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: