 |
| Feather River, near Live Oak, CA |
(Written ’21 March 2021)
(Psalm 69:1-3a)
It was early June, 1969, the
week before High School Graduation in Live Oak. It was “Senior Skip Day” when
the bus took our class for a fun day-off at a reservoir called Camp Far West, in
the Sierra Nevada foothills, near Beale Air Force Base.
I launched myself, alongside
one of my best friends, to swim to the floating platform out from the beach. It
was pretty far and, although I knew how to swim, I got tired and began to sink
below the surface of the lake. I struggled against this, but down I went. I
tried to relax, and float back up, but down I went.
I was scared to death. I
thought: “God I’m dying!”. God planted a thought in my head: “Trust me!”.
Then I thought that, if only I could
make myself sink far enough, then I could kick myself up from the bottom. I could
see bottom. (Later I learned that bottom was probably about 12 or 15 feet below
the surface.) My feet touched mud. I let myself sink even lower so I could
really kick hard.
All this happened in less than
the longest time a normal seventeen-year-old kid can hold his breath. Yes! I started going up. Yes! But my lungs hit their limit. So help me, I just couldn’t hold it in any longer. I just couldn't do it, no matter how hard I wanted to hold back.
I had to inhale, and I knew that it
would have to be my last breath. Before I could reach the top, I took it in,
and everything went suddenly black.
Then, everything
went bright. I was like a bullet, or a rocket, shot into a blinding, blue, brightness.
I was afraid, now, because I was going so fast; but there was no way to stop myself.
There was nothing to hold onto; and I had no hands, no body. On I went, and,
suddenly, I was belly down on the beach, coughing up water, while coach Clark
was shoving on my back to resuscitate me. (Later, I learned that Charlie Lucas
had swam up to the spot where I was and had caught hold of me and swam me back
to shore.
I told everyone, when asked,
that I wanted to spend the rest of the day with them. I took a swell, exciting
ride in the Graham’s speed boat. Picnicked with the others, and came home on
the bus late that afternoon.
My friends commented on how purple
I had been when Charlie had gotten me out of the water. I walked the half mile
home, although a bunch of people offered me a ride. I got home exhausted. My
Mom asked me how it was. I said “Fine” as I went straight to my room.
I took out the old King James
Bible that had been my Dad’s in Sunday School, although he had never shown much
interest in it. I opened the Bible at random, and the first words I read were
Psalm 69:1-3a.
“Save me, O God, for the
waters have come up to my neck. I sink in the miry depths, and there is no
foothold. I have come into the deep waters; I am worn out calling for help. . .
“
These, being the first words that I read after drowning, hit me like a wonderful slap on my back; and in the depths of my heart. These words seemed suddenly like a greater miracle than having been saved from drowning. Or else, these words made the fact of my being alive again into the confirmation that I was truly cared for by the One I could truly trust.
Also, it was a life lesson about what it could mean when God tells me to trust him.
