Sometimes there’s a bride carried in the front door at the same time there’s another bride carried out the back door . . .
Hi there. My name is Julie and I have a wacky life. Not that my life has ever been boring, mind you. Lots of difficult things have kept me on my toes (or on my knees before the Lord) for a good portion of my days on this earth. I used to say it was like cooking with all of the burners on the stove cranked up to the highest setting. Then there was this network marketing book entitled, Mach 1 with your hair on fire that described things pretty well for me too. Helen Keller wrote in her book The Open Door, “Life is either a daring adventure or nothing at all.” O.K. You get the picture. There is no rest for the weary so get over it, get on with it, and better get right with Jesus to see you through!
So what’s up with the burger on the bathroom floor, you ask? Balancing my blood sugar is a key part of managing this crazy biotoxin illness that came on the heels of Lyme disease that came in through the backdoor of fibromyalgia many years ago. Actually hypoglycemia came first followed by hypothyroidism, fibro, yada, yada, yada. This all requires me to carry a protein snack and water with me virtually everywhere I go. Popcorn doesn’t cut it very long. I cheat sometimes with fatty veggie chips when grocery shopping only to follow-up with a chunk of lunchmeat from one of those ziplock bags from the deli counter usually at a stoplight when driving home. Whatever. Who needs a knife and fork anyways?
Dressed up for the wedding of my husband’s son yesterday and our friends’ son today, I opted for the bigger black leather purse (to match my shoes of course and the only other purse I own). I could stash a butternut squash coconut muffin, some coconut cream, and a burger-lettuce roll-up secured in a Ziploc baggie in there and look like all of the rest of the women with maybe a little extra, er, baggage, if you know what I mean. Who would know that I could survive an invasion of body snatchers for at least a day with no more than a twinge of hunger when it was all over? I would be ready. Unfortunately I did not plan on a wardrobe malfunction (a term coined in the USA after an egregious moment by Janet Jackson during the Super Bowl Half Time Show a few years ago. I won’t go into it here). Or rather a leather purse malfunction. I barely made it through my own snafu with my dignity!
The D.J.s were cranking up the music at the Light Guard Armory to add some ambiance to the large plain, cinder-block walled room with metal doors pained beige to match and linoleum flooring that had been waxed for more years than I have seen the light of day. The host families had done their best to decorate the place with table adornments inspired by nature and set up a simple, yet respectable snack table for later munching. I knew I probably wouldn’t be able to eat any of it (can you say M&Ms and Reeses Pieces for dessert?) so I settled into the scene comfortable with the stash in my purse. Surely the burger was o.k. unrefrigerated for a couple of hours. The only problem was that I was getting very hungry!
What’s a gal to do waiting with all of the other guests for the wedding party to arrive, dressed up in her Sunday best with low blood sugar looming and a burger in her purse? Well I learned a long time ago that if you need a moment of solace you can always escape to the bathroom. No one usually questions your actions in there! It’s a little different story, however, if you are a gal since gals tend to chat while tinkling, primping, washing their hands, and adjusting their bra straps not necessarily in that order! How do you fit in whipping out a burger in your purse? Answer: you don’t.
The next level of defense is to squirrel away in a bathroom stall, quietly unwrap the nourishment of choice, and snatch a few bites while crouched between the open areas on either side of the door. If someone “accidentally” sees you wiping your fanny through the crack by the hinge it’s o.k. but eating in there? EWWWWWW! No way! But who really cares anyways if you haven’t used the toilet just moments before and the place is clean. I mean my hands were clean. Oh yes, and one must make sure that no one else has camped there in the past hour either, if you know what I mean! Once you have your sequencing down, you can hide your medical self care in this way if you so choose just like a diabetic might do the same when administering insulin in a public place. Sometimes it’s just better to take care of it in the one private place to which you can always retreat.
I did not count on what happened next. I was one large bite from finishing my life-giving, 1/2 burger wrapped in Romaine lettuce with a wedge of coconut spread when the burger went tumbling onto the floor. Oh my goodness! Not my precious sustenance! Suddenly I became acutely aware of how really wrong it is to bring food into a bathroom. Then trying to eat it there even in secret no longer seemed like a good idea. Years of preserving my sense of social graces came to a screeeeeeching halt! There’s a burger rolling on the bathroom floor and it came from my direction!
Of course I did not count on what happened next either. Just then I heard what seemed like a gaggle of women entering the restroom. Holy crap! (Pun might be intended here.) In a flash I made a dash to pick up the chunk o’ meat, rinse it off in the sink, hide it in my hand, murmur something like, “excuse me my stuff is in there,” and retreat back into the stall with whatever style and grace I could preserve in my moment of horror. How could I ever have explained a burger rolling on the floor? Never mind. Nothing came to mind. I stuffed the once delectable beef/bison griller into the open piece of Saran wrap in my purse and zipped it closed. Snack time was over. I would have to survive on the bites consumed thus far. I thought I would be o.k. with that so I walked “looking normal” out of the stall to wash my hands then leave. The two unsuspecting witnesses left with their curious glances, having never stopped their conversation during their porcelain activities. Cool beans. I was now in the clear and free to leave as well.
Sigh. Some things in life are strange at times. You just gotta do what you gotta do and laugh about it if you possibly can. Gentle Reader: the next time you grab a burger off the grill try not to think of me munching somewhere in a bathroom stall, k? It just might change your appetite a bit. If you do try adding some more spicy mustard and you will be fine. I promise. JJ
One of the great things about Facebook is that it is timeless. Your event lives on after it is posted and no one knows what happened before or afterward just that you were there online at one moment in time.
The wedding of my husband’s son, Daniel, is a great example. I am delighted to have worn a gorgeous dress to the outdoor ceremony at the Lakeside Rosegarden downtown near where we live in Indiana. The weather was idyllic: sunny and 80 degrees with a slight breeze in the abundant shade. The nuptials were exchanged in front of the fountain and reflecting pools: the groom dressed impressively in his Marine blues and the bride aptly adorned in white chiffon and satin. The red roses in her hair were a lovely touch in the regal garden setting. A small contingent was invited to witness the event early in the afternoon and an even larger one would attend the reception 5 hours later. In the interim we snapped a myriad of photos then headed off to various restaurants in the area. A few crashed at their hotel rooms in anticipation of the reception at a restored train station called Baker’s Street. Surely there would be dancing, eating of gourmet finger sandwiches and cake: festivities that are the hallmark of American wedding traditions.
You wouldn’t know that the reception is happening right now and I am not there. I am sitting here in a Polartec sweater, pajama bottoms and my evening dress shoes (as the daytime slides have already made their showing in the soft grass around the park nearly landing me into a wardrobe malfunction!). This was my comfort garb I selected for a short rest before I redressed for the evening. Yeah well you can probably guessed what happened instead: the tic attacks that had begun at the quiet restaurant I selected and enjoyed with select family members escalated into a continuous episode as soon as I lain on the bed at home. Nope. No nap just some more shakes. Crap. Crap. Crap.
Just because we have hosted 2 gatherings (doubling the wretched symptoms over these past 4 days), got Skyped into a bridal shower (to minimize exposures to 2 dozen ladies wearing fragrances of all sorts), and attended one of the most lovely outdoor rehearsal-style receptions followed by an equally lovely wedding the next day, why would I be too weak to go to a reception? “Why” indeed. All of this celebrating was way too much for me a few days ago! Such is the nature of Chronic Inflammatory Response Syndrome (CIRS): a complication of Lyme disease and biotoxin illness. The fact that I made it this far is a miracle for me. I am grateful. And I am also sad that I could not finish the festivities with everyone, dancing the night away in the arms of my beloved. So my beloved and I did something else instead.
Just before Steve left to join his family for the wedding reception back downtown, I asked him for 5 minutes.
That’s when I put on my other pair of dress shoes so we could dance. Oh how I love my Stevers. (We played this song at our own wedding DURING the ceremony, before the Lord and all of our guests 6 1/2 years ago.) Afterwards with a kiss more passionate than many of late, we parted this evening. Later I looked at the photos we had downloaded from the wedding and posted a bunch on Facebook. Clearly there are more memories being created at the reception as I typed. Oh well. I had the most romantic dance of the evening right here in our living room. My beloved will return and all will be right with the world. Have I said that I love Steve so very much? My heart broke and the tears came easily as he prepared to leave. Rest assured I needed to be left behind in the comfort of our home tonight to rest for the eighth large gathering of the week that is tomorrow night: the wedding of a son of some dear friends of ours. This evening Steve will have danced with his lovely daughters and mother (here from California). Tonight it will be his turn to sit alone while his ex-wife dances with her new husband. So much not the way it should be. I’m sure Steve will be fine.
Perhaps another one of those great kisses will be coming my way a little later? Hope so. We each do what the Lord calls us to do on a night like this. At least the pictures are really nice, eh? Thank you Lord. How could I ask for more?
In the 1980’s I visited the Monet exhibit when it was at the Chicago Art Museum. My husband at the time humored me with tickets and appeared to be as delighted as I was with the works of this famous impressionist. Sometimes you just have to see things in person to understand their brilliance; this was true for both of us after we toured the travelling exhibit. We brought home a print of the Japanese Bridge at Giverny to frame and proudly display in our home as a remembrance. I still have that picture lying in wait for the perfect place to showcase it in the more contemporary-styled home of Steve and me. Perhaps we will find that spot in another few decades or maybe our next home, whichever comes first!
Another piece of art takes my breath away every time I see it. If I can ever find another print of it I suspect that I will always have it on display somewhere no matter our décor. I was in the gift shop of the Chicago Art Museum with a boyfriend at the time, years before finding the Monet print, when I found a poster of Henri Matisse’s “The Tree of Life.” It’s a photograph of a stained glass window from the Chapel of the Rosary in Vence, Italy. Something about it captured my heart. The colors and themes are simple, completed in a form of collage for which Mr. Matisse remains famous. I’m not particularly fond of most of the rest of his work however, that tends to be more abstract or includes distorted images of people, places, and things in bright colors. Many of those people are partially naked: tis not my cup of tea to have an image of a naked stranger on display in my living room!
We carried the poster home on the commuter train back home to the suburbs like a prized possession. This trip occurred before I had a personal relationship with Jesus Christ, the true giver of life. Oh I knew the story of Adam and Eve from Genesis and the two trees in the Garden of Eden: the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil, the Tree of Life. Perhaps it was the simple themes, Biblical title, and reverence for our Creator that struck a cord in me when I saw this image. Sadly over the years of living in various apartments then storing the print in a storage locker, the framed poster was damaged by a basement flood beyond repair. Or perhaps it was the distraction of graduate school that cost me my better judgment in keeping this little memento safe. Oh well. It’s not that important right?
Years later I came upon the Tree of Life image online. I searched and searched through scores of poster websites trying to find another copy. On two occasions I even called the gift shop at the Art Museum trying to locate a source for securing another copy. The image was printed for that temporary exhibit only and the staff said I would have to contact the Vatican in Italy for another one! Yes, I looked for contact information for the Vatican gift shop and eventually ran into a dead end once again. Still another lead led me to an oil painter who could make copies of it but the online service appeared somewhat nefarious for the cost. I’m not sure it would be worth a few hundred dollars to have a beastly oil painting when a nicely matted and framed print will do just fine.
So the search will go on for perhaps another few decades. That’s fine too. These days the “stuff of life” (as in art prints) is less important to me. An older mentor once taught me at a critical time in my life to hold things of value lightly before the throne of God’s grace. It’s like placing a pencil in the palm of an outstretched hand. He may grant you good things or non-material blessings depending upon each season of life in which we find ourselves. Sometimes we hold onto the pencil for a purpose as it lies on our hand and other times the pencil falls away. To discern whether to hold on to it or let go out of our hands is wisdom indeed and worth holding onto the most. Let’s reflect on this further:
She is a tree of life to those who take hold of her; those who hold her fast will be blessed. Proverbs 3:18
Ah yes, there it is. Looks like in the Bible the Tree of Life was first noted in the Garden of Eden and later referred to wisdom. What else we can find?
The fruit of the righteous is a treeoflife, and the one who is wise saves lives. Proverbs 11:30
Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but a longing fulfilled is a tree of life. Proverbs 13:12
The soothing tongue is a tree of life, but a perverse tongue crushes the spirit. Proverbs 15:4
On each side of the river stood the tree of life, bearing twelve crops of fruit, yielding its fruit every month. And the leaves of the tree are for the healing of the nations. Revelation 22:2
“Blessed are those who wash their robes, that they may have the right to the tree of life and may go through the gates into the city. Revelation 22:4
And if anyone takes words away from this scroll of prophecy, God will take away from that person any share in the tree of life and in the Holy City, which are described in this scroll. Revelation 22:19 (Our just reward if we do not heed His invitation.)
Knowing that I have access to the tree of life through my relationship with Jesus Christ has made a tremendous difference in my life. These past 2 1/2 years have been wretched with painful, noxious symptoms and waking seizures every day, multiple times per day, and often for hours. Other symptoms come and go every day. Knowing the hope that lies within our Lord’s living water manifest within the image of a life-giving tree resonates with me. I love gardening and increasingly appreciate being outside more than indoors: two ingredients drawing me towards His majestic creation in the natural world.
As He gives life to nature so does He breathe life into you and me. The past 1 1/2 months since my brother’s devastating stroke pains me as I realize his suffering too. My love for Mike draws me to pray for him in hopes that he rededicates his life to the Lord who loves him despite this situation. As we both dwell in the presence of the Lord there will be a purpose for our lives, a hope and a future (Jeremiah 29:11). We must draw upon the living water extended to us through Jesus’ death and resurrection to realize these promises, until we are called home to dwell in His presence forever. His indwelling Spirit will sustain us, and strengthen us like that tree of life growing strong and tall against the storms that may come. It is the harsh winds and rainstorms that help the sapling to develop strong roots, sturdy branches, and rings in the trunk that tell the stories of His amazing grace through it all.
The real tree of life is not a poster or a pendant found on the internet: that is for certain! The real tree of life is the Lord Jesus Christ as the rock of my salvation, His firm foundation under my feet, nourished from the Word of God, yielding the fruit of Holy Spirit for His glory alone. We will grow in love and admonition of the Lord: a wonderful place to be. I am so grateful to have found the true Giver of life. Gentle Reader: have you found Him too? :J
There is good news to report: my brother will be moving into a better rehabilitation facility soon! His fiancé is now his legal guardian and has received preliminary acceptance of his admission into the rehab. unit of a skilled nursing facility close to their home in Port Huron, Michigan. Michael’s Medicaid is now approved which makes this transfer possible. Lord willing he will be there within a week.
My heart is breaking that I have not been able to see him since our initial visit to him at St. Johns Hospital April 15th. St. Johns dumped him into an inner city nursing home when a place became available who would accept someone with “Medicaid pending.” The social workers claimed that they contacted 35 facilities before St. Francis accepted him. While we are grateful that this search for a place ended up extending his inpatient rehabilitation 10 more days, the place he got transferred to isn’t much more than “3 hots and a cot.” Oh I guess they give him his medication too and an occasional bed bath. Not much for a 53 year old man who has just suffered a severe stroke and needs considerably more care.
I am sad that there has been no follow up on his medical needs after the initial physician visit. (He has a tumor on a kidney that was to be scheduled for biopsy but nothing has happened.) The staff at St. Francis has lost or been unable to locate most of his clothing. Michael sits in a “geri chair” for much of the day which is a large vinyl recliner chair: completely dependent upon others to be moved out of his room, into the dining room, or possibly into the T.V. room. I understand that the building is very old with stained walls, stench of incontinent residents, and constant sounds of demented residents or staff milling about. Michael has gotten weaker from inactivity. His weight continues to be down even with the meals and treats brought to him by his fiancé and our cousin, Lisa. Lisa is an optometrist on staff with the facility but that has made little difference in meeting Michael’s care needs. Lisa witnessed a nurse writing her requests in the nursing 24-hour care log. Nothing happened: 1) he continues to crave cigarettes whereas a nicotine patch would ease his chemical dependency and 2) he never got the wheelchair promised upon admission and supposedly recommended by the physical therapist. I am convinced that the poor, sack-of-potatoes positioning in the recliner chair has contributed to his worsening left shoulder pain. Such is life post stroke with left hemiplegia and no rehabilitative care.
In the meantime Sister Bear has secured a television/DVD player, wheelchair, walker, and bedside commode for him. However with the lack of security for his personal items and transportation issues getting the items to him from their respective locations (wheelchair and commode in Mt. Clemens, walker in Adrian, and T.V. here with me in Indiana) everything is on hold until he moves into a better place. Lord willing everything will move forward soon as various family members have offered assistance to get these items to him and his fiancé (also named Lisa!). Lord willing I will be able to visit him at Marwood in Port Huron in about 2 weeks. Surely my serious respiratory infection will be resolved by then and travel arrangements will come together; the seizure attacks have lessened some as well, gratefully. I would have never tolerated visiting Mike at St. Francis due to the extremely high potential risk of environmental triggers for seizures. Even the outdoor patio would have been an impossible place to visit coupled with the resident smokers. Knowing all of this contributed to my heartbreak of late. There was nothing I could do but keep in touch with everyone, secure the equipment, pray, and wait.
So I wonder what it has been like for Mike to be so debilitated, alone except for some weekly visits, in a dumpy and dirty living environment? I understand that he had his Bibles brought to him and pictures taped to the wall next to his bed. His fiancé Lisa says that he was trying to do his exercises on his own as best as he could. Without being able to get up and bear weight on his left arm or leg, however, the benefits of exercise would be limited. The risk for complications has been elevated with some realized as ongoing pain and weakening instead of continued progress. He was too debilitated to return home from St. Johns Hospital without 24-hour physical assistance and considerable accessibility modifications. Hopefully he will be more mobile and independent when it’s time to leave Marwood and go home. In the meantime he has had a lot of time to think about many things. I hope he reached out to the Lord, the person of Jesus Christ, in his time of need. I hope he will find some purpose, some meaning for this desolate oasis of time.
Most communication between us has been cut off since Mike arrived at St. Francis due to the sorry state of their phone system. (No surprise that the place is rated one out of five stars.) After getting through to talk to him on his first day there, the facility phone was always busy when I called. Twice I happened to call when his fiancé Lisa was visiting so I could hear his voice for a few moments. The last time there were so many loud voices and screaming in the background that the words were tough to hear. I can picture the scene in that place very easily. I worked in all types of care centers from the inner city to private pay life care communities as an occupational therapist. Many times I completed those wheelchair screening assessments and crawled around dirty, stuffed storage rooms and sheds until I could find a wheelchair with matching parts for a new resident. Oh well. When you don’t have insurance you get what you get. I guess that Mike was actually fortunate to not be dumped in a homeless shelter. At least there were security fences around the building and a guard at the front door. The boarded up homes across the street were intimidating to fiancé and cousin Lisa yet they visited anyways. I sure wish I could have gone to see him too. I miss my brother.
I look forward to seeing Mike and holding him for a long time when I do. There is much sadness for all that he has lost. There is also much anticipation for all that the Lord has in store for him and his fiancé Lisa too. I believe that the Lord has His hand on him in that Mike’s life was spared. Just under half of all persons who experience a cerebral vascular accident don’t survive. Mike’s cognitive abilities and ability to communicate have been spared. His ability to swallow foods from a regular diet was quickly restored. In my clinical experience these rarely happen in a person with severe left hemiplegia. We are all hopeful that his ability to function will improve over time as well. The rule of thumb is that the most rapid recovery occurs within the first 3-6 months post stroke. He is six weeks out from his onset date of April 13th and continues to feel new sensations in his affected arm and leg. And now his next phase of rehabilitation is about to begin bringing new hope for more return of function. This time I’ll bet at least a quarter that Mike will be very motivated for physical, occupational, and speech therapy! That will be very good to see indeed.
Until then, please join me in praying for Mike and his fiancé Lisa. Lisa has a teenage son, Alex, who loves Mike and hasn’t seen him since April. There’s a golden retriever named Garfield who misses him too. The new place is closer to their home so I hope all of them will get together sometime soon; even dogs are allowed to visit at Marwood! Oh I am grateful for such blessings. Yes, there is good news this day with the promise of even more to come. Thank you Jesus for your enduring grace and mercy. Go before us, strengthen our faith, bring healing to our dear Michael for your glory Lord. In Jesus’ name. Amen.
I remember the day Steve first took me out kayaking. He was careful to put me in the more stable of his two kayaks: the white one with the yellow deck (Epic Endurance). Or was it the yellow plastic one (Sirocco)? Perhaps I was too nervous to recall the color! All I remember was trying to trust my new boyfriend while fearing toppling into the water. Becoming a drowned rat was not my intention during one of our early dates together! Besides, he was an aspiring kayak racer and I had already shared with him my many other types of canoeing/boating experiences thoughout my lifetime. Yes I can swim. Oh the mixture of thoughts that ran through my head as I got in that tippy little thing . . .
With an unwelcomed nudge (shove?) on the stern from my teacher I was able to paddle out some from the park launching site he had so carefully selected, turn around then return to the shore a few times. When it was time to go he carefully straddled the boat to stabilize it and instructed me on in the finer points of a gracious dismount. That action requires straddling your legs wide apart to either side of the wide cockpit of an elongated diamond-shaped seafarer. Ladies: that’s not the view I had hoped to offer my intended beloved at this stage of our relationship if you know what I mean? And my feet got wet and muddy to boot since this would be a couple of years before acquiring my own proper pair of water shoes from our local mega-grocery store. (That was another rite of passage that came later!) Steve expertly cleaned off the boats and attached them to the roof racks of his truck. Oh, so that’s how those beastly black metal frames filling the bed of his periwinkle-striped truck work! (I remember seeing them on our first date in the west suburbs of Chicago. A rare sight in suburbia for sure! Who is this guy?)
Steve rapidly progressed that summer as he shifted from a recreational to a competitive United States Canoe Association (USCA) racer. I watched closely as he increasingly dedicated himself to all things paddling: studying the equipment, kayak dimensions, paddling technique videos, and outings with both Indiana racers and the Fort Wayne kayaking group. Hmmm. I had an important decision to make. Either I would master this paddling thing or spend lots of afternoons home alone as he perfected his craft away from home without me. To insist that he stay home with me would get in the way of the paddling athlete he was becoming. After all, I did enjoy the fruits of all that cycling and marathon racing. 🙂
Steve aka River Bear
Our first USCA Nationals was an amazing experience. Cars, campers, trucks, wagons, and anything to which you could strap a boat (can you say Amish buggy?) were crammed along the shore of the St. Joe River in South Bend, Indiana. There were young and middle aged men in either spandex or neoprene everywhere! My training as an occupational therapist has often helped me appreciate the beauty of God’s human form just long enough to remember that I must bounce my eyes to other lovely things lest my heart go to dishonoring places! Sish. You would think that everyone was a competitor given the hundreds of colorful vessels sprinkling the shoreline that day. Excitement and anticipation were in the air. Steve competed in the sea kayaking class and finished respectfully for his first Nationals. A former Olympian named Matt smoked the pack by minutes: a dramatic sight to see. I’d never seen a racing canoe (C-1) or an Olympic-class ICF kayak before: narrower, tippier, and lighter than 2 bowling balls side-by-side and pushed effortlessly against the current of any river with carbon fiber, bent or winged paddles, respectively. I didn’t see any that looked appealing to me just yet! My learning curve would surely keep me beyond reach of these river rats in vessels as wide as a hewn log floating downstream to a lumber yard.
Steve could give you more details on how he progressed to lighter and faster sea kayaks, trading up or buying-and-selling with guys throughout the Midwest. For the two of us we had settled on a Hobie Oasis when the Lord provided the needed resources: a tandem bright blue pedal-driven barge-by-comparison, complete with cup-holders and 100 pounds of stability. We had fun taking the Hobie out on local lakes many Sundays that summer after Steve had raced all day somewhere in northern Indiana on most Saturdays. We could use it as a swim platform or explore native shorelines and never fear the wakes of ski boats zooming by. The only drawback was the slow peddling speed. With both of us peddling we still maxed out at around 4 MPH. Adding power from the wimpy plastic kayak paddles didn’t make much of a difference. It takes a long time to get anywhere at that speed! We were always struggling to keep up with the recreational paddlers of the FW Kayaking group and getting water lilies or seaweed caught in the drive system under the boat (think bicycle crank shaft above and swim fins below). Sure we could trade up for the shorter fins. Somehow I had a feeling that I was going to learn to paddle eventually. Could I become strong enough to power my own vessel? I started looking around at kayak designs when at races. I looked over Steve’s shoulder many times as he was watching frightful ocean-going surf ski racing You Tube videos. Good golly! So where is the middle ground?
Julie and a friend’s son Ty in a recreational race with the Hobie Oasis
In many sports you are only as good as your gear. You can’t blame your gear for poor performance most of the time (or at least your spouse will remind you of the financial cost of trying to get it right!) but you can spend less energy where it doesn’t need to go when your equipment is lighter and your technique is streamlined to match. This is where it is beneficial to be married to an athlete of the sport in which you are choosing to dabble! With my own better gear I was about to start looking a bit more accomplished than my ability! The next stage began in Warren, Pennsylvania.
I knew it when I saw it. We were pulling into the parking lot of the beautiful park that would be the home base for the Warren USCA Nationals. She was bright orange and gray, strapped to the roof of a racer from New Jersey, and wearing a big red-and-white “For Sale” sign. The boat, not the guy! My dad had just sent me an unexpected financial gift that happened to be idling in my checkbook. I had seen the fiberglass lay up of the Think Fit on display at our first trip to Nationals the previous summer. Something about it resonated with me: a sea kayak that wasn’t too narrow, was significantly lighter than the plastic beasts like the Hobie that the recreational paddlers tended to favor, and yet was respectable even by the racing crowd. Very few Think Fits were available in the Midwest. It looked intimidating and skill-building all the same. She was going home with me. I was sure of it long before I said anything to Steve.
The bonding experience would change my view of kayaking forever. Think about it: what’s the worst fear a person might have when getting into a tiny vessel on unknown waters? Drowning? Even if you know how to swim there are variables on open water that can kill you. A jet boat can run you over, a swirling eddy can entrap you under a log, the current can take you where you don’t want to go, and a spider can tether down from a tree branch from above and frightfully let you know that you are not paddling alone . . . It’s the stuff waking nightmares are made of. You know, that twilight time just before you fall asleep? I would have many recollections of my first time in the Think Fit after that maiden voyage. It’s the stuff you tell stories about when out to dinner after a day of racing or touring.
Steve stabilized the Think Fit in the midst of the current of the Alleghany River to help me get a feel for it. This is a bit misleading for many reasons including these top two: 1) a boat (like a bicycle) is more stable as you move forward instead of sitting stationary and 2) the rate of the current (or the overpowering wind on a bicycle) can challenge the skill level of all of us. The Core of Army Engineers had released a bit too much water from the dam earlier that day to correct the water levels for the race competitors. So instead of a gentle 2-3 MPH current, we’re talking 5-6 MPH! The last time I stood in current like that was as a kid when helping groom a trail at day camp. I had slid off the trail into the swirling waters of the Clinton River, feeling the rush pull me away from the shore as I struggled to get back onto dry land. Where were the other kids? Who knows. All I knew is that I was scared and I had to spend the rest of the day in soggy shoes and shorts! Bummer. Or there were the times as a kid that we created a current walking around the periphery of our 24-foot backyard pool. After about a dozen times pool-walking around the circle we had created an awesome current for crazy fun, sweeping us away unless we hung onto the sides! The feel of rushing water returned few decades later when I felt the undertow when swimming in the ocean along the Gulf of Mexico . . . Now there’s a real sense of danger right there.
Steve had me paddle towards him then drew me back along the shore for a repeat mini-paddle. I could feel the rush of the water making the paddling easier. No problem. His presence boosted my confidence too. Then I started venturing out a little more, requiring less help from him to turn around. I barely had a handle on the rudder steering mechanism as I tried to make a turn before a large tree hanging over the river. Before I knew it I was pushed into a horizontal branch and began rolling over in slow-motion. I grabbed a branch within reach above me, nearly panicked, and somehow remembered to hang onto the very expensive boat that wasn’t mine. Everything flashed before me in an instant: I’m glad I am wearing a life jacket. I can’t hold the boat and the paddle at the same time. The boat isn’t paid for so I can’t let go. I am horizontal and the current is stronger than I could ever imagine. How long can I hold on? If I let go will I be strewn down the river backwards for miles before anyone ever finds me? I will be stranded somewhere with snakes, barbs or worse as it gets dark. Why are the men watching right now and not doing anything? I could die! I don’t know what to do and I am panicking!
In a moment like that you must make a different decision: will you become overwhelmed with fear and land in a worse outcome because of it or will you take a deep breath and try to figure something out. Even Steve was standing knee-deep in water along the shore watching me, speechless! Would he even be able to hear me over the roar of the rushing water anyways? Yes, I have to try anyways. First step, I yelled, “I need to be rescued.” He quickly came out of shock, took off his glasses/watch/keys, and started towards me. Second step, “I am letting go of the boat.” That cued him to grab the boat, make an awesome deep water re-entry into it, grab the paddle and make his way towards me. Third step and just as he got to me, I let go of the tree branch and my only security on earth in that moment. I quickly drifted into the stern of the boat and grabbed hold. He said something to me and I have no idea what it was. I held on with whatever energy was left in my trembling body. Did I mention that the waters were quite cool?
Even Steve was having trouble righting the boat to return to shore as I realized that I could help him do so. I started kicking my legs as if I were hanging onto a kick board in a lap pool. Yeah, more like a lap pool with a swim machine on steroids that is! We readily got going in the right direction and Steve paddled us into shore. When I could feel the sandy bottom of the shoreline I dragged myself out of the water. Steve dismounted out of the boat, emptied it and laid it on the shore. The two idiots that were watching the whole time and did nothing to help, said nothing, checked their phones, and walked over the hill back into the parking lot beyond. In that park were hundreds of experienced canoe and kayak racers who had no idea of the crisis occurring for me at the take-out where all of them had ended their respective races within the previous hour. I collapsed into Steve’s arms in horror, fear, grief, terror, and relief that I had not drowned. It was my worst fear you know. The second was drifting aimlessly backwards down the river forever. Both landed me in a bucket full of tears that seemed like they would never end.
These days I understand that you can swim in waters with a stout current. These days I know some navigational and survival skills should I ever be faced with that scenario again. These days I know that I could have drifted downriver with the boat as a float and with the protection of my life vest to keep my head above water in most circumstances. These days I know that Steve would have signaled for help and did whatever it would take to find me should I have become stranded along the river down from the take out. And these days I know that I could have turned myself around almost instantly if I would have been swept away with the current. I have learned a lot since that day five years ago.
When I got my wits about me I looked at that orange and gray Think Fit kayak and knew I had another decision to make. We would be leaving town the next day and the boat that I thought would be right for me would also be leaving to make a cross-country trip in the opposite direction from where we live in Indiana. This was the boat I had landed upon after investigating the options and it was about to go away. The crisis that I experienced was a rite of passage in many ways. Sure, it’s unlikely to find such perilous conditions in the waterways of Indiana so why worry about it ever happening again. But that wasn’t the point. The point was that I had faced my worst fear of what could go wrong in a human-powered craft. I had faced it and survived. I had faced it and gained some new skills. And in the process I had bonded with my new Think Fit kayak. I bought it and took her home with me. It was the only possible outcome that I could imagine. I became a kayaker that day!
Julie in her Think Fit sea kayak
There’s more. See Part 2 for a little more of my paddling story. Then get into your own boat somewhere on some friendly waters this summer and get going eh? Oh the adventures that await you! Did I tell you the one about the nest of great blue herons in the remote pond at the end of the Golden Lake chain o’ lakes? :J
Jesus is for the Wounded 
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