Years ago I attended the 3-Week US Army Airborne School at Ft. Moore, GA (formerly Ft. Benning) as a second lieutenant (2nd LT). I joined alongside a class of about 100, most of them enlisted - mainly privates and corporals along with a few sergeants.
By the end of Week 1, 30% of my class had been cut from the school. Week 1 was entirely about physical fitness, and if you hadn’t been running and practicing sit-ups and push-ups regularly ahead of Airborne School, then your trip to the school was short-lived.
I had been working out ahead of time, and so Week 1 went fine for me.
And honestly, most folks who make it through that first week are fine for the remainder of the course. Weeks 2 and 3 are intense (Week 3, especially, since you jump out of an airplane five days in a row), but - barring an injury - it’s unlikely that you get cut in those two weeks. In fact, it becomes likely that you will pass the course and receive your Airborne wings.
(Airborne wings worn on just above US ARMY)
Unless you’re me…
—
During Week 2, a lot of the training occurred on zip lines as we practiced dropping to the ground from higher and higher elevations in preparation, of course, for being dropped from an airplane during Week 3.
Early in the week we arrived to a lower-level zipline that looked fairly similar to what you might find on a playground, minus any hint of playfulness in the decor.
And the instructions were straightforward: Each soldier was to take hold of the handle on the zip line, ride it until we were just a few feet from the end of the line, and then drop a 3-4 foot distance down onto the gravel pit where we would execute a Parachute Landing Fall (PLF). It is a precise (and even graceful) technique for falling, one that ensures when you do actual jumps from an airplane during Week 3 you land safely to the ground.
Three perfectly executed PLFs were required to pass this exercise.
(A soldier midway through a PLF in the gravel pit)
Soldier after soldier took to the zip line, went flying along for 30 or so yards, and then let themselves fall into their PLF. A few less fluid than ideal, but for the most of them, this was like being invited back to the playground days -
Go fast!
Let loose!
Let go!
Nearly every soldiers passed the exercise within their first four or five attempts.
Me?
I was out there… for an incredibly long time.
In my early attempts, I would let go of the zipline handles, and as I began falling the 3-4 feet to the ground, I would brace my fall onto the gravel by lenghtening both of my legs into perfectly straight lines. I would then land into to gravel in an upright, standing position. Then (and only then), I’d do a brief crumple to the ground to show I was somehow PLF-ing.
I looked ridiculous, and the trainers took note.
“You will break both your legs in half if you land like that in Week 3, LT!” one of the Black Hats yelled at me (“Black Hat” being the unofficial name of the Airborne School Instructors. See photo below for why). And he was right - you land as 12-15 mph when you hit the ground via parachute. My legs would be crushed if I kept up my current maneuvrer.
I accumulated No Go after No Go - with two (barely) passable PLFs also mixed in there.
Eventually, in attempt to give myself a little more time to think my way through a proper non-leg-bracing fall and complete one more decent PLF, I tried holding onto the zipline handles for a longer time.
However, I kept holding on too long, and this meant that when I did finally let go my body tensed with even more anxiety since I knew I’d messed up - and I began landing like a rock atop the gravel.
No Go.
“LT, what is going on?! You got something wrong with you?!” one of the Black Hats began barking more frequently in my direction.
I could feel heat building around my neck and face. Not only was his attention intimidating, but the whole experience was increasingly embarrassing. As a lieutenant, I technically outranked nearly everyone else who had already passed this exercise. More, I was a good 4-6 years older than most of them.
I have more rank.
I have more experience.
But apparently I have no clue how to fall like they do.
“LT, we got A LOT of training left today,” the same Black Hat barked again. “So here’s the deal. Either you figure out how to do proper PLF, or you’re cut. You have three more attempts to figure it out. Got that, LT?!”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
(An Airborne Black Hat)
My next attempt was atrocious. I held on too long, tried to brace my fall with a knee-first landing, and then crumpled to the ground.
“Gonna break your knees, LT, if we send you out of a plane with you doing that.”
The following attempt ended with a ‘thud’ directly on my back.
I had one chance remaining…
—
Children do it all of the time. They let go of the monkey bars and railing on the bunk bed, and they let themselves be thrown, tossed, and swung with joyful ease by any willing adult.
But for me, letting go with a sense of ease and relaxation remains one of the single greatest challenges I’ve encountered at every phase of life.
High school trumpet solos – I would practice diligently and work myself into knots about all the ways my part could go wrong - and then play the solos with tight muscles, tight airways, and zero joy. Why couldn’t I just let go and let the music play through me?
Sunday morning sermons – I would work constantly to get the details right, the doctrine right, the singular thread weaving from beginning to end with precise word choices littered throughout. Why couldn’t I just let go and trust the Spirit to preach through my unique voice and personality? (and it’s the same dynamic often at work with speeches, social media posts, and Substacks, by the way).1
Improv comedy class (that I once tried) – I was terrified of not being funny. I needed to be funny. And clever. And timely. And creative. Why couldn’t I just let go and discover what strange mess of ideas I tried aloud?
My face - I routinely scrunch my face into a contorted, squinty knot anytime I am stressed and trying to get somethign done quickly. Daddy, why do you do that with your face? arrived to me like urgent prophesy when my then 5-year-old began regularly wondering aloud, essentially, Why not just let yourself relax while doing this task?
Why not…
with ease,
with relaxation,
with trust,
… Just. Let. Go.
--
“That was the worst PLF I’ve ever seen, LT,” and those were the last words the Black Hat said about my final landing. Notably, he did not add a sentence about cutting me from the course.
I had survived.
However…
…I arrived to my room that evening with significant black and blue bruises up and down both of my legs, with the most deepest concentration of coloring found along the entirety of my backside. It was terrifying to look at, and the throbbing throughout my body brought about routine wincing.
I popped a few Advil and - in anticipation of even more acute pain throbbing through my body at 430am when I would awake for morning PT - I drove to the local drugstore and bought something I’d only ever heard of as this mysterious substance that makes everything better.
For the first time in my life I bought Bengay.
And when I awoke at 4:30 am feeling I could not move my body and also that my body was dangerously on fire, I gently rolled myself along the ground over to the tube of Bengay and began lathering it up and down my body.
The cooling, tingly sensation felt incredible. Renewing, even. And surely this strange, powerful medicinal smell will wear off super soon, I thought to myself as I jogged over to our morning formation.
Turns out, it does not.
We were all of two minutes into our morning formation run when one of the Black Hats yelled, “What’s that smell!? That’s terrible! Who the hell has Bengay!?”
(Not our run. But you get the idea of what a morning formation run looks like)
Silence held tight as we kept running. Fortunately, since this Black Hat was running to the side of our fairly large formation, it was difficult to pinpoint the smell’s location.
That didn’t mean he was done, however.
“Who here can’t handle the pain?! Who here spends their precious pay buying up Bengay? Time to speak up!”
The heat returned throughout my body with acute intensity, though it had nothing to do with the black-and-blue pain. I knew these were my last moments at Jump School.
Except…
Except nobody outed me. I mean, the soldiers right around me knew it was me. There was no way to not know. Bengay is ridiculously pungent.
And while I myself thought about speaking up for a moment, I was so terrified that I couldn’t find words.
Then, a few moments later, it became clear that the Black Hat had simply stopped his with inquiry, and I was afforded enough time to discover that the smell of Bengay does, in fact, diminish. Eventually.
—
I look back on…
my near inability to fall with any grace,
the cost my body incurred for trying to stay tensely in control, and
the laughable way I tried to figure out how to deal with the significant, throbbing pain
…and I shake my head.
I laugh.
I sigh.
Holding to rigid control, building a protective shell, tightening up… they have always felt safer, initially. Especially when things start to fall apart. And yet - at Airborne school and in life - the eventual landing is always far more painful for doing such things.
How, then, do we rediscover a childlike, joyful trust that does not need to grip, guard, and cling so tightly?
How do we find the kind of breath that frees…
inspired music to flow,
timely words to rise,
unique gifts to flourish,
generous heart to open,
and even falls to be received as surprising gifts?
If you cling to your life, you will lose it; but if you give up your life for me, you will find it. - Matthew 10:39
—
In Week 3, I landed my five jumps, graduated from Airborne School, and received my Airborne wings.
How?
The short answer is this:
I took deep breaths as a fell from the sky.
I kept my eyes out on the gentle horizon that was large, inviting, and inspiring and provided a reliable way to know where I was in the sky and how much longer until I would hit the ground (rather than looking down at the ground ever-racing toward my feet)
I priortized a relaxed posture throughout the body.2
And honestly, the landings became kind of fun, if you can imagine that.
Except… except for the fifth landing.
By the fifth landing I was feeling over-confident, and so I let my eyes shift their gaze from the steady horizon and down at the ground racing toward my feet. It was terrifying. And my body reacted in automatic, rigid fear.
I landed almost squarely on my right knee and left toe - and though I know that sounds awkwardly impossible, I can assure you that the aching, limited-motion realities that exist in both of those joints to this day make clear that just how possible it is.
And while I certainly lament that my right knee and my left toe regularly remind me of the cost known for anxiously trying to regain control, I’ve also learned to receive their aches as invitations to remember the surprising, beautiful, and paradoxical truth that sits at the heart of a flourishing life:
Absolutely, do your runs and pushups and situps and whatever hard work you need to put in to succeed at your efforts.
And also…
With ease,
with relaxation,
with trust…
Just. Let. Go.
To be fair to myself, I’ve had seasons where I’ve been better about the ‘letting go’ trust than others.
In the Christian tradition, these three could be considered Prayer, Worship, and (holistic) Discipleship.
Ah yes, the letting go AND the landing.
Well done!
Ray
It is amazing what happens when we feel and think like a child. That abandonment that they all seem to have until we take it from them.