Today,
the wild Pacific Ocean! My six-month-old
puppy stays at heel by my side, responds to commands and seems ready for the
shore instead of a quiet lake walk.
The flat
shore is a monster today: ten breaking waves and salty foam at break point. The scene is the follow-up from two hurricane-force
storms. I sink into three inch
rain-soaked holes at every step. This is no walk in the park.
A late-model
white truck approaches and halts directly in front of me, 15 feet from the rising
tide. My heart stops and I yell inside—don’t slow down; the sand swells with storm
water and is SO soft. But the drivers
steps on the gas too late and the truck wheels twirl.
I remember
dos and don’ts, but the young man doesn’t even know how to get the borrowed truck
into four-wheel drive. I call 911 and
get the number of two rescue services.
No answer.
Ten
minutes pass and we are only10 feet from the wave. I find that these drivers are Canadian students
who say, “We know nothing”. The girl gets
out of the truck and stands on the rear bumper as her friend finds four-wheel
drive and begins yet another assault on the impossible.
The 911
operator and I soon partner on my cell phone and we connect with the local
police who are only able to help with
rescue but cannot provide rescue
(laws!). I see two black dots on the horizon. Pup and I run full speed toward a small jeep and
ask them to give aide. The next dot is
the police SUV and I point toward the distant truck, knowing that my work here
is over.
I know
this beach well, but wait a minute! The familiar beach is no more: The yellow sign at trail’s head and other
trusty stakes in the ground are nowhere to be found. They’ve been decimated by the storm!
I climb up
the sand to the dunes and see my dire position!
Familiar beach-front homes are in the wrong place. I’ve long-since
passed the trail and must double back. I
decide to return on the dunes rather than the beach. It seems logical.
Yet each
step is an adventure. The pup leaps over
logs and splashes through swamps that now populate the waist-high dunes, while I
use all of my available leg strength to maintain balance and avoid falling. Forty-five minutes later, we find the trail and
head home with me in a full sweat. My shaking
body gives way to a steaming hot bath and the pup lies spread eagle on the
floor.
Upon reflection
I find that experiential learning again is at its best:
·
Pray
first. When I met up with the couple in the truck, I
needed to immediately call on the name of the Lord. I did not.
·
Submit
to His quiet spirit. I recognized their fear. It was an open door to introduce the
love-power of God to them or at bare minimum to depart in Jesus name. I did not change the atmosphere.
·
Stop.
Later, when I was alone on the dunes, I continued to make split-second
decisions in do-it-yourself mode, until I realized that much of my progress was
interrupted by the standing water, logs and debris from the storms. I did not stop first, and ask Holy Spirit for
direction back to the beach.
Here we
have it! Graduate level course in
preparedness for those who seek God as Lord.
I have only two-choices in trauma:
“head in the sand” or “heart in the Lard”. Which will I choose next time?
