When the Water Seems Deep . . .

He took his time as he carefully attempted to calculate the risk in his mind.  I could see the debate going on in his head and I could see the fear mounting with each step.  He scanned the crowd who had gathered to see if he could find someone--anyone--who might convince him to stop and turn around.  He wanted so bad to go through with it.  At the same time he wanted so bad to be rescued.  I could see the fear.  His legs were shaking.  He was wide-eyed.  Each step was so deliberate and so much more difficult than the previous.  With each step he gained a little bit of confidence.  Yet, at the same time, inching closer to the unknown made him even more uncertain . . . even more fearful.

The unknown.

That's really what we fear, isn't it?  We fear what "might happen" or what "could happen."  Think about what you fear.  Fear always deals with the future.  The word "fear"at it's most basic level always deals with the future.  We fear storms because of their potential.  We fear a snake because it is unpredictable.  We fear a shot at the doctor's office because its "going to hurt."  We fear that our kids "might not" turn out the way we hope they will.  Think about it; what we fear has nothing to do with the here and now.  We can't even fear the past . . . only that it will catch up with us . . . in the future.

The object of our fear can't touch us in the present moment.  However, fear itself can paralyze us.  At his inauguration Franklin D. Roosevelt said, "The only thing we have to fear is fear itself."  I think he was on to something.  As America was facing perhaps it's most formidable obstacle--The Great Depression--FDR knew the greatest hurdle wasn't overcoming the economic crisis, but helping the country overcome its fear.

Fear itself can grip us and entangle us to the point that it's much more debilitating than the object of our fear.

He finally made it to the end of the board.  His toes rested just on the edge while the board teetered up and down ever so slightly just a couple of feet above the water.  Most of the people around us had no idea what was taking place, let alone the magnitude of this moment.  Samuel had never gone off the diving board before.  He didn't even know how to swim.  Yet, for some reason he wanted to do it.  I could see in his eyes that he was scared.  He wanted to turn around and walk back to the safety of solid ground.  The uncertainty was telling him not to do it.  The fear was telling him it wasn't worth it.

I was already in the water.  In fact, I was right beneath him with my arms extended and ready to catch him.  I knew I could catch him.  I knew I could hold him up.  I knew I could cradle him in the water and maneuver both he and I over to the ladder and back to safe ground.

"I'll catch you," I said.  "I'm right here.  I won't let anything happen to you."

"What if I go under water?" he said shakily.

"You might," I said, "But I'll go under with you and I'll keep 'hold of you.  I promise you that I won't let go."

He surveyed the water one more time.  Then in that moment he jumped.  I wouldn't even call it a jump. It was more like a fall.  He bent his knees and let his feet slip reluctantly off the end of the board.  He lunged for me as I reached up as far as I could.  When I caught him under his arms I began to sink with the extra weight, but I extended my arms as far as I could in order to keep him above the water.  When I came up he gripped me around my neck with his arms and around my waist with his legs.  In that moment I could truly feel his fear.  We bobbed up and down a couple of times until we settled with both of our heads above water.  I kept kicking my legs under water to stay afloat as I felt his grip on me loosen.  He smiled as we calmly made our way over to the ladder.  He was so excited because he had finally done it.  He had faced his fear head on.  It no longer had a grip on him.  He was elated.

I was elated too.  Not because my son had faced his fear, but because he trusted me enough to jump.

I've been struggling mightily in the past few days.  Fear has gripped me in ways I've not experienced at any point in my life.  I don't know what the future looks like.  I don't know how to fix our situation.  I can't bring Thomas back, but I want to fix my family's pain.  I want to take their fear away.  I fear that I won't be able to do that.  I fear what life might look like.  I fear that we will hurt like this forever.

I stand on the edge and all I can see is how deep the water is.  I see how far away solid ground is.

But I also see the Father.

"What if I go under?!!!" I scream.

"You might," He says.  "But I'll go with you and I'll keep 'hold of you.  I promise that I won't let you go."

So I jump.  I wouldn't even call it a jump.  It's more like a fall . . .