Jump out of the plane
This is a graduation speech I never gave about my short time at Bethel University and what I learned when I left.
By Maddie DeBilzan | feature writer
A year ago I rode a bus from Washington, D.C. back to my apartment in Manhattan. It was one of those so-called luxury buses you only pay $20 to ride, and that’s because the heat barely works, the seat recliners are busted, and the bus driver — you swear — is wearing steel-toed boots based on the way he’s hitting the brakes.
In front of me was a kid who kept pulling out snacks that filled the bus with the smell of beef jerky and peanuts. Behind me was a man who snored so loud I actually turned around and said “bless you” on accident. And next to me was an obnoxiously chatty woman who wore leather cheetah-print boots and talked to me for the entire four-hour ride about the sexiness of the man she was having an affair with, and the disgust she had toward the man she was married to.
At the end of the bus ride, when she reached into her purse and handed me a knife as a gift, I slid it into my purse.
I spent the spring semester of my second year at Bethel in New York City, where I didn’t know a soul, where I had to watch out for rats below me and pigeon poop above me, where I had to dodge bearded men holding signs that said “free hugs” while on my way to class, and where normal pleasantries with strangers involved being handed a knife on a bus. In New York City, weirdness was the norm.
I didn’t choose to come to Bethel for its journalism program, or its challenging courses in theology, or its study abroad programs that would push me to experience new cultures. I chose Bethel because it was the most comfortable option. My best friend from high school was here, my family lived 20 minutes away from campus, and there were worship services every Sunday night for when I got homesick. Everyone asked each other questions like “Will you be my prayer warrior?” and “Where did you see the Lord today?” You know, normal questions that normal college students asked each other. But that’s what I was comfortable with.
And I loved it. I loved not having to explain my Christian beliefs to my classmates, I loved that the friends I made during Welcome Week grew up in middle-class Christian families just like mine, and I loved that I didn’t have to stretch myself in order to feel like I belonged. I just did.
And then my six-foot-tall journalism professor who wears worn-out baseball caps, thick black glasses and a coffee mug on his left hand told me I needed to leave Bethel. So I bought a one-way flight to New York City two weeks later, and spent the next four months in a place where strangers try to hug you and mug you, and where homeless people ask for your leftover pepperoni pizza that’s wafting through the subway as it sits in your purse.
This past January, I jumped out of an airplane in Queenstown, New Zealand. As I looked over the edge of the plane and saw the gridded ground stretched out 9,000 feet below me, I didn’t think about my career aspirations or my GPA or how much money I’d make after I graduated. I didn’t even think of my four little siblings and their bare feet running across the hardwood floor as they shot each other with Nerf guns, or my parents and how hard they worked to replace Ramen for real pasta noodles in our pantry.
The only thing I could think about was my skydiving guide who was awkwardly attached to my rear, and the parachute on his back, and whether or not this precious piece of fabric would open before my face hit the ground.
And then my guide pushed me out of the plane before I had time to say my last words.
Every single one of you is about to jump out of a plane right now. You’re leaving the part of your life that was comfortable, and you’re entering into the part of your life that’s uncertain. Some of you will start jobs you might hate. Others of you won’t know how to take initiative in an office full of men and women more experienced than you. And some of you might be scared, because you don’t know how you’re going to pay off that $100,000 diploma in your hands.
The good news is this: 99 percent of parachutes work, and the divers land safely on the ground, and they get to take photos after they land with wind-blown hair and smiles that say, “Holy crap, I just did that!”
The bad news is that one percent of parachutes don’t work. But here’s the deal. The people who live life to the fullest are the ones who jump out of the plane knowing there’s a very small chance they might turn into mush. They aren’t necessarily brave people. They just attach themselves to a guide who forces them to jump.
The people who live life to the fullest are the ones who jump out of the plane knowing there’s a very small chance they might turn into mush. They aren’t necessarily brave people. They just attach themselves to a guide who forces them to jump.
Uncertainty, weirdness, fear… those feelings are good. If I could sum up what I learned during my time at Bethel, it’s this: God didn’t call us to be comfortable. The best stories, the greatest opportunities for growth, and the most important relationships are born when we allow God to slap some goggles on our faces, attach us to his parachute and whisk us out of an airplane.
Here’s what I think. I think we humans shouldn’t just exist within the world. I think we ought to look at the beautiful world that’s twirling around with awkwardness and scariness and weirdness, and we should grab its hand and dance with it.
So, Bethel University class of 2019. Buy that one-way ticket. Make that phone call. Pursue that master’s degree. Go on that first date with the guy you think is awkward. Take that job offer.
Jump out of that airplane.
And celebrate when you land.
