Water skiing is as close as I’ve come to walking on water. I was finally strong enough by age nine to be pulled out of the river on broad, white wooden skies. From that brief exhilarating ride, I was hooked.

Every August my parents rented a cottage at Raystown Dam on the Juniata, down a country back road in central Pennsylvania. Those were lazy days of swimming off a dock, reading books borrowed from our hometown library and boat rides that lulled me to sleep, wrapped in a beach towel.

Daddy taught us four kids to ski behind our first small wooden boat, all of ten feet long. We had role models – a couple times Florida’s Cyprus Gardens ski team performed on the river. I was in awe of their Rockette-style costumes, daring ramp jumps and human pyramids. Following their lead, my brother learned to ski barefoot.

Dad used to haul us twins the length of the navigational Juniata. One girl would ski up river several miles and the other would ski home, our legs wobbly toward the end. We never doubted if Daddy would circle back to pick us up if we fell.

For a kid whose athletic ability was zilch, water skiing boosted my confidence. I felt totally free on a single ski, crossing back and forth over the waves, my swimsuit drying in the rush of air.

I felt free and in control. In reality, water skiers are totally dependent upon the driver and boat pulling them to have a successful ride. The illusion of freedom is just that – an illusion.

In late 2017, I was recovering from chemo and radiation when we flew to New Zealand to visit our family. After I posted a pic of me edging across a swinging bridge near Rivendell, where “Lord of the Rings” was filmed, my friend Lea messaged: … the bridge is there, a little wobbly, swaying as we cross, testing and then affirming our courage, while the sun and trees delight in our journey and are always there with us. Keep crossing, hang on tight, and then let go when you realize you really are secure.

Jesus spoke steadiness like this into His followers after walking on the Sea of Galilee. They were terrified to see a figure coming toward them in the middle of a tempest until they recognized His voice saying: “Take courage! It is I. Don’t be afraid!”

He modeled how to walk without fear and how to love your friends, even if it means taking an extraordinary step in their direction. Impetuous Peter jumped overboard, attempting to reach Jesus; we know how that turned out! Jesus didn’t throw him a rope but stretched out His hand, which was even better. Once they were in the boat, the sea calmed. Ever notice when we relax into God’s presence how peace comes?

The Gospel of Matthew says Jesus walked on water during the fourth watch of the night. That’s three to six a.m., Roman military time. Hours earlier, the disciples set off on a spiritual high after Jesus fed the five-thousand. Their faith fizzled as the waves increased.

Three a.m. is the darkest hour. When things look their worst. When hope is dimmest and miracles seem unlikely.

I’m in unfamiliar waters, now. Living with stage four cancer feels a lot like being a soldier assigned to the fourth watch. I can’t see the far side of the lake and my boat is taking on water – not much, but I have to pay attention. Ancient travelers depended on stars as their compass; I turn my eyes upon Jesus and relief floods over me.

Strategic moments of spiritual triumph often come during the fourth watch. Jacob wrestled the Angel of the Lord, the Jordan parted before Moses, and Jesus walked out of a tomb on Resurrection Morning, robed in the Light of day.

I don’t control external circumstances. I can’t predict when the next storm will hit, but I’m wrapped in the strength of my Father’s love, like I was in a beach towel on childhood boat rides.

I’m thinking of my Dad, this Father’s Day weekend. He’s no longer here to circle round and throw me a rope, but hope is my lifeline. Why do I trust that the rope will hold when I’m in deep waters? Because the essence of God is love. When I’m holding onto God, I’m caught in the embrace of His great love.

I John 3:1 (NIV) says, “How great is the love the Father has lavished on us, that we should be called the children of God.”

Stronger than a three-cord ski rope, this love never fails.

All will be well.

Texting Thru Recovery/Indiana Gazette