A gross understatement.
Allow me to elaborate.
In fourth grade, we watched The Wizard of Oz. My wide hazel eyes stayed affixed exactly two inches above the glowing screen, so as not to be subjected to the Wicked Witch of the West’s cackling green-faced snarl.
Twenty-one years later, I still don’t watch scary movies (although I can handle The Wizard of Oz now, thank you very much).
In high school, I heard a boy was planning to ask me out during my study period. Petrified of the “I-don’t-like-you-that-way” conversation, I spent the hour power walking the halls with a friend, while the aforementioned young man diligently trailed behind us, waiting for an opening. Eventually, I had a stroke of genius: I hid in the girls’ washroom.
At Disneyland a few years ago, I vehemently refused to go on the Tower of Terror. Not because of the 130-foot drop. Because of the creepily told, haunted backstory. But after seeing a parade of four-year-olds exit exuberantly, I felt a little pathetic. So I went in.
Big Mistake. I was practically vibrating in fear as I listened to the pale, monotone bellman monologue the harrowing tale.
I suppose it goes without saying that I’ve never been cliff jumping.
But in spite of my outwardly cowardly tendencies, I know I have taken risks that would make Evel Knievel run for cover.
I have leapt off more spiritual cliffs than I can count. Head first. Arms flailing. But the freefall is nothing compared to what happens right before. I’m referring, of course, to the most terrifying syllable in my spiritual walk:
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