The Day I Fell

How jumping out of an airplane led me straight into the hands of God

Photo by Kamil Pietrzak on Unsplash

Just after turning thirty, life had rearranged itself into something I hadn’t planned.

I was a mother of two, suddenly alone, working long days, measuring time between paychecks, bedtime stories, and the occasional girls’ night when I remembered I was still a woman beneath the exhaustion.

One spring evening a friend invited me to a single parents support group.

Support group.

Which, loosely translated, meant a room full of people quietly pretending they had come for emotional healing when everyone secretly hoped to meet someone attractive.

And I did. His name was Mark.

Abandoned by a runaway wife, father to three children, wearing freckles scattered across his cheeks like someone had kissed him with cinnamon.

But it was the eyes.

Those impossible green eyes.

The kind of eyes you could mistake for wisdom.

Or trouble.

He asked if I had ever modeled.

I immediately concluded he was brilliant.

So we dated.

Skiing.

Dancing.

Dinner dates.

Long summer evenings where life began to feel possible again.

Then one day he casually announced he wanted to learn skydiving.

And naturally —

I should go with him.

Now I ask you this.

Who, in the history of romance, has ever heard the phrase:

Would you like to jump out of a perfectly functional airplane for our next date?

But those green eyes…

Oh, those green eyes must have temporarily disconnected the rational portion of my brain because somehow I heard myself say:

“Oh Mark… I’d love to.”

I now refer to this period as my brief encounter with insanity.

Summer in Washington arrived beautifully.

Blue skies.

Warm air.

And suddenly —

Saturday.

The day.

The children came along to watch.

They were thrilled.

I was busy rehearsing my final conversation with God.

The plane waiting for us was a tiny Cessna.

One seat.

For the pilot.

Lucky man.

The only person present with enough common sense not to leap willingly toward death.

There were twelve of us.

I was the only woman.

Which should have been my second warning.

The Jumpmaster approached me smiling.

“You jump first.”

Why?

“Because if the woman doesn’t back out…”

he grinned.

“…the men can’t back out.”

Wonderful.

I had become a motivational speech.

We climbed aboard and the pilot shouted:

“Lean forward so we can take off!”

I laughed.

Surely he was joking.

He was not.

I bent over, head on my knees, and whispered a prayer that sounded suspiciously like:

Dear God… this was not my idea.

The plane moved.

My stomach remained approximately forty feet behind us.

Soon we were airborne.

The Jumpmaster leaned close.

“I’m opening the door.”

Wonderful.

“Stick your legs outside.”

Excuse me?

He opened the door.

My body, apparently abandoned by logic altogether, obediently complied.

And that’s when I learned an important lesson.

At one hundred and fifty miles an hour —

legs do not dangle.

They violently relocate sideways.

Along with all available oxygen.

I gasped.

Still alive.

Unfortunately.

Then came the next instruction.

Grab the wing strut.

Pull yourself out.

Now somewhere below us my brain floated quietly over the Pacific Northwest, but my body obeyed.

I grabbed hold.

Inched outward.

And suddenly found myself suspended outside the airplane, parallel to the earth, clinging to metal while reconsidering every life decision that had led me here.

The Jumpmaster appeared in the doorway.

Safe.

Protected.

Still inside the plane.

Lucky bastard.

His mouth moved.

I couldn’t hear him.

But I think he said:

“Let go.”

And suddenly —

my fingers obeyed.

The plane left.

It simply…

left.

No goodbye.

No apology.

No reconsideration.

And there I was.

Falling.

Nothing above me except sky.

Nothing below me except earth.

And then —

salvation.

The parachute opened.

Sweet, beautiful, faithful parachute.

Unlike the airplane, it had not abandoned me.

And then something happened I have never forgotten.

The wind caught the parachute just right.

And time stopped.

Silence.

Not quiet.

Not peaceful.

Silence.

Absolute.

Sacred.

The world disappeared.

No engine.

No wind.

No heartbeat.

Nothing.

I hung suspended a thousand feet above the earth in a stillness so complete it no longer felt like falling.

I drifted downward slowly.

Weightless.

Like a feather held gently in the hand of God.

And there —

alone in the sky —

I fell in love.

Not with green eyes.

Not freckles.

Not romance.

I fell in love with something far greater.

I felt Him there.

Felt His presence surround me like warm light.

And in the silence I heard words that changed everything.

It’s okay.

I have you now.

And suddenly I understood.

Sometimes the road we choose is not the road we need.

Sometimes life tricks us into jumping.

Sometimes fear becomes flight.

Sometimes romance is simply the detour God uses to lead us back to Him.

And ever since that day I have learned to look carefully along the twisted dusty road we call life.

Because love —

real love —

often hides where we least expect it.

Sometimes inside heartbreak.

Sometimes inside terror.

And sometimes —

thousands of feet above the earth —

falling straight into the arms of God.

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Your friend, fellow writer, and lover of all things supernatural,

Sherry Briscoe

Reader, Writer, Wordsmith Advisor — writing and marketing tips for indie authors, and occasional words of inspiration.