Anchor, 1962: AHOY, Maiden Voyage!
My best friend and I embark today in the rowboat—first time without a grownup. I grip the oars, gung-ho to go.
Mom commands the pier, shifting her weight from foot to foot as if soothing a baby.
“Are your life jackets snug?”
Triple cinch knots . . . by you, I say.
“Extra sunscreen?”
Got it. (Small eye roll from friend.)
“You don’t want another—”
MOM, we’ll be fine.
Double thumbs up and we’re off. At our feet, a mound of rope, canary-bright, curls alongside a new anchor.
“WAIT!” Mom calls. “Do you have your watch? I want you back in an hour.”
I wave and grin, feeling strong, in control, unstoppable.
Down lake, we drop anchor. Sploosh!
Rope un-loops fast, all friction
and hot neon blur—Z-z-z-z—
down to the last coil until,
phloop, the tail end flips
(Oh no!) over the side . . .
floats for a moment,
then disappears
into the murk.
L. O. S. T.
And who failed to tie the line to the boat? Flighty, unreliable me. With every stroke toward home the word irresponsible whirls in my head, a growing vortex sucking me down.
So, why remember this now? Sobering, unfamiliar responsibilities. The occasional sense of hovering doom. The brain whispers You’re going to mess up—an echo of what I felt long ago, in the boat.
Oh, I know all the right words . . . “We have this hope as an anchor for the soul, firm and secure” (He. 6:19).
Still. Bogus beliefs formed in childhood can go undercover. Shelf life? Notorious.
To dodge looking deeper, I open an escapist novel. A character says, “Why don’t you question some of your wildly incorrect underlying assumptions once in a while?”
Oh dear.
Each youthful assumption that surfaces exposes a faulty conclusion lurking beneath it. With tentacles.
- I can’t be trusted.
- I’m a failed adult.
- I don’t deserve hope like an anchor.
Yow.
Near the end of my mother’s life her broken mind drifted, detached from reality. Briefly lucid, she gripped my arm and said, “I feel like a little boat, all alone in the middle of the ocean.”
Nothing dissuaded her. Had she let me, I would have rocked her in my arms and sung to her.
I failed to find a way to soothe my mama, but fresh grace seeping through me today might comfort my beloved.
This fact remains: I lost my dad’s anchor, but I am not lost.
Still. “When hope recedes, so does the capacity to move toward . . . wholeness,” grief counselor James E. Miller writes.
To become a healing presence, I must reckon with self-judgment. Enact the old heave-ho. And picture Jesus present with me so long ago in the boat as well as the aftermath.
Re-anchored in truth, I can navigate shifting circumstance, perhaps steady our journey.
No way to feel strong, in control, unstoppable. Sometimes guilt muscles in, and worry rides shotgun. Will a life jacket appear for my beloved when needed, tenderly fastened?
Will he sense Someone who loves him watching, watching for his return?
We’re all underway. Healing may be different than curing.
Amid the murk of cascading decisions and the burden of waiting-waiting-waiting: friends, can we welcome hope?
Centuries ago, Augustine wrote, “Our hearts are restless until they rest in Thee.”
Lord, steer us toward wholeness. Expose old assumptions.
Ease the dead weight of ambiguity. Helplessness. Senseless pain.
Anchor us in you, our hope, now and always. Amen.
What helps you live free of former assumptions?
Rowboat Photo by Jasper Garratt on Unsplash
No One Would Do What the Lamberts Have Done, Sophie Hannah
Hands gripping miniature anchor Photo by Lucas Sankey on Unsplash
Here’s a wise, practical, deeply compassionate, beautifully written book I am loving:
Anchor
We did the same
Borrowed an anchor from our uncle
Fishing with Dad and older brother
Rope running through my hands
Gone!
The three of us just looked at one another
My dad wasn’t happy
My brother and I held back wanting to laugh
Honestly, I think it was our dad’s responsibility to have tied it
The similarity in experience/story is fun
Though I wasn’t responsible
I too experience echo of failure
I thought as we aged they’d lessen
Nope
“Bogus beliefs formed in childhood. Shelf life? Notorious.”
Yup
Surprise surprise
A song met me in my young walk of faith
Benny Hester’s Nobody Knows Me Like You (maybe I mentioned this in previous post?)
It’s like an early introduction to Psalm 139
That was early 80’s
Song is just as meaningful and relevant today
What helps me today?
Stories
Yours
Mine
Others
Is healing different than curing?
Good question
I like the question
Yes, I believe itis
I’ll be thinking on it
Back to fail/failure
Psalm 73 met me in early 2000’s
Whom have I in heaven but You?
And there is none upon earth that I desire besides You.
My flesh and my heart FAIL;
BUT GOD is the strength of my heart and my portion forever.
(Verses 25-26)
Taking a run at it from verse 21 might feel timely for you in this season
Thank you, Laurie
And Dreamer
For letting us walk with you
Heal with you
Until
That day
Rick, I just listened to Benny H, his voice familiar with the immediacy of nostalgia (in its best sense) and with the tenderly hijacked(?) memory of first-love faith, from the journey’s early days.
Also, today I just read these words about remembrance:
“This is not magical thinking. It is not bright-siding the past. It is using your own memory as a compass for a self you may have temporarily set down. . . . The self is held together, in part, by the stories we remember about ourselves.”
Psalm 73 is speaking, as well.
And God, through you.
So grateful!
Amazing how long those childhood memories flood our minds. You are no longer her. You are strong and capable.
Oh Patti, thank you for this affirmation at the start of the day. I can hear your voice speaking into me as you did so long ago when you opened your home and your hearts to us. Thank you, thank you. <3
Thank you for being faithful to our Lord by writing this testimony. Such an encouragement, pointing our hearts’ gaze upon Him!
Lolita, thank you. What a moving start to a new day! I usually don’t check email first but am so glad I did. Thank you for reading along and for letting me know the words offer an encouraging nudge toward quiet, loving attention to God’s steadying grace and goodness.
Off to make coffee with a new spring in my step . . . <3
I was thinking of you this morning, Laurie, and praying too. 🙂 Thank you for writing this insightful and relatable piece. (I enjoyed the “shelf life” line.) 🙂
In particular, I’m connecting with what you said here. “Amid the murk of cascading decisions and the burden of waiting-waiting-waiting: friends, can we welcome hope?” *Welcoming* hope. That is a more manageable way for me to think of hoping in difficult times.
Over the last year, I keep coming back to the word, Possibility, as it somehow creates an accessible side path in my mind to stay connected to hope. Thank you for sharing your stirring and encouraging words with us, Laurie! I’m continuing to pray.
Oh, Bethany, thank you so much! This is one of Dreamer’s good days. Bet your prayers are part of that, thank you.
“Possibility” takes me straight to Emily Dickinson. What would it be like, I wonder, to “dwell in possibility”? https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/52197/i-dwell-in-possibility-466
I am especially struck by your experience of “an accessible side path in [the] mind to stay connected to hope.” The quiet beckoning of an alternative not yet seen . . . that comforts me. So heartening, thank you!
I pray for you and yours, as well, lovely friend.
Assumptions lead to expectations. What I expect is now coming gets all the airtime in my brain–all the self-talk. I’ve been thinking about upward projected expectations not being pie in the sky but stepping closer to God. NOT trying to NOT think of something but moving my thoughts onto something else. Expect good.
Doesn’t mean there are no consequences. It means we are mended. Think about the wonder of a God intent on mending all things. A Father intent on that…
“Expect good.”
Those two words call up a song I learned the first year Dreamer and I were married. “Whatever is right, whatever is true, whatever is lovely and worthy of praise . . . let your mind dwell on these things.” (I’m humming it as I type.)
Time to sing that song again––often!
I’m resting, too, on the image of “God intent on mending all things.” What a tender reminder for me on this rainy day. Thank you, thank you.
I remember a song by Pam Mark Hall from back in the day, “Dwell on These Things” based on that Philippians scripture. Thank you; a great reminder!
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YFa7UqTHhU8
Continuing to pray for you and Dreamer!
Jerri, I’m listening to PMH’s song as I type. I’d forgotten her version of the scripture but recognized it immediately. I learned an earlier chorus, written by another wise and grateful woman. It’s delicious to have both tunes and lyric versions running through my head and heart today! Thank you!