She is standing in the corner of the most shallow end of the large, collegiate sized swimming pool, awash with fear and desperate determination. This outing was meant to be fun; her small church-run school had rented a nearby college's indoor pool for an hour, one winter afternoon, so all three dozen or so females in grades five through twelve could swim. Her other fifth and sixth grade friends are splashing and laughing and doing flips in the shallow end, with some even venturing into the deep part and diving. She is terrified of the water, of submerging her head and feeling the cool liquid closing in around her ears. She determines she will muscle through this fear; she's always viewed herself as strong and capable and hates the choking feeling that rises at the thought of completely disappearing under the water. She stays in the corner or holds onto the edge of the pool for most of the hour, pretending she is having a grand time, but in reality, she is just trying to find enough courage to dip her head under the water. She finally gets her face wet for a fraction of a second; in her mind, it was long enough to count as a success. 

How I wish I could wrap my arms around my eleven year old self and say, "its okay to be afraid. You have a justified reason for your fear." My daddy drowned one month before my fifth birthday. He was ice fishing with friends on a large reservoir, near our home in Ohio. He and another friend got on a snowmobile to scout out another fishing site. As they skimmed across the ice, they encountered an area which, unknown to them, never froze solid. Their friends saw them slide into the area and sink. The shore was too far away for any rescue attempt. Their watery graves claimed them quickly, leaving a total of fifteen children, fatherless. 

Being so young, I have only a few memories of that day. I remember my mom getting the awful phone call that there had been an accident in their fishing group. We all assured each other that surely it wasn't him, but someone else. And then the preacher's car drove into the driveway and we all knew that it was him. It was nearly 24 hours later when divers located the bodies. I remember going to the hospital where they took the bodies, along with my grandpa, my mom, and my brother, Lowell. We left with only his soggy wallet.

I know my six siblings have their own memory boxes of those dark days, and each could tell their own story of the impact of their lives. Young children should live in a protective, innocent, bubble; it helps them learn that the world is a safe place. When something unthinkable occurs, like your father drowning, the bubble bursts, and you realize that dreadful things can, and do happen.

I don't like acknowledging fear or personal weakness, but I have an irrational fear of water as a result of my father's fateful death. For most of my life, I have tried to keep this monster at bay by exerting mind over matter. By age sixteen, in the same collegiate pool, I forced myself, heart pounding and dry mouthed, to jump off the fourteen foot diving board. I would frantically doggy paddle to the pool's edge, and then climb that long ladder again, hoping the repetition would chase away the fear. It never did, but I was masterful at projecting confidence, whether I felt it or not. You would have never guessed the magnitude of my internal battle. 

When I became a mother, I did not want to pass my fear on to my kids; they took swimming lessons at an early age. Larry is a good swimmer and was a role model to our children that water can safely be a giant playground. When we moved to our current home, I accommodated their wishes for building a pool. My stipulation was that it had to have a retractable cover as a safety precaution.

In my middle years, I find that some of my defenses have been lowered; it is more difficult to pretend that I am not afraid of water. Three summers ago, Larry and I, along with our daughter, Lauren and our friend, Raz, spent some days in Utah's gorgeous national parks. As I was doing the research and planning for our vacation, I read about hiking "The Narrows" in Zion National Park. This is a sixteen mile hike on a riverbed, through canyons and gorges with walls that rise up a thousand feet in places. You wear hiking boots made for water, since you are walking in the river on slippery, shifting rocks. The hike starts out in a simple stream; soon the water comes to your knees. Sometimes the river level is waist deep and moving rapidly. And yes, sometimes it is over your head and you have to swim in that cold, murky, river. The park only issues eighty hiking permits each day, and even that is dependent on the weather forecast. Because of the narrowness of the canyons, a rain storm could result in flash flooding. Since many of the canyon walls are sheerly vertical and non-navigable, you would literally be up a creek without a paddle. You do this hike on your own, without a guide, and you have to carry all the food and water you will need for the extent of the time you are in The Narrows. 

From the security and comfort of my living room, this sounded like the perfect adventure, so I signed us up. With my personal water issues, I am not sure what I was thinking, but maybe I was trying to push myself. As we signed the waivers, releasing the park from any responsibility for  our deaths, we realized that once you started the hike, you were committed; there would be no, "oh we will take the shortcut because we are weary after ten miles of river hiking." After the fact, it was such an amazing adventure! I was way out of my comfort zone a lot of the time, but my three companions were most encouraging, at least until about mile fourteen. We were all so exhausted by the end of the trip, we didn't even have the energy for an "after photo".

Perhaps someday I will sign myself up for remedial swimming lessons. I actually can keep afloat if I have to, but I just don't enjoy it. Fears are a reality of life, and sometimes for reasons beyond our control. One thing I know for sure: struggling yourself can become the fertile ground for growing empathy for others. We are all broken and hurting and flawed and in need of an outstretched hand and a life jacket.