My earliest memory in life is as an infant cradled in my father's arms. Dad carried me through the front doorway and into the tall, seemingly cavernous, living room of our home in the Los Angeles suburb of Lynwood. My childhood home was a lovely Spanish-style structure, typical of its era in Southern California. I can recall from that day just a glimpse--a frightening first glimpse, really--of the towering living room, with its decorative wood beams adorned with colorful icons and spanning the width of the lofty ceiling. My earliest memory ends a moment later as my father carried his frightened infant son from the house, curious of his child's angst.

It's odd that our earliest memories often reflect our greatest fear.

And for me, my most eccentric, lifelong fear has remained a fear of heights. Well, it's not actually the heights themselves. It's falling from them. Or imagining those whom I love plummeting from them. I console myself with the knowledge that my own signature fears are reasonable--unlike the fears of those who are terrified by the absurd. Such as those with an abject fear of The Wizard of Oz.

Oh, wait. I've got that one too.

But, I'm not the only one who fears the free fall, the descent. Truth be told, by nature and nurture most people--and, indeed, cultures--prefer the ascent into the heights, rather than the descent into the depths. There's a vocabulary of ascendancy used to describe the rewards of the ambitious: raises, advances, promotions. The language of ascension. But, as a Christ follower, and largely contrary to human nature, I am called to live a life--as author Henri Nouwen has framed it--of "downward mobility" toward "voluntary displacement." The apostle Paul quoted a first-century hymn that described Jesus' descent from heights too lofty to fathom:

Have this attitude in yourselves which was also in Christ Jesus, who, although He existed in the form of God, did not regard equality with God a thing to be grasped, but emptied Himself, taking the form of a bond-servant, and being made in the likeness of men. Being found in appearance as a man, He humbled Himself by becoming obedient to the point of death, even death on a cross (Philippians 2:5-8).

To descend then with Jesus is to stop counting and grasping, to pour out and defer, to live and die with a cruciform-shaped love. If we descend with Jesus--destroying the structures and guardians and identifiers of our "False Selves"--then we may ascend with him, indeed "hid with him" (Colossians 3:3), and discover renewed passion, patience, and compassion.

Just outside of my adopted hometown of Auburn, California, is the Foresthill Bridge, towering over the North Fork of the American River. The 730-foot tall bridge is among the five tallest bridges in the United States and is, in fact, the highest cantilever bridge in the world. For years, I'd do everything I could to avoid even driving across the bridge.  

To my surprise, however, the Foresthill Bridge became something of a metaphor as I bridged the span from a self-referenced life--a life characterized by fear--to an other-referenced life--a life characterized by love. And not long before our move from California to Louisiana nearly thirty months ago, I left the car at the end of the bridge and walked to its center, where I gazed out upon the depths below.

That moment on the bridge represents a shift that was moving deep within. A knowing...that there's little to lose to fear...and little to fear to lose...when you've already poured yourself out.