Reflections from an Amusement Park

This past summer I got stuck on a ride at an amusement park. It was one of those water flume rides that glorifies the thrill of going down a steep hill in a plastic log without any seat belts. My cousins, Nathan and I had just gotten soaked on the first small hill, traveled through the dark tunnel, and were making our way up to the biggest hill, when our log came to an abrupt stop on an angle that suddenly felt like it was 90 degrees. We were so close to cresting the hill, so close to at least being horizontal. I remember glancing at the young man working above us, his face looked surprised and uncertain. This was not comforting. I remember laughing, but it was a nervous laugh, the kind of laugh that you conjure up when you don’t want to cry or scream or admit that you’re scared. We were wet, it was a bit chilly, and I knew that there were stairs along this steep hill for a scenario exactly like this. I was ready to bolt.

But no one was giving us any instructions or trying to calm any fears. We sat there and debated what was going to happen. I leaned forward apprehensively, thinking that maybe this would prevent us from sliding backwards (if that was even something that was possible?). I decided that they would not let us finish the ride. Why would they send us flying down a hill when the ride was obviously faulty? They were probably just trying to decide how to instruct us to exit our logs.

I was wrong. They got the logs moving, but they moved at a much faster clip than normal – not comforting. They sent us down the hill. I was terrified. We were fine.

For some reason this memory came back to me this week as Nathan and I discussed our plans for the next few months. The moment when the plastic log stops going uphill and you have a decision to make feels so familiar. We move through this decision time and time again as we decide to invest in (or end) relationships, we commit to a new job, we choose a college far away from home – continually we are faced with decisions that demand that we clarify our commitments. Sometimes we commit to stay on the ride, to trust the wildly unknown, to go on a first date with someone we barely know, to accept a job we do not quite feel qualified for… – and at other times we decide to commit to return to what is known – the stairs that lead to the ground. And though taking the stairs can be seen as a cop-out, I do not think this is fair. Sometimes taking the stairs means we know our values more fully and are confident in our decisions even if they seem less flashy and daring from the outside. We do not feel pressure to be thrill-seekers, we can choose what is familiar and thus in some ways more challenging. The mundane and familiar does not get much spotlight, and yet living well in the mundane is perhaps the biggest accomplishment because it is not in any kind of spotlight.

I guess this is a long and maybe too abstract way of saying, our time in Denver has been difficult. In many ways Denver has been full of the feeling of sitting in damp clothes on a chilly evening, trying to find our way through a dark tunnel and as soon as any momentum is grasped, the ride comes to a sudden stop leaving us confused as to what to do. No one is telling us which way to go or reassuring us in the ways we want.  I want instructions to boom from overhead, but instead I find us sitting and waiting in silence.

In that silence we have been forced to examine our deepest values, longings, and commitments as we think through what’s next for us. School is ending for me in a short 8 weeks, and while Nathan loves his job right now, it is temporary and ends in a big question mark.

While we have heavily debated committing to the thrill of blazing a new path here in Denver and trusting the wild descent, ultimately we want to go home to the east coast. The plan is to take the stairs to Lancaster in June, and we are so excited.