When Your Raft Flips Over

After a long drive through endless traffic and a sleepless night full of anticipation, it was finally here. I was going to go white water rafting for the very first time! The weather was picture perfect. The blue Carolina sky hugged fluffy white clouds and held a brilliant ball of sunshine. My friends and I climbed into the raft and swoosh! Off we went, flying —at times, weightless— carried along by the relentless river flow.

Laughter, water spray, and a little apprehension filled the air as we tried to navigate the rapids. At the end, only one question remained: When can I do this again? Life couldn’t get any better than this. And then my husband of fourteen years, traumatically and unexpectedly, exited my life. By choice. The rapids I once excitedly anticipated now seemed threatening and menacing.

As I tried to navigate the river with only one oar, the formerly fun, adrenaline-filled challenges suddenly rose like dark specters, clouding my vision. My raft had flipped over, unceremoniously tossing me into the churning, icy waters.

I gasped when the first wave violently crashed over me.

My only conscious instinct was to attempt to avoid being smashed by the hidden boulders —custody hearings, attorney’s fees, the necessity of moving, isolation, loneliness, loss of friends, and an apparent loss of purpose—which relentlessly came at me with no seeming end. At irregular intervals, the river would grudgingly release its sucking grip, and I would gulp a life-sustaining breath before being pulled back under.

I don’t know why I ended up here, tumbling, struggling to perceive the light that provides direction through the churning waters to the surface and survival.

I don’t know whether I will make it to the river’s shore and be able to walk back up to the starting point or continue to be swept along and eventually plunge over the looming waterfalls. The multitude of unknowns is overwhelming.

But what I do know is that God knew this was going to happen. He still has a plan for me —a plan to give me hope and a future (see Jeremiah 29:11, NIV).

So in between each hard-fought breath and the fight to grasp this seemingly elusive hope, this promise nurtures my teeny-tiny mustard seed of faith.

And for now, that has to be enough.

Charmaine Houston