At the top of a cliff overlooking Shipwreck Beach, there’s a sign.  It reads, “Warning:  Diving or jumping may lead to serious injury or death.”  There’s a reason for that sign.

People die there.

After climbing the jagged rocks of what looks like some foreboding castle in a dark fairy tale, they leap into the ocean. . . and never come back.

David, my 20-year-old son, stood next to me staring at that cliff.  His wheels were turning, and so were the wheels of the people at the top—who looked like ants to us—peering carefully over the edge.

I wanted to say, “No way are you doing that!”

This was supposed to be a beautiful family trip to Kauai, not a tragic memory that would haunt us for life.

And nobody was jumping!  Why?  Because the wind whipping through the trees behind us sent waves crashing, like Hawaiian thunder, against that limestone cliff.

David looked at me.  There was hunger in his brown eyes, and I didn’t like it.

“I really want to do it,” he said.

He thought for a minute, looking at me and then the cliff.

“David, that’s crazy.  You don’t have to do this!” I pleaded.

I was trying to leave the decision to him, but this felt like life or death, and it wasn’t the first time.  There was the dark tunnel of that World War II machine gun nest.  The wall blocking it had fallen apart, so he climbed right over.

I felt like that wall, a barrier not quite strong enough to keep my son from danger.

We stood there a moment, and then with purpose in his eyes, David handed me his sunglasses.

“I’m gonna do it,” he said, pulling off his shirt.

Deb and his sisters walked up as he ran off.

“Is he doing it?” Deb asked.

I nodded, watching him leave.

“You got this, David!” Hope shouted into the wind.

We watched him climb to the top.  A local man got there first and dove into the waves.

When the man’s head popped up in the water, it was David’s turn.

Adrenaline shot through my body like electricity.

“Protect him, God,” I prayed.

He carefully stepped to the edge and paused, watching a wave crash against the rock.  Then, as the water pulled back, he jumped.

His body looked so small dropping into that raging ocean.  There was a splash, and he was gone, totally submerged.

Thankfully, his head finally came up, and we all cheered.

But something was off.  It looked like David stopped swimming.  Was he just catching his breath?

As we watched, a sudden dark realization crept over us—David was swimming; he just wasn’t going anywhere!

Again, adrenaline pulsed through my body, and I realized the real danger wasn’t the cliff.  It was the riptide!

He was kicking, fighting desperately against the waves.  Then, he’d wait, treading water, and try again, but nothing was working.

Finally, he started swimming toward the rocks like the local man had done.  He made some headway, but he was exhausted, and those waves were powerful.

His head went under, and I held my breath.  Then he came up again.

What can I do? I thought, standing on the shore.  He was so far out there, out of my reach.

“Come on, David!” I whispered.  “Swim, buddy!”

I felt helpless.

He eventually made it to the beach, crawling and coughing up saltwater.

“Thank you, God,” I whispered.

Running to him, I was relieved, but something bothered me.

Why did he have to jump?  What was that hunger in his eyes?

Being in my 50s, I’ll admit, I often play it safe.  David’s risk-taking inspires me sometimes, but this felt different.

A conversation needed to happen, so I prayed about it for weeks, until one night, the opportunity came.

David had been hiking since 4 am.  We had eaten dinner with some friends in Denver, and since David was exhausted, I drove him home.

He sat next to me in the dark, and I threw out a question.

“David, why do you like dangerous things?”

The question hung in the air, and I felt a little awkward, standing precariously on a fragile limb.

Then, he answered.

“I think a lot of it has to do with feeling close to the people I’m with,” he said, rubbing his eyes and leaning against the window.  “Maybe there’s some identity stuff in there, but not much.”

Finally, I said what weighed most on my heart.

“David, you know that verse that says, ‘lean not on your own understanding and acknowledge God in all your ways’?”

He nodded his head, trying to keep his sleepy eyes open.

“Do you acknowledge God when you do those dangerous things?  Do you ask Him about it?”

“I probably don’t,” he said.  It was quiet for a minute.

Then, he broke the silence with something beautiful, something humble.

“There’s wisdom there,” he said.

The talk was quick, and as he fell asleep, peace settled into the darkness of that car like a turbulent ocean that had suddenly been stilled.

A week later, on a family trip, David interrupted the minivan chatter.

“Dad, remember that talk we had driving home from Denver?”

“Yeah,” I said, staring out the window.

“I’ve been reading through Proverbs, and after we got home that night, I read Proverbs 3.”

What?! I thought.  I knew where his story was headed and couldn’t believe it.

“And I read those verses about ‘leaning not on our own understanding and acknowledging Him,’ the same verses you brought up in the car.”

“That’s incredible!” I shouted.

“God really got my attention,” he said, “bringing up those verses again right after we talked.”

A smile began to light up his face, and I smiled back.

The family eventually stopped at Chipotle for lunch, but I wanted Jimmy Johns.  Walking alone to order my tuna sandwich, I felt like skipping, maybe even doing the worm.

But instead, I landed on whispering a “Thank you” to the One who rescued my son.

There are times I feel like I can’t reach him, like there’s an ocean between us, but God can.  He sees him desperately fighting against the waves that come his way.  He knows him, and He knows how to bring him safely back to shore.

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