We’re hoping for a soft landing soon, because time is running out.