Every time I look back on my life, a story from my childhood seems to surface along with my memories of imposing.
I realize that my whole life serves as a legacy to my mom and dad, and sometimes, it humbles me when I realize how much I was loved, and how well I was parented. No matter what happens to me, there’s always some story, a life lesson, or an experience that my parents bent wisdom or understanding into to help me frame up my life with as much grace as possible.
Today, when I was on my morning walk, I had this funny memory of my dad that might help me explain how I at least attempted to face what happened next in my journey.
My dad had two daughters. No sons. Just two girls who weren’t overly prissy, but who were definitely not Tomboys. But my dad made so many efforts to include us in his life and his passions. My dad loved to do one thing more than anything: fish. So I have a lot of childhood memories of summer camping trips where my dad would disappear into the woods, hiking his way up to the beaver dam to catch rainbow trout that were as long as his forearm.
When my dad would get back to the campsite, he’d cook them on the open fire with lots of butter and salt. My dad’s fish would always get cold because he was so busy picking the bones out of one of his ultra finicky daughter’s portions of fish. (Sorry dad…) But honestly, my dad never seemed to mind.
My dad loved us, and that was always clear.
But sometimes, my dad would get the wild idea to take me and my sister in his boat to spend an afternoon with him fishing and enjoying nature. I remember always wanting those fishing trips to be more fun, but they mostly made me feel trapped and a bit bored. Oh. And, I remember my dad telling me to be quiet. A lot. He said I was scaring all the fish away with my “jabbering.”
But it’s difficult to be still and quiet — especially when you don’t enjoy fishing. Maybe that’s why it always amazed me how still my dad could be. He’d silently cast his line into the water, and slowly reel it back in over and over again. He seemed calm and content, and I liked to study that side of my dad. (For a minute or two, at least!)
But there is one fishing outing that stands out in my mind the most. On that trip, we trolled all the way up to the big beaver dam. We saw an enormous beaver that day — which was very memorable — and, we saw a huge moose roaming along the waterline. I remember the size of that animal took my breath away. Clearly, we did some pretty amazing scouting that day.
But I was still bored.
My sister was always a little quieter than I was on the boat. She had the ability to entertain herself by whispering her thoughts to our Pekingese, Pugsy, or by making a miniature replica of my dad’s boat out of some twigs and moss she skimmed out of the lake.
I, sadly, was not good at sitting still, making replicas, or whispering my thoughts. But my dad never changed. He was quiet and focused on fishing — no matter how silly or distracting I could be.
As we were coasting back to our campsite on this outing, it was very hot, and I remember I was ready to be out of that boat. And, I know that I drove my dad crazy by complaining about the fact that I had to wear a life vest I’d outgrown. It was too tight to buckle, and I made sure my dad was well aware of this detail.
But as our campsite was just visible in the distance, my dad turned off the boat motor so we could coast for a bit. He wanted to drop a few more lines in the water before we called it a day. I think about this time, I must have bitched one too many times about my tight vest, or how hot I was because suddenly, my dad stood up, and grabbed me like I was a sack of potatoes.
Then, in one swift and effortless movement, my dad chucked me into the water!
I was horrified by the shock of the icy cold Colorado lake! I was sputtering and floundering around in the water, and I could feel my life vest starting to float off of my shoulders.
Instantly, I started screaming, “DADDY?! Help me!!!”
I’ll never forget my dad standing above me in the water, and my sister leaning over the edge of the boat, holding onto Pugsy with a tight grip and a look of shock on her face. I was kicking up so much white water all around me that I couldn’t hear, but when my sister put her hands around her mouth, I could tell they were both shouting something at me. So I stopped screaming and splashing just long enough to hear what they were shouting.
That’s when I heard my dad say: “Sonja! Put your feet down!”
Put my…feet down?
I was disoriented by this idea, but as soon as I did, I was startled to discover that I could touch the mossy lake bottom. When I extended my legs, my torso rose above the waterline. It came to a final level around the middle of my ribcage. I remember standing there, looking up at my dad and sister laughing in the boat. My life vest was tangled around my wrists, making me look like a guilty swimmer handcuffed by my safety float.
When my dad pulled me back into the boat, I was a lot cooler, but quite miffed at him. But he was just smiling and chuckling along with my sister. He used a fishy smelling towel to dry me off a little, and then kissed me on top of my head.
Then he said, “Pumpkin… I’d never toss you into water I knew was too deep for you. All you had to do was put your feet down!”
I learned a life lesson that day. I often feel sure that I’m in the deep end, and my fears and panic cause me to kick up a kind of white water that can almost choke off all of my hopes. But when I stop long enough to remember God’s promise to never give me more than I can handle, I can sometimes remember to uncoil my terrified body so my feet can touch the bottom of the dark but shallow pool.
Fear can only swallow you alive if you lack faith, or…if you let it.
When I saw Lou’s patient tracking number appear on the screen in the waiting room, and it said, “MOVED TO RECOVERY,” I suddenly realized how hard I’d been treading water that day. The noise inside my head, and the froth of emotions filling up my heart were real, and certainly warranted. But as I blinked hard to make sure I was reading the board correctly, I could almost hear my dad saying, “Now. Just put your feet down, Sonja. You can touch the bottom. I promise.”
As relief swarmed my heart, I realized that the smothering lake of my own imagination wasn’t deep enough to pull me under after all. Lou was still with me, and we weren’t going to drown…
