First Slide

​I went down my first water slide this past week. Not as a kid, not as a teenager on summer break—this week, on vacation, as a full-grown, forty-six year old adult who has lived through a few things. It wasn’t fear that kept me from it all these years. When I was growing up, our pools didn’t have slides. You swam, you splashed, you got sunburned, you went home. Slides weren’t as readily available as they are now.

My four-year-old nephew changed the terms. He and I made a deal at the local pool: He would brave the little slide in the shallow end if I would climb the stairs and take on one of the big ones. He agreed with the seriousness only a four-year-old can summon. So up I went, wet feet on hot steps, the smell of chlorine and sunscreen, the low roar of voices and water.

I sat down, made the sign of the cross, and pushed off.

It was fast and cold and ridiculous. I grinned and giggled the whole way down. I hit the water and came up laughing, hair in my face, eyes burning a little, heart wide open. My nephew was there, grinning, making sure I saw him on the deck, shouting, “Melissa, Melissa!” like it was some sporting event–as if I had won something. Maybe I did.

The truth: It felt like joy. Not the careful kind I sometimes ration out after everything is done and the lawn has been mowed. Not the “I earned this” kind. Just joy. Immediate. Undignified. Undeniable.

There’s a story we learn early about being a grown-up. It says that maturity equals control. Hold it together. Make good plans. Never look silly. Be the stable one, the responsible one, the person who knows how to keep all the plates spinning. That story has some value. But it can also pull us away from our own aliveness. It can turn our lives into a checklist and fool us into calling it faithfulness.

I’ve been practicing a different story lately, though, and that story goes like this:  Sometimes the most faithful thing is to let go, push off, and see where the water takes you. Not reckless or escapist. Just honest about the truth that life is not solved by resisting flow. Life is met by entering it.

That slide reminded me how often I avoid firsts because I think firsts belong to younger people or some other magical people that aren’t me. But firsts can still belong to me. To you. To us. Firsts at forty-six--or eighty-six. Firsts after loss. Firsts on a Thursday. The truth is that there is room for newness in a life that has already seen plenty.

My nephew didn’t end up loving his little slide the way I loved mine. He went down once, got out of the water, and that was enough for him. But for me? I would’ve gone again in a heartbeat. I loved it. I loved the rush, the laughter, the way it pulled me out of my head and into sheer delight.

This all got me thinking about how such things matter for church, too. We can act like a community that only knows how to do the things we’ve always done. We can stand at the top of the stairs and point to the sign that says “This is how we’ve always worshiped, programmed, organized.” Meanwhile, the Spirit keeps whispering, “Try it. Take one small slide. Practice delight. Practice courage in a manageable dose.” We don’t have to build a theme park. We can start with one ordinary step, and another, until joy becomes less of an accident and more of a habit.

Christian faith at its best teaches this kind of practice. Baptism begins the story in water. Every time we step back in—into grief, into hope, into service, into rest—we remember what the water taught us: You are held. Yes, you get submerged sometimes, but you rise, and you can try again. No spiritual acrobatics required.

So here’s my invitation this week, for our little church and for anyone reading this who is carrying a lot and pretending not to: Pick one small slide. One “first” that is safe enough to try and silly enough to free something in you. Eat on the porch. Sing loudly in the car. Text a friend you miss. Walk without your phone. Pray with your body by taking a deep breath in the doorway before you enter the next room. Put your feet on the steps. Make the sign of the cross if you must. But then…push off.

I loved my first slide. And I’d do it again in a heartbeat. Who knows? Maybe you might love it too? Either way, we all can be people who practice joy without apology, who risk small new things, and who meet the water with open hearts—again and again.

Sliding down this journey we call life with you,
Pr. Melissa

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