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Deep Dive Podcast
Audio segment produced with AI narration summarizing Patrick Madrid’s written content.

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I’VE ALWAYS THOUGHT of myself as cool under pressure, until a broken roller coaster proved me wrong. It happened in the summer of 1999, but the memory still unsettles me.

Here’s what happened: Nancy and I and our kids, along with our close friends Brian and Kim and their kids, caravanned up to the Cedar Point amusement park on the shore of Lake Erie for a day of carefree fun in the sun.

We lucked out that day with flawless summer weather: a cloudless, azure blue sky, low humidity, and temps in the high 70s; ideal for enjoying the rides and strolling leisurely with the kids through the park till the sun went down, after which it would be time for a hearty dinner, a glass of wine, and a swim in the hotel pool.

Like all kids, I loved roller coasters in my youth and took every opportunity to ride them. The faster, taller, and scarier the better, as far as I was concerned. But as I grew older (and wiser), my need for speed greatly diminished.

After agreeing where we’d meet up again later, the older kids headed straight for the roller coasters while we parents ambled along with strollers and our younger kiddos. That was much more my speed.

Later, our older kids persuaded Brian and me to ride Mean Streak, at that time one of the world’s tallest wooden roller coasters.

It’ll be a blast! they said. Come on, dad, you’ll love it! they said. It’ll be just like when you were young! they said. And so, with that appeal to my long-lost youth ringing in my middle-aged ears, I decided, “sure, what the heck” and went off with them to the ride.

My 9-year-old son Augustine grinned up at me as we buckled our seatbelts and settled in. The padded metal restraint bar then swung down automatically over our chests with a solid thunk, locking us firmly in place.

A cheesy disaster movie I had seen in high school suddenly came to mind, one in which a maniac plants bombs on amusement park rides. Ridiculous, I thought. These rides were engineered by professionals, inspected regularly, and perfectly safe. Nothing to worry about.

We rolled away from the station and began the slow climb toward the first and tallest summit. Cha-chink, cha-chink, cha-chink. Giggling with excitement, my son and I held our breaths as we prepared to go over the edge.

Then, just as we were cresting the top, the ride came to an abrupt halt at what felt like a 45-degree angle, leaving us staring straight up into that blue sky, over 160 feet in the air (it felt like a thousand). The heavy restraint bar held us firmly in place as we waited for . . . something to happen.

Nothing.

We hung there motionless at the edge, waiting.

Five minutes became ten. Ten became twenty. Still nothing. There was no announcement, no movement that I could see. And no explanation. I kept reminding myself there had to be a simple mechanical problem. The crew would fix it, and we’d be on our way.

At first, I felt just a mild, nagging, nervous feeling. I don’t like this. Then my mind started racing with “what if?” thoughts.

I did my best to distract myself from my needless worries by chatting with Augustine, as we sat stranded on a thin ribbon of steel on a rickety track atop a gigantic wooden roller coaster with nothing above us but sky and nothing below us but a dizzying drop.

We sat there trapped. And that’s when my imagination went into high gear.

A thought suddenly entered my mind: What if this wooden roller coaster . . . caught on fire?

We were pinned beneath the restraint bar. No one could reach us in time, and we’d burn to death in full view of the crowd below, including Nancy and the rest of our children.

I knew perfectly well that was irrational. There was no way the ride would catch on fire. Even so, fear tightened its grip. I never experienced that sensation before or since. All I could do was wait out the next several minutes till we were rescued.

At last, park employees clambered up the narrow catwalk alongside the track. One by one, they helped us onto the catwalk and back down to the ground.

I’ve reflected many times on what happened that day and, as I look back, here’s my takeaway:

I don’t think I was afraid of fire at all. I was afraid of being helpless. Having no control over anything.

Powerless to find out what was happening, I was powerless to free myself, powerless even to protect my son. My imagination went straight to a worst-case catastrophe scenario that gave shape to that fear. My mind was grasping for certainty in a situation where there was none.

It was a lesson, I realized, in trusting God’s providence, especially when I’m powerless to control things. The Lord Jesus posed a question I’ve pondered many times since that afternoon on the Mean Streak:

“Which of you by being anxious can add a cubit to his span of life?” (Luke 12:25).

The answer, I learned, is no one. Not even me. Especially not me.

I understand better now what it means to surrender to Him in moments when certainty disappears and faith is all I have to fall back on.

When we finally rejoined the family, Nancy’s eyes lit up and she smiled, happy to see us.

“How was the ride?”

What if It Catches on Fire?

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