I have battled with a lifelong fear of the water. I don't know where it originated, unless such a thing can be passed down genetically. My big brothers were great swimmers and tried to help me. My parents wanted me to learn to swim and put me in summer swimming lessons three summers in a row toward that end. I rarely got my face wet, much less learned any strokes or dives. I absolutely loathed the feeling of water in my nose and couldn't seem to teach myself not to inhale large amounts of water if I did have a rare moment of bravery and submerged. I clung to the edge, inching along cautiously, when we were forced to go to the deep end of the pool and kept my head well above water in relief while we were in the safe, shallow end.
I remember that to pass beginner's swimming we were supposed to jump off the low diving board into the deep end and swim to the edge. Everyone else passed with flying colors. Some even went to the high diving board instead of the low one. I didn't care about passing. I cared too much about living to see another day, thank you very much. I understood that the water hadn't killed anyone else in my class, but I was sure it would be the death of me. My body was physically incapable of swimming, I reasoned. The instructors offered me a candy bar, even money, just to do it one time. They promised to catch me and help me to the edge if I needed it, a concession not made for other students. I was not to be bribed, tricked, convinced, or otherwise fooled into this test. I didn't know how to swim in the shallow end, much less the deep end, and had no desire to overcome my fear or swim with my peers. At the end of the third summer, an instructor told my mom something she had never told any other parent: "Just give up. We can't help her learn to swim if she doesn't want to do it."
I grew up landlocked and didn't seek opportunities to swim, so most of my friends had no idea that I couldn't. I liked being on our fishing boat with my mom and dad because I was safe and snug in my required life jacket the whole time. My friends liked water recreation, so as a teenager I even learned to water ski and went white-water rafting without a problem. I soon figured out that I didn't hate water; I just hated having water in my nose. If I could use a nose plug or mask and snorkel, I actually enjoyed being in the water.
The real test came when my husband and I moved to Florida. He knew I wasn't a good swimmer, but he wanted to learn to scuba dive in the worst way. He needed a partner, and I didn't want to spoil his dream. Besides, I figured we would use some type of breathing apparatus the whole time we were in the water. I also truly believed I was over the irrational fear and to the point of just accepting that I would never be a good swimmer. So we bought our required text books, snorkels, masks, fins, and wet suits. The first few classes took place around a table where we went through our texts and learned the necessary information about regulators, gauges, buoyancy, and hand signals. I was growing more nervous as I read about the risks, but I usually found a few deep breaths and a little reasoning with myself kept the panic at bay.
Finally, the moment for which everyone else in the class had been waiting excitedly arrived: It was time to put on our scuba gear and jump in the pool. It's a small pool, and we start out in the shallow end, I told myself. Besides, I'm not really afraid of the water anymore; I just don't like to get water up my nose. I stepped into the pool with the rest of the class, playing it cool. We formed a circle with the instructor in the middle. One at a time, we were to drop to our knees and just practice breathing in and out of the regulator. No big deal! I told my jittery nerves.
My turn arrived. I got to my knees -- and I froze. The water wasn't even over my head; I could feel the water line just on my forehead. My husband was next to me, already breathing in and out with ease. Panicky thoughts and feelings flooded over me. You cannot breathe underwater! This is impossible! Don't even try! There I was, all grown up, married, and living far away from the Fort Benton, Montana local swimming pool. But inside I was that little girl on the low dive, shaking my head at the instructor waving a Hershey's bar and some quarters at me as she tried to trick me into ending my life in that pool of unending depth. It's a trick! This can't be happening!
I don't know how long I held my breath. My husband recounted later that he hadn't previously known my eyes could get that big and had feared they may pop out of my head. The instructor started to tap on my mask, gently at first and then with more urgency. She finally startled me out of my panicked trance. I saw her face directly in front of mine, her hands motioning me to breathe. I took a long, deep breath and overcame my unreasonable self-dialogue. Of course I could breathe under water! I had learned all about it in the classroom and had passed the written tests with ease. I felt so foolish. What was wrong with me?
We continued the class with swimming under water all around the pool, breathing through our regulators. I thought it was miraculous. I could finally experience what swimming was supposed to be like. I felt victorious. I could scuba dive! I wouldn't disappoint the hopes of my husband!
At the end of the class, the instructors told us we would continue practicing in the pool and would have to pass a swimming test before we could swim in open water. I'm pretty sure my eyes got as big as saucers again. If they had told us that from the beginning, I never would have signed up.
My husband assured me I would be fine. We would practice every day in the swimming pool at the Air Force base where we lived. He would help me get ready. I could even swim with my head out of the water the whole time. Okay then. I can do that.
My husband isn't cruel, but he enjoys a good laugh and can't hold back laughter -- sometimes even when laughing isn't quite appropriate for the situation. After watching me attempt to swim for the first time, he just couldn't help himself. To this day he seems to enjoy telling people that watching me swim is like watching someone try to ride a bicycle under water. "She doesn't kick her legs; she flails and circles them around like she's trying to ride a bike." Ha, ha.
He encouraged me to use my fins for a while to get used to the kicking motion. With the fins on, I could kick sufficiently, if not almost beautifully and gracefully. (Don't ask my husband's opinion, please.) With the mask and snorkel, I was perfectly at ease. We gradually tried to strip the gear, but to no avail. We were supposed to swim 200 meters with no gear, and I was exhausted by half a lap. Four laps? My husband and I were losing hope, and I prepared myself to be made a fool for him, for the first time in my life failing a class. On the bright side, he could get his certification and join any of the plentiful group dives available in our area. Without me.
The dreaded night arrived. Several others swam their laps and passed the test easily. It was Florida; everyone swims in Florida. My husband and I waited at the back of the line. I was trying to formulate a way to ask the instructor to let me fail without doing the swim test to prove that I couldn't do it. I knew I couldn't do it, without a doubt, and I saw no sense in proving it to a small crowd of baffled and laughing onlookers.
Then it happened. Another lady in the class casually asked if she could use her mask and snorkel for the swim test. "Sure! No problem! We should have mentioned that it's fine to use your gear. You just have to prove that you can swim in a scuba diving situation, and you'll have all of your gear on when you're diving anyway." Yes, they should have mentioned that.
And so I passed. I never would have believed I could pass a swimming test. We finished the class, went diving first in a murky lake to learn to use our compasses, and then in the open ocean water. It was one of the most exhilarating, breathtaking, beautiful experiences of my life. The amazing marine life and the surreal feeling of being 60 feet under the surface of the water was marvelous. I felt just a trace of that old, familiar fear, but my mind won over my emotions as I recalled the facts we had learned and put into practice the training we knew from the pool. Unfortunately for my husband, the experience was a bit too breathtaking for his partner who ran out of air before anyone else. Our dives were short and sweet since apparently I couldn't manage slow, controlled breaths. Hey, I was scuba diving! Victory. A lifelong fear conquered.
I never went scuba diving again. My husband has enjoyed it a handful of times, but I am content to snorkel when the opportunity arises. I proved something to myself and did what I had thought was impossible. That was enough; I'm good.
Fast-foward 10 years. I'm trying to help my 4-year-old learn to swim, or at least not be afraid of the water. My 6-year-old had been afraid of the water, too, and I wondered if I had passed on my inherent fear of drowning. But no; now that 6-year-old loves the water and has officially surpassed my level of swimming ability. He does somersaults in the water, cannonballs into the deep end, and swims under the water -- all without holding his nose, as his silly mom must do. He has even started learning to dive, and I am so proud of my little fish. But my 4-year-old clings tightly to my neck, sputtering and crying if he happens to get water in his face. What to do?
A friend offered to let me try a Puddler Jumper. Honestly, I didn't have much hope for him since we had tried the life jacket, and he had no interest in trying on the Puddler Jumper. Besides, someone once told me that using "arm floaties" and other floating devices would hinder a child from learning to swim and may even give children a false sense of security that could prove dangerous later. I didn't care anymore. When he warmed up to the idea of trying on the Puddle Jumper, I encouraged him. Within a few minutes, he was smiling and trying to kick and paddle. Before I knew it, he was asking me not to hold his hand; the same child who clung desperately to my neck every time we entered the water now paddled all around without a care in the world. I breathed a sigh of relief, perhaps because my sore neck needed a break as much as for any other reason. "Praise the Lord," I whispered.
Praise the Lord for a Puddler Jumper? Why, yes, I don't mind if I do! It was like a pretty package all tied up in a shiny bow, straight from Jesus to my little boy and me! Being the reflective type, I paused to contemplate the whole matter that night after the children were snug in their beds, the time of day when I have enough quietness to read, think, and write as long as I have completed my work for the day (and sometimes even if I haven't).
As long as I can remember, my life been fraught with fears. I didn't try new things unless I was almost 100% confident that I could complete them well. I never made a fool of myself purposely. I shied away from anything that seemed to have the slightest possibility of risk. For most of my life, I have seen fear as a friend who keeps me safe from anything unsafe, unwise, or uncomfortable. And it is true that fear can protect us from danger and keep us from making potentially disastrous decisions. But no one ever got far in life by being safe and comfortable all of the time.
In the past five years or so, I have learned to recognize fear as an enemy who keeps me too safe to take risks, too wise in my own eyes, and too comfortable to grow. As God called me to do things that absolutely petrified me, I would hide in my room, crying and praying on my knees and begging Him not to make me do it. The truth was, if I didn't overcome some fears I would have to forfeit huge dreams: staying home with my baby and future children, freedom and flexibility with time and money, and provision for our dreams to do mission work in Tanzania. For the first time in my life, my dreams were bigger than my fears, and remaining in my comfort zone looked quite uncomfortable when I looked farther down the road.
When I had to grow up and face some fears, I simply didn't know how. I cried out to my Lord and Savior for strength, and He delivered. I was still afraid, but as I faced various fears in His strength, I realized He is bigger than all my fears. I just had to admit my weakness, surrender my pride, and make room for Him to step in and be the Big God that He is. When fear showed up again, I clung to Jesus' neck. Gently, gradually, He turned me over to my Helper, Counselor, and Puddle Jumper: The Holy Spirit filled me up and gave me strength to do things that had been impossible for me. To others it looked like I was learning to take some risks and face fears. To me, a miracle was taking place. Like my little boy in the water, I just needed a lift -- encouragement, yes, but also some power outside of myself to help me stay afloat.
Is that "The End?" No, I think this is just the beginning. It took me more than 30 years, but I am embracing a life of facing fears and making dreams come true. I don't deny the fear, but I feel the fear and do what needs to be done anyway. Tom Barrett, one of my favorite business speakers and authors, says that when fear shows up, we just need to tell it, "Hello there! I've been expecting you. Now sit down and shut up. I've got work to do." I do that, and then I pray like mad. Now I have additional ammunition: the image of my son in his Puddler Jumper, facing his fears with the extra help he needed and now well on his way to becoming an independent swimmer one day. Holy Spirit, be my Puddle Jumper. Maybe I'll even swim well one day and scuba dive again. With God, all things are possible!