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NONFICTION

Suspensions

Gravity reveals itself in the dark places. I’m seven years old and drowning in a quarry pond because I’m too hard-headed to learn how to swim. So many kids are in the water that I’m invisible even before I disappear. Through the murky green, I can barely see the tracks made by my clawing fingers in the slimy clay drop-off that got me. It’s pointless: Gravity is massive, and I am tiny. Desperate now, I push off the muddy bottom and feel my right hand break the surface before I sink. Again I rise and again I descend. I’m spent. One last push as Gravity patiently waits for me. Except for her. Scarcely older than me, her hand surrounds mine, and I am lifted. With a name I’ll never learn and a grasp I’ll never forget, she is both a giant and an angel in this moment. She isn’t stronger than Gravity; she merely understands how to work with it.

Gravity seems to depart me when needed most. I’m sixteen and just seconds away from wrapping my first car around a telephone pole because sleep was not a priority. I need Friction to prevent impact, but that requires Gravity. Only Inertia and Ice are in evidence at the moment. In the ear-ringing silence that follows an explosion of glass, shrieking sheet metal, broken roof pillars, and fracturing wood, Gravity sits beside me in the ditch, quietly unapologetic but demanding no toll.

Gravity is a teacher. I’m twenty-four and an Army Ranger Instructor, working atop a thirty-foot rappel tower. I’m also overconfident. Gravity sees my mistake and shows me how to fly. I land on my face, bounce one time, then jump to my feet. I shout that I’m alright—not because I know it, but because I want it to be so. I call this one a draw, thankful that Gravity grades on a curve.

Gravity has impeccable aim. I’m twenty-six and moving to our target’s breach point. Four stories above my Army Special Operations team, a four-foot section of half-inch-thick plate glass is dislodged by our explosive door charge. Gravity guides the insanely heavy shard, edgewise, to the top of my head. A new ballistic helmet, whose weight I’ve been cursing for the past hour, saves me from the fate that would have accompanied the plastic Pro-Tec I usually wear. Gravity’s message is written in the stars I suddenly see.

Gravity appears to choose sides in war. I’m thirty-four and fighting my way through another ambush. The first rocket-propelled grenade streaks towards the paper-thin door of my Toyota Hilux. I catch a glimpse of the flaming red tail, but it’s too fast to react to. Gravity yanks it down just before impact, forcing the Afghan mountain road to absorb the impact below me. Minutes later, I’m standing at a bend along the same rugged track, using my sniper rifle to cover the other half of my team. I think I’m out of rocket range. The RPG gunner knows I’m not. Seconds after my teammates escape the kill zone, I see another red demon coming directly at me from across the river valley. It’s a meteor the size of a softball, droning like a buzz saw that grows louder with each passing millisecond. It’s faster than my reflexes. I only have time to turn my head to the left and swear before impact. It’s pulled low at the last second too, hammering the dirt a few feet in front of me. I disappear in a choking blast of high explosive, shape charge, rocket parts, sand, and rock. I’m still on my feet with half of my wits and some of my hearing intact.

Gravity whispers, “Move.”

Gravity is ever vigilant. I’m fifty-three now and cresting a hill at 70 mph. Distracted by a shiny sign, I suddenly find the interstate traffic stopping just forty feet in front of me. We’re hauling a 5,000-pound trailer behind our pickup. Two compact cars block the only lanes, flanked by a guardrail on one side and a steep drop-off on the other. I aim for both vehicles in hopes of killing neither driver. Employing every racing school, off-road course, CDL class, and evasive driving trick I’ve ever learned, I’m still not good enough. Gravity is though. It’s a perfect straight line stop with feet to spare. My wife shakes in disbelief. Gravity just smiles. Or maybe it’s not Gravity at all. Maybe it’s God. Yes, I’m sure now that it’s God. He’s been here from the very beginning.

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Steve Adelmann lives in North Carolina with his wonderful family. Since retiring from the Army in 2008, he’s crafted precision firearms and written for several national publications. Steve is the Rifles Editor for Shooting Illustrated magazine (2010-present), a graduate of Liberty University and an unabashed follower of Jesus Christ.

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Photo Credit: “Suspension” by Casey Bisson, CC BY-NC-SA 2.0, via Flickr.com.