The Decision.  I froze.  

Somewhere between the uncomfortable rattling of the metal floor in the tiny passenger plane and the open sky full of brilliant blue above a carpet of clouds.  

“Step out on a double thumbs up.”  That’s what the instructors said.  Just one step off the platform. Chest out, arms and legs back, easy.  

Until I was there.  On the edge.  Literally watching the world pass me by, my heart beating out of my chest.

Glances shot back and forth between instructors.  Back at me.  Me back to the instructor.  Another thumbs up and a sharp “Go!” My feet wouldn’t move.  My body wouldn’t listen to my mind.  Death grip on the side. 

Then, swiftly, with grace and authority the instructor grabbed my front straps as he stepped out and I knew I was going over no matter my current state of shock.  I let go.  

One step, mixed with a fall, intertwined with a short but failed grab back toward the handle and I was spinning in the air with the instructor positioning my body and pointing down.  Seemed like he’d been through this before.   

I was free. He made the decision for me. Kind of.

With a thumbs up he let go and pushed me away.  Stomach first, hands up, feet back I was watching the carpet of clouds rush toward me while my clothes and skin rippled in the wind.  I smiled.  White surrounded us as we broke through and the green of the countryside got lost in the curve of the earth. 

Just pull the cord when the altimeter beeps.  Otherwise it would auto deploy at a certain altitude.  I’d float down, slowly, maybe sticking the landing, maybe tumbling along.  But I’d be alive and in one piece. 

It was one heck of a ride.  Before I had kids, of course….  

Because there was also a chance, ever so slight, that the parachute would never have opened and I could have plummeted to the ground as the green countryside literally smacked me in the face at 100 miles an hour.  

This moment, this decision, well, this kinda feels like that.  But this time, I may just end up getting smacked in the face. Hopefully You can help.

I sat in shock.   

The first week of March after finally finishing a great book, I searched for the author.  He was a Christian leader.  I agreed with most every point.  Inspiring, positive, compelling.  Well written.  Then I found him.  Reading headline after headline of his recent arrest I knew there was something here I was beginning to understand, and needed to work out.  If for the sake of no one else at least myself and my kids as the decision looms for them.

Ladies, gentlemen, something’s coming.  If it hasn’t already.  Heading toward us like a freight train as we’re in one of those old black and white movies tied securely to the tracks.  

If you’ve been there you already know the feeling.  Stomach in knots.  Heavy breathing.  Mind racing.  And there’s nothing you can do to calm the storm or stop that locomotive.  

What’s coming?  

A decision.  One that we’ll be forced to sit with, still, quiet.  No distractions.  No pressing life to be able to jump into and avoid examining ourselves while we pour over our own hearts and motives.  

Our minds, thoughts, history, mistakes, beliefs, regrets, failures, friends, enemies, and paths both past and present will flood our being like a tsunami making landfall.  

But that’s not the scariest part.   

There will come a moment as we examine all those things and we’re left with a question.  

Is this all there is?  Is this what life was meant to be?  Did any of it make a difference? Did I follow the right path, the right person?  Does this have meaning? Did I spend time invested in the right thing? Does my life have a purpose?   

I know, I said “a” question.  But inherently all of those questions have a base.  

DOES ANY OF THIS MATTER?  

No, stop it.  Go deeper…..        

Do I really matter?

Sit with it.   

Hopefully this sledgehammer to the head and the decision that follows comes early in life. It gives us a chance to make changes.  Or, maybe it’ll come while we’re slurping jello in the nursing home as we complain about how cold it is, never realizing our robe has been open the entire time and everyone’s staring.  But that’s a bad era to reflect on it all.  

We can’t really change much then.  

Our decisions have such ripple effects that not only touch us, but so many others.  As our kids try to grow their own families, stuck in patterns we’ve helped to create, that seems a bad time to realize maybe we should have had some conversations and addressed some things.  

Because, in fact, we already know the answer to that one terrifying question.  And it creates an even more terrifying answer. It sets the stage for the decision.

Yes, we DO matter.  

Everything we DO matters.  

We have a ton of responsibility.  What we do affects so many people.  And now we have a decision to make.  

To the world, to generations after us, the actions we take, the time we spend, the things we believe that drive us at the core.  They all matter.  And they have ripple effects in ways we’ll never live to see.  

I know.  The last weeks and those steps, they were long.  Most of you probably are so connected to God, so motivated by His spirit, so worked on and through by Him that you didn’t need to reflect on or work through them.  That’s awesome.  

I wish my kids were in your family, truthfully.  They’d probably be better off.  They’re stuck with me.  At least I used to think that way.    

As the train came for me a few years back I looked into my own heart and mind and as God truly showed me what was there I had to answer some tough questions.  And though I tried, I couldn’t watch enough Netflix or busy my schedule with enough stuff to get my mind off of it.  

Because God was calling.   

He called me to make a decision.  

I was going to be one of two kinds of people.  YOU are going to be one of two kinds of people.  You’re either a water, or a path person.  I was a path person for far too long.  And yes, they are both very different.  

You might be in that spot where you feel it.  That heavy and wretched pain in the pit of your stomach as you realize you’re changing.  Life’s changing.  You have questions.  Questions about who you are, what you believe, why you do the things you do.   Is this what life is supposed to be?  Is this really all there is?  What should I believe, do, or follow?   Why?  What’s faith?  What’s God?  How should I lead my kids as they try to figure it out?  

Am I missing something? 

And that knot in the pit of your stomach is telling you this is about to get bad, real bad.  You’re not sure if your current path leads anywhere that’s really worth anything. And because you know you DO matter, and everything you DO matters,  you hope you haven’t been sold a bill of goods for which you or your family will never profit.  And your decisions may cause them to suffer.  For generations to come if you’re wrong. It’s terrifying.  Life changing.

And exhilarating.    

Welcome.  

To Confession Of A Christian Fraud 2.  Though, I’m positive it won’t be called that.  Maybe:

Is It Time For New Wineskins? (but probably not)

What I’d like to do instead of putting a halt to the blog as I explore the new book (and deal with some other commitments) is blog out the rough draft as it comes together, micro chapters, get some feedback and see where and IF it goes at all.  

Tough thing about that is, there won’t be any consistency in timelines, or guarantees you’ll get your time back if you choose to read the rough and hate it.

The premise:

Are you a water or a path person? What happens when you’re forced to choose?

Christ left the (expected) path too.  And He never looked back….    For Him it was all about the water.  Refreshing, clear, crisp, providing life and direction.  Shareable, and New….

If you’re at all willing to head out on this journey with me there’s a (rough, rough, rough, unedited) excerpt below.  An example to get an idea. If interested, please read the instructions after.  I’d love to have you along.  If not, no worries, and maybe one day we’ll meet again.

——————————–

You lied to me.

Brown hair fading blonde from the sun.  Bare skin cracked and flaking. I stumbled forward, my hands caught the fall.  Red dust spread in every direction.  I thought I could handle the trail. I’d trained for so long.  Even had a marathon sticker on my bumper so everyone could pat me on the back.   

I looked ahead. Nothing but red rock and sand filled the horizon.  Was I nearing the end?  Clothes worn, shoes stained, a hole ripping in the sole.  People of all ages filled the canyon path walking, running, and crawling out in front.  Some fast, some slow.  Talking, smiling, staring at each other or just moving straight ahead.   There were faint tire tracks being covered by the settling dust as they moved.

Looking back was pointless. I could always see a mile or so, but after that there was a strange haze that engulfed the landscape. It seemed to be following me. I’d heard from others you could only go back if you ventured off the path. I hadn’t had the gall to try that, yet.

I think I picked the wrong one. There was a fork in the road weeks ago, miles back. You could only go one of three ways. Everyone had to make their choice. Most chose this way. I played the odds. I’m not sure it worked out.

In the front, every few feet or so, I noticed others.  Like me.  Broken, dehydrated, moving at a snail’s pace one hand, one knee in front of the other.  On the outside we looked like we could move mountains. Inside, we strained just to move another inch.  Trying to follow.  Being passed.  On occasion, if someone stopped long enough, the earth swallowed them up. Somehow the sand knew when we rested. It slowly became like water under our weight. If we didn’t start moving, we’d drop down into the unknown. I’ve never seen anyone come back.

Every now and again someone would stop to help.  The new ones. The fresh ones. They held a bottle of water.   I called them “runners.”

“Are you ok?  Can I help you up?  We need to keep moving.  There’s no time. You can’t stop. It knows. The sand can sense it.”  They’d offer a hand.    A concerned look.  But, odd, they never offered the water.

“Come, now.”

I’d give them a wave and just replied, “I’m fine, thanks.  Just taking a break.”   I knew I had a few minutes before the ground began to soften.

They’d give me a nod and move on.  Through the crowd quickly, the bottle of liquid refreshment glistened in their hand.  Odd thing was, they were the only ones with the water.  So few and far between.  Sprinkled here and there in the mass of people.  Everyone else surrounding them seemed ill prepared for the journey.  No packs.  No water.  No food of any sort.  

Myself included.  

I hadn’t thought it through. I started so long ago.  No end in sight. Others would get dropped off way out in front by a truck, a dirt bike, I’d even seen a few drop in. Why do they get to go to the front?

And if they’re just starting, I have a feeling I’m not anywhere close to the end.  

I stopped again.  The path had to lead somewhere.  It’s worth it?  Right? There’d been so many promises.  Everyone seemed to be headed in the same direction.  Some, though, appeared to be setting up camp.  Driving stakes into the ground for tents grander than I’d ever seen.  Some would connect them.  Circle them.  Tent cities meant to do what?  Give us respite from the elements?  They’d always be built off the path. You couldn’t get swallowed by the earth there. At least I hadn’t seen it. That’s where we camp at night.

But something was off about all of the shelters.  Rips and tears in the fabric where the sun shone through and dust filled the cracks.  People swept it out the front while as much or more continued to flow in from the waves of the wind cutting the back.  They’d patch a hole and another would appear. They’d never leave. There was constant flow on the path. But they’d just stay in their tents and watch. Waiting. I’m not sure for what.

I tapped a man’s leg.  He looked fresh, young.  New.  No water in his hands.  It didn’t seem he needed it, yet.  His shoes hadn’t even been stained by the dust.  

“Do you know where we’re headed?  Where this leads?  Have you been there?  Are we close?”  My speech was slowed by the dryness of my mouth.  

“Yep, sure man, straight ahead.  Keep moving.  You can see the guide way up there.  We’re following his tire tracks.  Snacks and drinks are in the truck.  We’ll stop for a break in a bit.”

He went ahead.  I’d heard that before.  From so many.  From some who started strong but now crawled along, just like me.  Their path ended in the dust.  A few were swallowed just today.

Just.  Keep.  Moving.  

I’ve heard the same from YOU.      

YOU said this path led somewhere.  YOU said it led to the water.  YOU urged me beside you as you cheered and encouraged. YOU smiled, went out in front.  YOU said you’d show me the way.  

But YOU lied.  

As night kicked in and we set up camp while the darkness rose and the light fell, you left.  You always made sure I was sleeping before making your move.  Running off the path.  The path YOU told me to stick to.  

At night you found the trails.  Small branches just off the main drag shooting and winding through the desert.  Free from prying eyes, free from real responsibility, free from everything the actual path called you to. And you ran.  As fast and as hard as you could in and out of the trees, through the shallow streams, covered by the darkness.  Even backward, through the haze. I wonder if they lead to the paths I had to leave behind. The other two choices.

By sunrise you’d returned.  All was good.  Claimed you’d been sleeping all night.  Camped, on the path, right by me.  Well within sight.  Refreshed and ready to go.  Though, today I noticed bags under your eyes.  Some scratches on your arm.  You said it was from the trees.  Remember?  Way back? 

But there aren’t any trees on this path.  I can see for miles.  I’ve been pushing forward for years.   The trees, the shade, it’s on the outskirts.  Those places you told us never to go.  

Something’s wrong.  Here.  With these people.  In those cities.  With you.  Even with me.  Off in a way I never could understand.  But now I think I know.  And one day, if I can put these thoughts together, everyone else will as well.  

I just hope it’s not too late.  For them.  Or for me.  Every mile we go I hear the same voice.  

“There’s no LIFE here.  This, THIS is the way.”  It sounds like it’s under the earth. As the ground starts to go soft under my body and I realize it’s time to move those words play in my head. So I move. I have no idea what’s down there. I’m only motivated forward by fear. Of the unknown. Where do they go when they get swallowed by the red grains?

But I’ve heard stories. From tents and cities before. They warn everyone not to sink. They scream, “Come rest with us!”

They cry out from their doorways. Though I’ve not met anyone who’s really been there down there before. My glance goes to the path, the masses, the tents ripped and flapping in the wind.  

“Blind guides, nothing but blind guides.”  

The child’s words echoed over the wind as they hit me again.  Every mile. Each step.  Every crawl. He passed me awhile back. He was unique. His eyes dug into my soul.

Where is everyone going?  Where does this path lead?  What was the reason I started walking it in the first place?  

I stopped.  Sat back in the dust.  Took a deep breath.  After a bit the ground beneath me began to go soft. I started to move. I’m not sure I can do this anymore. What’s under there? What happens below? I stopped.

I started to sink. I crawled forward, the ground hardened. Then, for whatever reason, for many reasons, I sat back. Reaching forward again as the bottom began to give out, I had a decision to make. 

They screamed from their tents. “Move, now! Don’t stop! Go!” A runner came rushing back for me. Dropped his water and held out his hand.

The bottom dropped out as I reached for it. He smiled. I grabbed at him desperately. As my hand hit his, he pulled it back. Nodded at me as I started to fall.

He smiled, and I finally knew. I’d suspected it for so long.

I’d seen that smile before.

But maybe we shouldn’t start there……

———-

If you’re interested, I’d love to get your feedback as I begin to work on it.  I just need an email address if I don’t already have it.   

Please reply to today’s email (if you’re on the email list) with a simple “yes” or “in.”  If you’re reading from the Facebook post, simply shoot me an email at chad.campese@gmail.com and I’ll add you to the list. I’m not sure I’ll be posting them to Facebook or the blog. I’d like to know who’s actually reading them.   

No timelines, and no guarantees.  The last book took 5 years.  This is just me, freefalling, hoping God positions me for a light landing.  

I’m hoping the parachute opens.  

I don’t really feel like smacking the ground at 100mph.  But I guess at least it’ll be over, quick……  

Cheers,

C 

Get a copy of my first book HERE. Get on my email list HERE, or shoot me an email at Chad.campese@gmail.com. Shoot me a message and connect with me on Facebook HERE.

Written By: Chad Campese

Chad Campese is a father, husband, police officer, blogger, and author of the book Confession of a Christian Fraud.  He holds a BA in Christian Counseling and psychology and is an expert in living his life and faith as a fraud. These days he simply relies on the leading of the Spirit as he tries to slowly and purposefully take life one day at a time.