Proof The Bible Is True

Every year, thousands flock to San Francisco to walk across that fabled vermilion span, the Golden Gate Bridge. They come for the sweeping views of the city, the fog-wreathed hillsides abutting cold gray waters. The bridge rises 220 feet above the bay. Below, sharks and sea lions swim and dangerous currents churn. Tourists crowd the walkway, braced against the wind, snapping photos.

 

On a cool, foggy September afternoon, I boarded a bus to the Golden Gate Bridge. I wasn’t a tourist. I didn’t care about the view. I was going to jump.

 

I sat at the back of the bus, nervously eating a packet of Skittles I’d stolen from a drugstore. In my backpack I carried a one-paragraph note I’d written to my family and friends. I wiped tears from my cheeks, half hoping someone might ask what was wrong. No one did.

 

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