I Can Hold On

I hate Ferris wheels.

I realize this may sound a little extreme, considering I’m referring to a carnival ride. I realize that most people view such rides as a source of fun and entertainment. Nevertheless, I stand by my statement.

I really hate Ferris wheels.

The source of my dislike is no mystery. I am terrified of heights. The term “frozen with fear” is an apt description of the state I enter when faced with the reality of being fifteen feet or more in the air. I have no illusions, no pride, no hope for resolution of my condition. It is what it is.

The times when I’ve pushed the envelope on this issue haven’t gone well. An extreme example of this occurred several years ago. My children were much younger then and required the presence of an adult on all carnival rides. They still believed in magic and the invincibility of their parents.

I was younger as well, and still of the mindset that magic moments required my participation; that it was my duty as Supermom to create memories at every turn, no matter the cost. I was convinced that my mom powers could overcome my weaknesses, and that my lifelong fears stood no chance against the herculean determination of a Truly Good Mother.

We all learned the hard way that this just isn’t true.

I climbed aboard the shaky chariot with my two little princes and tiny princess that fateful day, my nausea matched only by my resolve. We were going to ride this thing together. Period. The creaking of gears began, and our cart lifted into the air. I wasn’t happy, but I was steady. My kids were thrilled, exclaiming joyfully as we rose higher into the atmosphere. All was well, or at least well enough.

That is, until the ride stopped, and we sat there rocking in space.

Mama Bear became Mama Scaredy Cat.

I totally flipped out. I had my first ever full-blown panic attack in front of my offspring. My eyes were wild. My breathing was harsh and rapid. I was shaking, desperate to get out of that metal cage and down to the ground RIGHT THEN. I grabbed my son and told him to lean over and yell at the ride operator to get us going, or I was climbing out of the buggy. Supermom at her finest.

The look on my son’s face snapped me out of my panic enough to know that I had to pull it together. The question was, how? How do you get a grip when you’re that far gone? How do you take that level of fear and bring it down 200 notches when the circumstance that brought you to mind-numbing terror isn’t changing?

My kids needed their mom to be the steady one, and I had never felt so unsteady in my life.

So I did the only thing I could think to do.

I grabbed the metal pole in the middle of the carriage, let go of my pride, and slid down to the bottom of the glorified tin can in which we sat. I wrapped one arm and both legs tightly around it while placing my other arm across my daughter’s lap as a human seat belt. My sons stared at me in confusion, eyes wide, mouths agape. My baby girl wriggled happily in her seat, still enjoying the ride, giggling at how silly Mommy was acting.

“Mom,” whispered my oldest, “what are you doing?”

“It’s ok, baby,” I said. “Mommy’s just going to hold on down here.”

And hold on I did. For the remainder of the ride, I clasped that pole with everything I had. I didn’t care that the surface I sat on was matched in grime only by the one I clung to. I didn’t care that I looked ridiculous. I only cared that, at that moment, I had support. As long as I held on, I was anchored. I could make it.

I used my arm to cinch my daughter securely to her seat. I used my voice to soothe my nervous sons, assuring them that it was all going to be okay. Yes, Mom got scared. No, nothing bad was going to happen. Yes, I was staying put, dirty surface and all. No, they didn’t have to be scared. The ride would be over soon. We’d get off safely together. Everything was OK.

That memory is sharper these days than it’s been in years.

Humanity is on a ride we’re not enjoying. People are facing their biggest fears, being moved into spaces of discomfort they don’t want to be in. We feel out of control, frozen by anxiety and indecision in ways we haven’t been before. We’re learning the truth that our reactions, our ability to mind-over-matter a situation, aren’t what we imagined they would be.

It’s humbling.

It’s discouraging.

It’s not what we wanted or pictured, not by a long shot.

And yet, we have an anchor for our souls (Hebrews 6:19). We have a solid pillar, a mainstay, a rock that is rivaled by none. We have a God who sees us, who knows us, who is greater than any enemy that emerges from the shadows to shake us or break us.

Deuteronomy 31:6 says, “Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid or terrified because of them, for the Lord your God goes with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you” (NIV).

We are not alone.

And while we can’t always control outcomes or our own fear, we can do many things.

My day on the Ferris wheel taught me this.

I can hold on to what I know is solid and true, with whatever strength I have left.

I can hold on to someone else, keeping them anchored and safe.

I can reassure the people around me that I may be down, but I’m not out.

Which means they aren’t out, either.

I can speak words of comfort and encouragement, reminding a fellow rider that this won’t last forever.

I can be a team player, doing what needs to be done on my part, even if it’s less than glamorous or popular or heroic in appearance.

I can hold on, knowing that this too shall pass.

I can learn from every moment, even the uncertain ones.

And I can help others learn as well.

We all can.

We have to.

Just hold on. It’s the way out to the other side and back on solid ground.

Rebecca Greebon is a wife, mother, daughter, sister, friend, and child of the One True King. She has a passion for sharing with others how amazing they are, how much they are loved, and how blessed every day is, even when we are lost or distracted or completely over ourselves and the world. Rebecca blogs at theriverchick.com.

Photograph © Nik, used with permission