Putting My Paddle Down

A few years back, I went on a half-day whitewater rafting trip with my brother and some friends on the Arkansas River in Colorado.

Now, I'm no professional, and these weren't anything like the "unrunnable" rapids from The River Wild, but for a few flat-landers from the Midwest, it was a pretty intense adventure!

The freezing cold water splashing in our faces was quite a wake-up call on the hot day, and our adrenaline was pumping. I remember our guide navigating us around a "bowl" at one point that, if we fell in, would suck us underwater and promptly place us about a quarter mile down river in less than 30 seconds. I remember his screams as he was yelling out instructions for us... who to paddle, how much, which direction, and when... now? NOW!!!

When I look back at that time, there haven't been many adventures in life as exhilarating as that was. It was a memory for a lifetime that I won't soon forget.

Our relationship with God is a lot like a whitewater river ride. It is fast paced and intense, and if it weren't for a well-seasoned and competent Guide, we would have no hope of making it down alive. There are dips and drops, twists and turns, and at times, all we can do is take a deep breath before we get pummeled by another wave. We don't know where the river goes, and we can't see what's ahead.

But our Guide knows. He's been down this run before. Many times. Sometimes we've been down the same run with Him, and we don't even realize it. It doesn't look familiar... it doesn't feel safe, and we have every reason to doubt we'll actually make it through safely to the end. Or do we?

See, every time He delivers us safely through a whitewater adventure, you'd think we'd trust Him just a little bit more next time. I mean, we can look back up river and see all the different stretches of whitewater we've been down. Some big, some not so big... some felt a lot bigger than they actually were! But the story remains the same: we're here, and we're safe. We've obviously made it through each one of those runs, but for some reason we feel that the next one is going to be the one that ends it all.

I look back at how I rode those runs, and I'm embarrassed. I've got my puny little paddle, with a white-knuckled death grip on it, feverishly trying to back-paddle and fight the flow of the current. As if somehow, whatever small resemblance of "strength" I can offer on my own will be a match for the power and intensity of the rushing waters and the splashing waves. And when the calm comes (it always does, you know), there I am panting like a dog on a hot summer day, out of breath, arms pumped with absolutely no strength left... completely exhausted from fighting a force that I couldn't even faze.

And I missed it.

I missed the scenery of those runs, I missed the joy and excitement from the intensity of the journey because I wasn't able to rest assured in the competence of my Guide. I've missed it all because I was fighting for control... trying to attain something so impossible that its almost humorous that I thought I had a shot.

And yet, I've still made it. Tired, sore, battered and bruised... but only from my own doing. If I had just sat back, enjoyed the ride, chose not fight and trusted in my Guide, then I could have saved myself a boat load of pain (no pun intended).

So here I am, the current is starting to pick up again. The water is moving faster... I know I'm in for another doozy of a run. I can't see the end... in fact, I can't see more than a few yards in front of me. I hear the sound of rushing water ahead... is that a waterfall? It doesn't matter.

Why?

Because this time, I'm putting my paddle down.