Our Jr/Sr High chapel last week was dedicated to preparing for retreats. An annual rhythm for our secondary school students, retreats break the school routine that has only just begun. As I stood before the student body that Wednesday, I decided to share a personal story from a retreat-type setting. While my high school did not have retreats like FRCS, my college did require freshmen to select one of the following options: (1) A 10-day backpacking trek through the Adirondacks; or (2) A half-semester long outdoor ministry course filled with camping, ropes courses, and team-building. I chose the latter option, which led to one of the more frightening moments of my adolescence.

I’ve long been afraid of heights. It’s not an uncommon fear, but I would argue it’s a justifiable one. When my college class instructors brought us out to a high ropes course one chilly morning, fear quickly wormed its way through me. One of our first tasks, after learning how to belay properly, was to climb up a towering tree and walk across a wire. The only way to not fall was to lean on another person who was accomplishing an identical task on a wire parallel to your own. No one in my class succeeded in getting across the expanse. I remember vividly how surreal it felt to be 40ft up on the side of a tree, clinging to metal rungs secured to the trunk, and wondering how I got to be in a position that I so strenuously sought to avoid.

Twenty-four hours after sharing this story (coupled with an application about growth and community), I found myself talking to a climbing guide in Estes Park. I told him I didn’t need a harness, because I wouldn’t be participating in the Via Ferrata, which is a climbing route made of iron rungs on which climbers traverse both horizontally and vertically over steep drops and sheer cliff faces. The Via Ferrata is the primary challenge of the 11th grade retreat, which I lead in conjunction with other faculty. But I had never done the Via Ferrata. My first year on the junior retreat came within a month of the birth of my firstborn child and within three months of both moving and starting a new job. I decided I had experienced enough challenges for the season (and perhaps year). My second stint on the junior retreat was marked by rain, and so even some students had their Via Ferrata experience cut short — there was no room for teachers. This year, however, the guide looked puzzled at my refusal to participate. This year, he explained, the guides would be taking the entire class all at once. If I didn’t go, I’d be the only person left behind.

This is only my third year at Front Range, but upon reflection I think I have been placed in an inordinate number of situations of growth. Perhaps it is the nature of ministry, or the nature of employment at an educational institution (where the focus is on learning) or maybe it is indicative of our unique culture. Whatever the case, I can look back over my 2.5 years at the school and recognize that this place has challenged me, and I have grown within that context. Admittedly, as I shimmied into a climbing harness the reminder of how much this job has pushed me left a slightly bitter taste, but that was only momentary. In truth, I am grateful. I am grateful for a job that allows me to do so many of the things I love. Grateful for a community of both faculty and students that bring my family and I great joy. Grateful that this is the kind of place where juniors, knowing my hesitation, checked in with me while I was on the Via Ferrata, and one in which students who didn’t even go on the retreat congratulated me for doing it the following week.

Ultimately, climbing the Via Ferrata was easier than I anticipated. But, at least for me, our annual rhythm of breaking our rhythm had its intended effect. I faced a challenge in the context of community. I did, however, take the safeguard of refusing to look down as I climbed, and never looking out below my eye line. Maybe next year I will pause and enjoy the views.