Bobbing in the water with the shoulders of my orange life
jacket pushed up against the orange glow of my sun burnt cheeks, my dad’s voice
came over my freckled shoulder as he told me to get the ski rope. I stretched
out my hand as far as I could to try and grab the rope before it was out of
reach, and my fingers clasped around the rubber handle just in time. I felt the
tension of the rope tugging me sideways, and the tightly slotted rubber bindings
on the skis nearly coming off my feet as the resistance of the water pushed
against the top of the skis. At age 9, I was developing some new strength as I tried
to circle my legs in front of me with one hand on the ski rope. Tucking my
knees up to my chest, I finally could hold the rubber handle with both hands
while my dad helped me keep the ski tips pointed to the sky.
“Take out the slack!” he hollered from behind me, but this
message was not meant for me. My mom was at the wheel of the boat. We didn’t
have a speed boat made for water sports. Just a bass fishing boat with an Evinrude 85 horsepower motor to draw us kids out of the water on youth size wooden
water skis.
That motor had enough power to pull my mom or dad up when they would take a turn to ski. Dad
would even slalom occasionally, inspiring us youngsters with his feat. We
thought he was pretty amazing to get up on one ski and he may have thought so
too.
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Some say I take after my dad |
Mom pushed the gear forward gently to pull the slack out of
the rope between the boat and my rubber handle. I could feel myself moving
forward, skis beginning to point any direction other than up to the sky, and my
dad holding on to me. He somehow continued to help hold the skis steady pointed
upward and mom called out from the boat, “Ready?”
Dad calmly repeated the
question in my ear, “You ready?” And I nervously nodded and answered, “Uh huh.”
Dad yelled “Ready!” back at mom and she quickly pushed the gear full throttle.
My arms stayed straight in front of me, clutching the rubber handle as water
splashed in my face for what seemed like a full minute. I tightened my grip and
bossed my legs and back to gain balance as the boat lifted me upward. I fumbled
with more pressure on my left ski and feeling as if I was about to take a nosedive,
I quickly and clumsily corrected and put more pressure on my right. There was a
battle for balance going on between my left leg, right leg, back and arms as I
fought to keep my skis in front of me and hold my breath amidst the unending
splash.
At last, I slipped, and my feet ripped out of the rubber bindings,
sending my skis one direction and my body another. As soon as my head popped
out of the water, I blew water out of my nose. I looked around for signs of the
wooden skis as mom circled the boat and headed back to me. She could easily
spot me as the orange life jacket was more shoulders than my head on the top of
the water.
Dad captured one ski trying to escape and I managed to grab
the tip of the other one just as my mom called from the boat, “Grab the rope!”
I swung my head around to look for the camouflaged rope gliding across the
water like a long, thin snake and took a few one-armed strokes to get a hold of
it before the rubber handle passed me by.
“You want to try again?” my dad asked as he got close enough
to help me manage the rope and skis. He floated near me ready to insert each
foot in the bindings again.
I answered, “Uh huh” and he tightened the slotted
bindings around my heels. We worked to get in position again, struggling to
balance the ski tips and rope and life jacket pushed up to my ears by this
time. Mom took out the slack and dad helped hold the ski tips skyward as he
hugged me from behind.
“Ready?” mom asked as she held her hand over her brow to try
and see us with the sun behind us illuminating the water around us.
This time I
bravely called out, “Ready!” and within a second, I was battling for balance
again, eyes sealed shut and breath held in the spray of water on my face.
Holding on with all my strength, I felt like I was sitting on an imaginary
chair that would collapse at any second. I finally started to straighten my
back and keep my skis straight too. I was up. I was skiing.
Cheers from my dad
and cheers from the boat filled my senses as my life jacket slowly worked
itself downward, resting on my shoulders and around my waist. We headed away
from the sun and I could feel the warmth of it on my skin. I don’t know what was
stronger in that moment…the rush of the wind or the rush of my accomplishment.
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Dad and my brother behind the Evinrude |
Like that day in the lake, my dad has been a steady force in
my life many times since then. When I was nearly 16 my great grandfather died
and the funeral was a two-day drive from home. I didn’t want to go. I didn’t
want to deal with the pressure of assignments, missing instruction, and I
didn’t know how to deal with loss. Dad came to my room and told me I needed to
go. His instruction was direct, yet he showed understanding in how I was
feeling. He taught me in that moment the importance of being present for others
who are grieving and honoring a loved one.
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My great grandfather, Papa Amis |
A couple of years later it was time for college. “You ready?” Dad asked as he put the last of my bags in the
car. We started the 14-hour drive, full of excitement for all that
was ahead. Mom and dad helped get my dorm room unpacked, which didn’t take long
with the little space I had in the 3-person room. Like that day in the water,
when dad tightened the rubber bindings on my heels and helped hold the ski tips
skyward, dad gave me what I needed and pointed my hopes and dreams to the sky.
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Sitting at my desk in my dorm |
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In front of the dorm |
Nearly 20 years into
my marriage and 7 kids later, I had felt the cheers of my family many times
over. There was a lot to celebrate between the day we unpacked my freshman dorm
and the day we unpacked from our adoption trip to Colombia, adding 4 kids to the 3 that already called me mom. The warmth of my family's support has been like the warmth of the sun on my skin as I glided across the lake on those wooden skis that day I learned to ski.
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Coming home from Colombia |
As a parent, I sometimes felt like that little 9-year-old
girl learning to water ski. Some days, caring for the ones God entrusted to me
were much like clumsily battling for balance on those small wooden skis. I
tried one thing and then overcorrected only to find myself underwater ripped
from the tight rubber bindings. As the size of our family increased, the needs
increased overwhelmingly. Like reaching for that ski rope, I often stretched
out my hand, desperately grasping for the support we needed before it was too
late.
Now in my 50s, I have developed new strength with the help of a lot of people
in the water with us throughout the years, but I can’t help thinking about that
day my dad was in the lake with me. Sometimes during our darkest moments, dad
has been nearby helping us manage the skis and rope of our lives. When I have
felt hopeless or helpless, his presence speaks, “You want to try again?” Whether
I feel like I am holding on with all my strength or holding my breath, he is
there behind me, keeping my ski tips pointed to the sky.
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A day on the lake wore me out |
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Dad and my older brother |
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Dad and my little brother |
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Dad and my sister and brother skiing |
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Boat upgrade |
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Dad and his first grandson |
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My dad |