Raised Baptist, having faith in God's word has been my life. Through my teens and early twenties, though, I had the unoriginal but persistent notion that having faith in God was the same thing as having courage. It wasn't until my 25th birthday, over forty years ago, that I discovered there was a certain sequence from one to the other. The man I was dating at the time, who had been a paratrooper during World War II, talked me into doing something crazy.   

            Gazing down from three thousand feet, I was amazed at how small everything appeared. Farm fields were mere postage stamps. It was unnatural to be so high in the sky. My fear was evident and the man beside me said, “Not everyone can do this, you know.” I knew he was right, and wondered if I was going to go through with it.

            The man beside me, a friend of the man I was dating, was an instructor, a man I had come to know quite well through the day's activities. He tossed open the door to the small plane. The most incredible, horrifying, all-encompassing fear swept through me as the pressure inside the plane was drastically altered. I couldn't breathe. The thin atmosphere compressed my chest with invisible force.

            The engine roared, vibrating the plane, and my knees were shaking out of control. But I said a quick prayer and inched closer to the exit.

            “Jump!” the instructor hollered. It was a tiny verb, but it had such a profound meaning. “Go ahead!” he hollered. “Jump!”

            Stiffened by terror, my heart beating erratically, I forced my legs to obey. One mighty leap forward and the decision was made. Forces beyond mortal manipulation were now in control of my fate. “One, two, three!” I screeched, and pulled the cord. My body jerked. I glanced up. My chute had billowed, catching the air, slowing my fall. “Thank, God,” I said. “Thank you, thank you.”

            A few seconds is all I would've had to deal with any malfunction. There would've been no time to debate. I'd have had to cut loose of the first chute, open the backup. Any indecision would've meant certain death, every bone in my body shattered beyond repair.  

            Most decisions I'd had to make in my life had required more than just a few seconds to formulate. This time, my life would've depended on a decision, on making the right decision. I'd have had to take action, the right action.

            But I had no decision to make. My chute had opened and my descent had slowed. The world fell silent. I relaxed. The tiny square where I was to land appeared, partially eclipsed by the toe of my boot. I tugged on the cords, steering myself, releasing air and allowing me to control direction.

            A few moments ago, I had thought I was going to chicken out. Fear of the unknown had almost caused me to stay on the plane, to say that I had changed my mind. The instructor would have understood. He would've said something like, “No problem. Maybe next time.” After all, his student was his best friend's girlfriend.

            But now my eyes drifted, taking in the view. Silence shrouded me. None of the problems attached to the ground could reach me.

            My incredible journey ended with the thud of my landing, a sting in my feet. Now I had to vault myself forward and bundle the chute, lest it catch wind and drag me across the field. My venture was not yet over. But I did as I had been instructed and soon struggled to my feet. No broken bones. No cuts. No bruises. Not a scratch. I was anxious to try it again, and did.

            At the age of 25, I came to realize that without fear there is no courage. Courage is being afraid, being very, very afraid of something, and facing it. Faith, on the other hand, is knowing you'll have that courage. Otherwise, I never would've let him take me to the airfield in the first place.