"My son, the two-year old Emperor who claims to be Supreme Ruler of our household, has taken up sprinting parking blocks.
I could stop him by mumbling something about the dangers of concrete. But who knows? Maybe this quirky sport is going to take off like planking? Who am I to squelch such genius?
Here’s how it works. The Emperor teeters on one edge of the bright yellow concrete beam. He does not even stretch out his arms for balance. With hands slicked down to his side, he is inarguably better positioned for being shot out of a cannon than walking a narrow beam.
The Emperor then charges ahead as if he believes he can run across the whole beam at full-throttle. Then he tumbles off, awkwardly smacking into the ground with so little awareness that he doesn’t even raise his hands to break his fall.
This is where I make jokes about how he takes after his father. And think about whether I should make him be the weird kid at the park whose Mom forces him to wear a safety helmet.
For the Emperor’s second attempt, he does not even consider reducing his speed. He manages an only slightly more gracious half-roll as he collides with the ground. Two strides. Grass stain. Then four. Skinned knees. And so it goes.
To spare you a recount of attempts five through fifty, here’s the cliff notes: As a young toddler, parking block sprinting is a full contact sport rarely marked with success. What progress there is looks less like achieving balance and more like figuring out better ways of falling.
So much so that after a while, I literally begin to applaud the particularly good falls. I indulge in parental pride over what a good little tuck-and-roller he becomes.
I know it’s a little cliché to draw meaning from the antics of your two year old, but I can’t help but be a little jealous that my son is so undeterred by falling.
He doesn’t stop to look around and see who is watching.
He doesn’t analyze how whether people will judge him if he falls too many times.
Falling, to him, is nothing more than the moment that lies between his attempts at greatness.
And this makes me think that my son instinctively knows something that most of us spend a good chunk of adulthood trying to re-learn.
I’m hinting at a Theology of Falling Well, of course.
If I were writing my fictional doctoral dissertation on the subject, somewhere in Volume 1, I would include this idea: If you can’t remember the last time you fell, that may mean you’re not taking on any new challenges. And in that case, after a while, perfection becomes a fraudulent trophy, don’t you think?
Another piece of advice that has occurred to me while lying on the ground goes like this:
It’s okay.
We should run hard when we can, for as long as we can.
But when we can’t run, we should walk.
If there comes a time when we can’t walk, go ahead. Fall.
In general, when possible, it’s better to fall forward than backward.
When we get up enough energy, we might only be able to manage a crawl. And if we’re too exhausted to move, then all we might be able to manage is to lay on the ground and reach in the right direction.
But as soon as we can, it makes sense to get up. Many people finally succeed after getting up one more time than they fall.
We tend to platform faithfulness that comes in the form of heroic Biblical figures slaying lions, falling giants and becoming Pharaoh’s right hand man. But in the Old Testament world and in ours, I’m pretty sure the greatest act of faithfulness is getting back up and putting one foot in front of the other again.
What if Daniel would’ve let captivity break him?
What if David would’ve wallowed in his dad’s failure to recognize his potential?
What if Joseph would’ve stopped at being sold into slavery?
I submit to you that there would be no moment of triumph had it not been for the moment that they got back up.
