Why am I?
When my eyes engaged, I was staring upstream. A second went by. I could see that the sun was bright, and a thousand rays of light were shimmering across the riffle of the river. The sky was a bright blue with a few clouds. Another second went by. My ears began to hear again. The soft roar of the river rolled towards my ear drum with a pulsing crescendo.
One second later, my lungs made an attempt to breathe, but —
No. No air at all. I gasped deeply for oxygen. My heavy chest rose and caved, trying to simultaneously remove water and replace it with air. Panic set in, and suddenly the entire scenario came flooding back into my memory… the kids and I out in the river looking for water bugs, the slippery rocks, the quick fall, the shooting pain in my arm and knee, the attempt to sit, the hissing in my ears, the world fading to black…
In what seemed like a single, awkward movement, my friend was up and over the rocks in the middle of the river and holding my head and my shoulders, encouraging me to try and breathe. After what felt like an eternity, I took in one laborious, tiny breath of air, followed by another. I started to gasp and cough, getting gulps of air in bits and pieces as my diaphragm muscles started to settle down.
The next few hours transpired in a surreal way. I spent 90 minutes reclined in the middle of the Lewis River with very brave friends, fighting hypothermia, nausea and unconsciousness. Paramedics yelled from shore, debating the best way to get me out of the river. Sirens and rescue vehicles roared in as people along the shore waited – guessing and supposing. Finally out of the water, I was rushed by ambulance to a trauma center, where things progressed just as quickly. In the next couple hours, I was poked, x-rayed, scanned, evaluated, and admitted overnight. I had passed out, hit my head on a rock and then fallen under the water while unconscious. I was awake, but somewhat incoherent when a doctor came in and explained that there had been a near-drowning. My lungs still had water in them, and I had a concussion. I knew I was in a safe place, but at the same time, I was petrified.
A nurse in the room with a clipboard asked me, “Do you know what day it is?” (“Uhhh,” <long pause>, “July 6.”) “Do you know what year it is?” she continued. (“Ummm,” <fogginess>, “2014.”) Do you know where you are? (“Hm. A hospital. In Vancouver, Washington?”) She gave me a nurturing, empathetic look and said, “You’re at Peace Health NW – and yes, you are in Vancouver. We’re going to take care of you and make sure you are okay.”
Every hour or so for the next 24 hours, my quasi-conscious state was interrupted by a nurse asking me the same three questions. Do you know what day it is? Do you know what year it is? Do you know where you are? The first few times I was groggy and confused, but I knew the answers. I even got the first question right when a nurse came in just after l a.m. and we had moved into the next day. But at some point in the middle of the night, while I laid motionless in the hospital bed taking short, tiny breaths and fighting a concussion-level headache, I felt myself start to panic. That last question began to haunt me: Do you know where you are?
I knew where I was, but the terrifying part was, I did not fully understand why I still existed. Even while I was still reclined in the river waiting for help, the few moments I had spent under the water were vivid and powerful. Things had not just faded to black – they had faded into a different reality. One full of light and love and peace – one where I felt pure contentment. In this alternate place, I had (for whatever reason) been riding in the cab of an old, brown, boxy pick-up truck. The sky in front of me was a brilliant orange and yellow, and I was traveling toward a destination. There were no actual bodies next to me, and yet, I could sense that everyone I loved was with me. There seemed to be no sense of time in this place, as I kept experiencing all the ages I had ever been and the moments I had witnessed at the same time. Then suddenly my reality felt jolted – and there were voices coming from somewhere outside the truck. They were barely audible at first, but then grew louder. They were calling me, beckoning me. I could sense that there was something more I needed to do, and in order to do it, I would have to leave this brilliant orange heaven I had been dropped into and venture into the unknown. I remember feeling acutely aware that my destination was undetermined, and that if I followed what beckoned me, there would be pain. But I knew it was the choice I was supposed to make.
Recovering from my accident was in some ways excruciating, and it took a long time. But the emotional recovery was by far the most difficult. Questions haunted me all the time: Do you know where you are? Do you know where you are going? Do you know WHY you are? Do you know WHOSE you are?
The answers came to me slowly and then all at once, like an answer to a prayer I did not know I had been praying. It hit me:
I am, and I am God’s. And I am here to love.
So simple, and yet, one of the most powerful thoughts I’ve had in my entire life. “I have not finished loving yet. There is more yet to give.” My thoughts paused, and I then realized, “No… it’s not just that there is more love left to give, but also that I have love yet to receive.”
Henry Nouwen writes, “Every time we make the decision to love someone, we open ourselves to great suffering, because those we most love cause us not only great joy but also great pain. The greatest pain comes from leaving. When the child leaves home, when the husband or wife leaves for a long period of time or for good, when the beloved friend departs to another country or dies … the pain of the leaving can tear us apart. Still, if we want to avoid the suffering of leaving, we will never experience the joy of loving. And love is stronger than fear, life stronger than death, hope stronger than despair. We have to trust that the risk of loving is always worth taking.”
You see, I’m a doubting Thomas. I have an easy time believing in others, but I have a hard time believing in myself. I am quick to give others my time and energy and to accept others as they are, but I am slow to accept that they might love me unconditionally. I trust that others will love me when I’m totally “on” – happy and creative and balanced – but I have a hard time trusting that others continue to love me the same way when I’m the opposite. I believe in God, and I trust that I am part of a bigger plan, but some days I don’t believe in the plan. I am spiritually restless, often feeling a lack of purpose and doubting that I am making a difference in the world. I fall into the deep crevice of guilt and shame and comparison, and I can easily make myself believe that I am living life incorrectly. The end product is that I guard myself from being loved and from trusting that I am accepted.
If, day to day, I could just be aware every six minutes or so how immensely I am loved, I would trust in love a little more easily than I do. I could pause, exhale slowly and say to myself, “I am here, I am okay, I am accepted, I am loved. That’s right.” The problem is I am not reminded every six minutes. Instead I am thrown off by deadlines and envy and uneasiness and poor sleep. Most days, six, ten, 200, 1,000 minutes go by without a thought to the grace poured out for me on a daily basis. But today … today I am writing about it, and today I am aware. It’s just one day, and maybe it’s just this minute, but right now, I feel chosen in a way – I feel like I have a great task ahead of me. It’s not one that will necessarily be easy, and maybe not even recognized. Or maybe it’s a million tiny things I have left to do, 96 percent of which will go unnoticed. But I am here … I am okay. I am accepted, and I am loved.