washed by the water

And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are called according to his purpose. — Romans 8:28

I’ve never been afraid of the water. In fact, I spent countless hot summer days at the local pool mowing down Tiger’s Blood (cherry flavored) shaved ice, diving endlessly for those little weighted plastic sticks. I don’t recall learning to swim. And it’s not like I ever wanted to join the swim team or perform as a lifeguard. I knew my place as an amateur. But it never stuck out as a particular struggle in my early life.

When we moved to Montana in 2012, rivers were new to me. My mental catalogs contained experiences with lakes, pools, and oceans. A river, I would learn, is an entirely different animal — constantly moving and changing. When you swim a river, you have to be ready for anything: a snag of branches, giant boulders, hydraulics (often called “suck holes”). Obstacles abound, compelling you to exercise a higher level of awareness and preparation. This ain’t no day at the beach.

The first time I discovered the power of the river first-hand was also the last time I ever approached the river as a casual recreator. It was a weekday and the kids were in preschool, so Nick and I planned a day date paddle boarding the Clark Fork. We weren’t new to this stretch of river, which runs right through our garden city. We’d floated the same course probably dozens of times since becoming Missoulians.

Familiarity breeds complacency. Not 500 yards from the takeout, my paddle board hit a snag. I was in the water before I even registered that there was a problem. No life jacket (it was still snugly strapped to my board, completely useless). Time itself seemed to pause. How surprised I was at the depth of the water, whirlpooling me into a tight little corner of the bank where countless branches and sticks sat, like me, helplessly piled.

I can’t tell you how or why I made it out of the water that day, except to say that God had more work for me to do here. Almost as soon as I plummeted into the drink, I shot back out like a lawn dart. I swam like mad for my board, which was beginning to float away with the current. Everything happened so fast, my husband hadn’t even registered yet that I’d gone in. We both made it off the water safely that day, but I have since carried with me a sense of fearful respect when it comes to river exploits.

So, when Nick got into flyfishing and we became a rafting family, our first move was to teach our kids to swim. A personal flotation device only takes you so far, and even though the strongest swimming skills can’t guarantee safety, they can at least help stave off the panic that leads to poor decision making. Most of our floats were on wide, calmer stretches anyway, so a basic knowledge and experience of the water seemed like enough.

The Beaverhead River proved a different animal. A narrow, snaking waterway filled with tight turns, I expected to be challenged on my precision rowing abilities. What we hadn’t expected was the fast-moving water and multiple snags created by a river overflowing its banks. A dam-controlled tributary, the Beaverhead’s levels rise and fall with the whims of men. On the particular week of our visit, hundreds of gallons had been released to support a robust late summer fishing season.

At first, that meant little to us aside from a more rapid float. With water levels so high, I had to stay active on the oars constantly to maintain a safe distance from the tree and shrub-lined shore. Just a few short hairpin turns later, Nick hooked a fish. This initial encounter surfaced the first sign of trouble: our anchor was of very little use in the river’s muddy, silt-covered bottom. As I feverishly released the line, our boat simply dragged a bit slower in the water.

Narrowly missing a giant snag, we maneuvered the boat to the side of the river to regather our wits and take a break. It’s a good thing we did, because around the next corner, the water picked up speed in a series of rapids. To be safe, I asked Nick to take over the oars while I occupied a spot on the bow. He deftly steered us through the splashing waves and I was still laughing about it with the kids when he called out.

“Babe, look.” His voice was stern and fearful. I turned to see a small concrete bridge ahead, the river surging underneath it, carrying us forward with such speed that neither of us had time to assess our clearance. Suddenly, our boat frame with its tall front lean bar and high back seats felt very much like a liability. With no time to process or plan, Nick yelled for all of us to get down. Quickly, I laid sideways across the front thwart while the kids slid from their chairs onto the bow floor. Seconds later, we passed beneath the bridge, our frame and seats mere inches from pile-driving into the unforgiving cement.

All of us mentally bamboozled, we pulled over at the next take-out ramp. Nick checked the map to find that we had two more bridges to traverse before we reached our car. There was no way out except forward, so we steeled our nerves and plunged back in, praying the next obstacles wouldn’t be our undoing. We were thrilled to see that the next bridge was a tall highway overpass with plenty of room between us and the structure. I breathed a sigh of relief and desperately hoped we’d seen the worst of this river.

We hadn’t. As I sat perched on the stern, peering around every corner to anticipate our obstacles, I finally caught a glimpse of what was coming: a wood and steel-girded railroad bridge with metal beams protruding from its frame, an enormous snag building beneath its right side — exactly where we were headed. It was clear that we weren’t going to make it underneath. But the river gave us precious little time for second thoughts. Furiously, Nick dropped the anchor and began back-rowing toward the nearest shoreline, grabbing for low-hanging tree branches in every attempt to slow us down.

I had no idea what might happen if we hit that bridge. I didn’t have time to think about it. But I had been in that water before. I knew families who lost children to it. And I knew that if we ended up capsized, my babies were going to be on their own against a powerful force driving them toward myriad dangers. Whatever it took, we could not go in. From my perch on the stern, I gathered up the tie line and turned to face Nick. We were just feet from the shore, the current pulling us persistently away from it. He was growing tired and I could hear the exhaustion in his voice.

“You can do this,” I said, our eyes meeting. “You’ve got this.” Drawing in one last deep breath, he gave a pained yell and pushed the oars forward once more. That last push was all we needed. As soon as the boat touched the shoreline, I leapt out and shimmied up the thorn-covered landscape to a fencepost, where I tied the boat on. My hands, shaking violently, still wouldn’t let go of the rope as I turned to survey the scene.

The place where our boat came to rest was just four feet from going under — a trajectory that would ram us right into the bridge frame and the mounting branch pile waiting just beyond it. Even though we still needed a solution to this problem, we at least had bought some time to think. I beckoned the kids onto shore, figuring we all needed to feel the sturdy predictability of land beneath our feet. Joey was wide-eyed and visibly shaken. Junie had tears streaking down her cheeks. How were we going to get them out of this?

As parents, this wasn’t the first time we’d encountered such danger. There was that time in Costa Rica when our car was flooded in a river. And the time when we all swam in that Mexican cave filled with bat guano and I was sure we’d die from e-coli. Back then, the kids had been smaller, less able to comprehend the looming dangers of their circumstances. This time, they were in it with us, every bit as aware as we were that the consequences of a misstep could be disastrous. What would this do to our relationship? How could they ever trust us again?

Nick set to work dismantling our raft frame while we put our heads together. He and Joey developed a plan to walk the boat down the shore, crawling across a concrete girder with the guide rope in their hands. There was a lot of cussing. A lot of prayer. On the other side, none of us were too keen to step back into the raft, but we had to push on. We had to complete the murder gauntlet.

As I’m sure you surmised by my writing this, we did survive. The take-out, too, was harrowing, just feet from yet another low-hanging bridge. I’ll never know how Nick pulled together the fortitude to row us. My mental capacities were shot, and I’d all but given up on any type of physical exertion. We gave each other big hugs as we four touched our toes down onto the boat ramp, ready to walk on dry land for a good while. Thankful that nothing more happened. Thankful to finally eat the lunch we’d packed.

Later that night, we tucked the kids into their bunkbeds at the forest service cabin we’d rented. We asked them more about their perspective on the day. It was difficult to articulate everything we felt. I told them it must be scary to see their parents so afraid and helpless; that there are plenty of situations in this world outside of our control. But we can take great comfort in knowing who is in control — the God who stepped in to save us, both at Calvary and on the Beaverhead. And that, even if we can’t understand the reason why scary or sad things happen, we can trust that He is working it all out for good.

As I gave my son a final squeeze, so grateful to still hold him in my arms, he said something surprising. “When we get home, I want to get baptized.” It was a request I never expected to hear. Every time I’d mentioned baptism previously, both of my kids balked. Joey had told me he was too shy to do something like that in front of a church full of people. Suddenly, his heart had shifted.

“What made you decide that?” I asked.

“I’ve just seen God work in my life a lot lately,” he replied. “Including today.”

As I shuffled out of their darkened bedroom, I couldn’t help but marvel. After all of the prayer, all of the Bible story teaching, all of the church pew sitting and discussions about God, it wasn’t my persistent preaching that turned the tide. If I had known what we were in for on the river that day, I never would’ve agreed to go at all. But, thrust into a situation where I had no power or control, God used it to speak to the heart of my boy in a way I couldn’t manage myself. If I’m given no other reason for what happened to us that day — not that I’m owed one — this is all the reason I need.