TO ASK FOR HELP

"And we can trust that when there's joy, there's nothing dark behind...in spite of history." -"January White" Sleeping At Last 

One sun-soaked Saturday seven years ago in Colorado Springs, my boss (at the time) was in a jam. He and his wife had both been unexpectedly called into work, and they were sans a babysitter for their brood of three boys and a girl (ages 2 1/2 to 10). Knowing that I had truly bonded with his children, and that I struggle with the ability to say "no", he called and begged me to watch them for the duration of the day.  Generally speaking, I love kids--especially as I know I have the capacity to "wow" them for a short amount of time, leave them thinking that "(I) rock, for an adult", and then give them back to their parents, who get to deal with the tantrums and the mess and the actual "child-rearing".  I always thought that I'd have my own, but as time slowly ebbs away from me, I realize that I enjoy my perpetual "cool Aunt" status, I can barely keep myself glued together, and my true, deep need for "alone" time, along with "bonding time" with my friends, makes the fact that I may, indeed, remain childless for the rest of my life...okay. Thus, as my plans for the weekend were vague at best, I agreed to "take charge".

When I arrived, the kids were especially amped up-- they were excited to spend time with me, but also, I think, bursting at the seams to see what lines they could cross/ what they could get away with under my dutiful watch that would not fly with their parents.  We played games, and made lunch. We watched "The Incredibles" in the allotted "two hours" of TV time.  We put a jigsaw puzzle together, and then, inevitably... the boundaries were tested. 

Five-year old Anna, after "wowing" me with her uncanny ability to sing off-key all of the songs in the Disney Library (from "The Little Mermaid" on), ran into the backyard and climbed as high as she could in a yawning and gnarled oak tree. She did not respond to my commands to stop climbing, or to get down, but tensed up and panicked as soon as she reached the thinner branches.  Her cries for my assistance were shrill and fragile enough to break crystal. Thus, I scampered up, and carried her down. She was grateful, and threw her arms around my neck in her vulnerability.

After I extinguished that small fire, ten-year-old Max and seven-year-old Nicolas began shoving and hitting each other. I lept in-between them to mediate, and a weeping Nicolas cried out, "Help, Sarah!" He knew that he'd messed up, and quickly admitted as much, but he was unhesitating in his pleas for help.

As soon as I had negotiated peace within that World War, the phone rang. The boss's wife. She'd forgotten that Max had soccer practice at three (20 minutes away), and as he was on a travelling team, it was imperative that he attend...could I please grab the keys for the minivan, load up all four kids, and drive Max to the elementary school gym?....Um, I had not even sat as a passenger in a minivan since high school, and as the friends who rode a painful mile with me when I attempted to drive a U-Haul truck can attest, anything larger than a sedan is probably not a wise choice for me to operate. Nonetheless, I agreed, and sent Max to get changed. 

As I rallied up the troops for the car ride, 2 1/2 year old Owen, who was in the midst of potty-training, and wore "Pull-Ups", declared his need for a toilet. He insisted on going by himself, and I encouraged him and cheered him on. I scurried to get Anna and Nicolas into the van as a dark, snake-like cloud overtook the sky, and opened its venomous mouth to throw out large hailstones. Lightening overwhelmed the atmosphere, and the rumbles of thunder threatened to break the world open.  I turned around and found that Anna was hysterical. "I hate fundull and lighting," she sobbed.  Internally, I laughed at the insanity of the day, but I calmed her down, and helped her into the car.

Running inside, I called to Max who responded, "Almost ready!" But when I hollered for Owen, I was met with dead silence. I yelled his name again. "Oooowen! We have to go, buddy!" A teeny little towheaded silhouette emerged from the bottom of the split-level's stairs. "Owen?" As he stepped into the illumination of the yellow light cascading from the foyer, I noticed that his pants and pull-ups were down around his ankles. He wore a somber expression, white-knuckled the railing with one hand, and carried a large wad of toilet paper in the other. "Sail-wah!!! Help!!! I need you to wipe my peepee and my butt!" (I speak fluent toddler, and my maturity level is often on parallel ground with two to three year olds, so I knew that he said, "Sarah". The rest is self-explanatory.) The volcano of laughter that I had to stifle down was painful. "What? Why can't you do it yourself, Owen?" He stared at me grimly. "Because, thele's poop. Poopie evwewhele." (Translated from toddler-"There's poop. Poopie everywhere.")... And so, I did. I took a deep breath, held it, and wiped Owen's poop away. I won't go into pain-staking visual details (although part of me really, really wants to), but I will say that some of the...stuff...had dried, and so it was painful for Owen to have me clean him. But he knew that he needed it, and he knew that he could not become clean on his own.

Eventually, I successfully gathered all of the kids, drove Max to practice, handed the rest off to their Mom, and headed to dinner and a much needed beer.

I've been thinking about Owen and his poopy butt a lot recently... not just because I hope, desperately, to one day re-meet him as an angsty and "cool" eighteen-year-old with a new girlfriend, and embarrass him with the humiliating nostalgia (I know, that's horrifically mean, but it also would be so very funny), but also because I've been thinking about the meaning of true romance, and true friendship, and about honest vulnerability with God, and I think that we should all emulate Owen.

It is healthy, it is honest, it is authentic, it is strong to possess the ability and the courage to ask for help when it's needed.  Too often, as "mature" adults, we think that we need to cloak our needs in "God-speak" or, we grow afraid of showing the messy nature of our insides to others, lest they think we are "needy" or shirk and run away and shrug us off due to our vulnerability...they deem us "negative" because we are honest about the issues that weigh us down... or they question where we could possibly stand in our relationships to God--how the good stuff we claim is happening could have merit, how the fun and joyous state we stand in hours after the deep conversation could be authentic if we are struggling with painful, internal confusion or heartache.  We grow afraid that God is rolling His eyes, and is sick of us returning to hard places, and so we thank Him (which is awesome, and does help change perspective, but thanks without honesty rings hollow) and we try to "spin" our current state-of-mind to make ourselves sound healthy and noble in His presence (I know, I do it all of the time--but He totally knows about the muck and the sadness and the self-obsession and the muddled thinking, so we may as well come to Him honestly) ...And we walk-around, attempting to hide our loaded, dry and smelly, poopy diapers.  They come in cycles--none of us will ever be "diaper free" in this lifetime.

The more we ignore them, the unholy fecal stench punches through our floral perfumes and sprays...the more people pull away from us....the more difficult it becomes to ask others and God to help us clean and become whole again.

And so, I am learning...learning to ask for help. Learning that to be vulnerable is a good thing--but selective vulnerability is wise and much, much better....Learning that some people will, indeed, pull away from my hideous poop--that it is too much to ask them to remain invested, that it forces some to stop ignoring their own diapers. Learning that others will embrace both the poopy Sarah and the clean Sarah, and will love them both. Learning that I need to embrace both... Learning to embrace both in those whom I love...Learning to let those whom I love decide when and where to reveal their own mess... Learning that my instinctive nature--to pull away from others when my diaper is full, to mask the stench of it, or, to show it and then run away in shame and disgust/ to get angry at myself for having a full load and for sharing rather than hiding it--still leaves me with the dried, full, reeking load, and that I most definitely cannot clean it up on my own.

Thus, I am thinking a lot about Owen and his poop these days. If anyone in Colorado Springs meets a blonde, nine year old named Owen, please thank him for me;-)....

And on this, Good Friday, I am thankful. Thankful that the ultimate sacrifice was made, the life-changing gift given, so that I am not alone. Thankful that I can always turn to the One who knows and loves me (regardless of my mess/ in spite of my mess/ because of my mess), who does not stand with arms crossed and back turned in Judgement, who does not whisper ,"Ew, Sarah! Seriously? I really don't want to look at that. You're gross." But who stands with open arms and says, "Ask me for help. It's yours for the taking, but you need to ask." Thankful that I can offer help to others only because I am constantly being cleaned up.

'Think I'm going to go get cleaned up, for the millionth time, now :).  And maybe make a phone call or two... 

'Hope I did not take the analogy too far ;-).  As always, thanks for reading, and Happy Easter.

LIFE IS PARABOLIC

"Sometimes the urgency of our hunger blinds us to the fact that we are already at the Feast." -John O'Donohue

"I know you didn't bring me out here to drown. So, why am I ten feet under and upside down? Barely surviving has become my purpose, 'cuz I'm so used to living underneath the surface. If I could just see You, everything would be all right. If I'd see You, my darkness would turn to light."- "Storm" Lifehouse

The man's eyes felt as if a rusty sword was piercing them through rough sandpaper--to close them was almost as painful as to force them to stay open.  He spat a dehydrated mouthful of saltwater back into the sea, and doggy-paddled his spasm-wrecked arms toward where he supposed the island to be... If only he'd taken a larger life vest... If only he hadn't insisted on water-skiing... If only he hadn't come on this vacation in the first place.  Perhaps Tyler and Mike would still draw in breath, and he wouldn't find himself, almost literally, up sh*t's creek. Forty eight hours on the open sea...could he survive much longer?... If only.

Still very much single at thirty six, the man's "vacations" since hitting the dreaded thirty consisted of client meetings in Los Angeles, and tending to his ailing parents Back East. He loved his career, but his heart and mind always felt weighted down, and relationships were not his forte.  So when Mike, his best friend of twenty years,  pestered him into joining in an "all expenses paid" vacation to Hawaii, he jumped at the chance to experience joy and explore Paradise.  

Tyler was Mike's close friend from college, and owned a Surf and Kayak shop on the Big Island.  
Business was booming, and Tyler needed to test new equipment that he wanted to market under his own brand name.  Thus, he asked Mike to join him, and to bring a friend.  Mike's wife, Betsy, waddled with the ballooning weight of eight months of pregnancy, so her inclusion was impossible. The man suspected that Mike's invitation stemmed from a feeling of pity but he brushed those worries aside, and headed to Hawaii on a Thursday. 

 Thursday's activities included a tour of the Big Island, a hike up a volcano, and an evening luau.   Mike and Tyler wanted to go cliff-diving and parasailing, but the man denounced both ideas as "reckless". He told Mike, "C'mon man, we aren't twenty one anymore--think of all that could go wrong."  Mike implied that the man had lost his spontaneity and joy.  The man responded, "Nope, I've just lived a lot of life since then. I know all of the wrong turns things can take."

On Friday, however, after a lunch of Mahi Mahi and Margaritas by the breath-taking oceanfront, Tyler and Mike concocted a plan to find the "hidden island" of *Maluhai-- "Peace" in Hawaiian.  After much pleading, the man grinned, dropped his argument against the trip, and acquiesced.  The trio made plans to set out in Tyler's speedboat at daybreak on Saturday.

Although its existence is confirmed, Maluhai does not appear on any map.  It sits sixteen nautical miles out from the Big Island and is surrounded by a lagoon. The lagoon is often ensconced in fog, and many who try to find it are deterred by the harsh conditions that lead there.  Natives joke that it is the island that inspired "Lost".  Tyler revealed that he'd spent the last two years mapping the coordinates, was confident that they could find it, and had a fully-stocked and gassed speed boat, "CARPE DIEM" at the ready for the trip.

The man could not sleep on Friday night.  Restless with fear and excitement, he felt that the trip could help him to transform, and to find life exhilarating once again.  He wanted to show Mike that he was not dragged down by worry and the woes of life, but just cautious--and older and wiser.

And so, after minimal rest, the man joined his friends on the dock on Saturday, at dawn. As they loaded their gear onto the boat, Mike (a professional photographer) stopped to take pictures of the sky, painted crimson and indigo by the rising sun.  Tyler pointed out the silhouetted pelicans gliding near-by, closed his eyes, and inhaled deeply.  The man was annoyed. Yes, he agreed, these things were beautiful, but they were on a schedule, and he was pretty sure the sun rose every day.
He prodded his friends onto CARPE DIEM, and the trio sped off, leaving carve-able, foamy wakes behind them.


As they hit the vast, clear open water, the man felt his worries ease.  Perhaps the time to throw caution to the wind had come after all.  Tyler jokingly suggested that they attach the tow line and water skis he kept below deck, and although the conditions were choppy, the man volunteered to take the first stab at manning the skis.  Mike wondered aloud if they should report their location to the Coast Guard first, as there were restrictions on allowed activity this far out at sea.  But, Tyler showed the others the detached wires extending from the bottom of the radio equipment--he so rarely used the boat, he had not bothered to check or fortify the communications system.

The man's typical reaction to this news would include panic and the command to head back to shore, but he wanted to prove to himself, and to his friends, that he could still take risks... he could engage with life, and he was taking steps to become a new, more carefree man. Thus, he comically strapped on a small, pink woman's life vest, and leapt off of the back of the boat.  

On his first attempt, he belly-flopped with such force, the splash resounded through the stillness of the water.  Internally, he wanted to cry.  He gulped down salty water, and his eyes stung, but he wore a brave face and took his friends' laughter with good humor.

And then, the sky darkened, and a vicious wind blew, whipping dry through the man's soaked long board shorts.  But he was up! He was skiing. He was victorious. With much trepidation, he called to his friends,  "Maybe we should head back--this doesn't look good."

Mike lovingly taunted him, and Tyler called him a wimp as he revved up CARPE's speed.  After  an eternal split-second, the heavens opened with their own furious reply, and before the man knew it, the towline had split from CARPE DIEM.  

By the time he emerged from the waves, coughing and yelling not-so-pleasantries to his friends, the man realized that he could not find them. The boat bobbed fifty feet away--capsized, and drifted further with each passing moment.  The man called to Tyler and Mike until his voice grew hoarse, but neither surfaced, and CARPE DIEM stood a mere speck in his line of vision.    

And now, he'd been adrift for two full days--no Coast Guard, no other vessels in sight.  The weather proved troubling, and in the fortieth hour, he gulped down the last of the Power Bar tucked into his life vest.  However, based on his own adept orienteering skills, he seemed, miraculously, to still be on course for Maluhia.

No one knew of the trip he and his friends set out upon, and no one was looking for him. He didn't much believe in God, but he called out to Him anyway.  He told God that if He proved Himself, and saved the man through quiet seas, food, peace, and rescue, he would commit his life to following His Grace and Providence.

He felt like a sarcophagus as his body continued to dehydrate and his lips split open.  He vowed never to take another risk as long as he lived--even the most calculated only led to heartbreak and ruin.  He reminisced about Lily, the only woman he'd felt close to marrying, and how she'd asked him to "wait for her" as she spent a year interning in Europe.  Twenty-five at the time, the man knew that Lily would hook-up with some hot European man, and then have to break the news.  He wanted to save himself that hurt, and so broke up with her instead.  He laughed bitterly at the memory, and tried, again, to focus his sight to the distance where an impenetrable cloud of fog hung--this had to mean Maluhia was close. The waves calmed to a lull, but he feared that this meant something more ominous loomed in the near distance.  

As he opened his eyes after his "last ditch" prayer, he noticed a school of bottle-nosed dolphins creeping close enough to touch.  Beads of water glistened from their dorsal fins, and the surrounding sea grew silent.  He knew the creatures were supposedly friendly, but worried that the silence and their encircling probably meant that sharks were nearby.  So, he used most of his remaining strength to flutter chaotically and scare them away.

  Immediately after his prayer, an annoying gull landed on his head where it stayed, sedentary, for close to ten minutes.  The man cursed God's silence.  He could not see where to paddle through the gull's shadow cast, and his own dreadlock-like hair hanging before his eyes.  After the bird decidedly relieved itself on his forehead, the man flung it off in a fit of rage.  Shocked that his feeble strength killed the gull, he watched in disgust as it floated away.

After some hours passed, and daybreak shed its soft skin to give way to the unrelenting blaze of the noonday sun, the man found he'd drifted to the fog.  Half delirious, he cried in relief, and flipped from his back to begin a crawl through it.  He was certain that the darker blue water a half mile into the thick white signified the lagoon.  "I'm going to find 'Peace' after all," he manically chuckled to himself.

As he grew closer to the lagoon, the man heard a foghorn blaring behind him, and then a disembodied voice emitting from a megaphone. "John? Oh wow, Johnny is that you? This is Mike, man! Tyler and I are with the Coast Guard. Hang tight, we're coming to get you!"

The man panicked.  Mike and Tyler were dead, he was sure of it.  He hastened his swim, and saw the glimmering hope of Maluhia in reachable distance.  The voice continued to call to him, and the foghorn ebbed closer, but he would not miss his opportunity based on a hallucination.  

The man took a deep breath, and dove far beneath the surface.  He hoped he'd cover more distance underneath the waves rather than on top of them.  Besides, if he learned one thing over his time in Hawaii, it was that waves were painful and that they should be avoided at all costs.

But the man never made it to shore.  During his plunge downward, he rammed into a coral reef.  He suffered severe brain injury, and drowned immediately.

_________________________________________________________________________________

From (local Hawaiian Channel 5) HTTN NEWS with beat reporter, Chase Simon: 

I'm standing here with the survivors of this horrible tragedy, Mike Dodd and Tyler Brown.  Mike, my understanding is that you and Tyler were picked up by the Coast Guard almost immediately after the accident, but Johnny Mason swam... away?

Yes sir, that's pretty accurate.  When Tyler and I swam from the wreck, we called to John, but he was screaming our names, and couldn't hear us.  We didn't want to lose sight of the Coast Guard boat, and John kept swimming away from us.  By the time we were picked up, Johnny was nowhere to be found.  It was a miracle that we came so close this morning, but he must have been so delirious by that point, he just--he just...

I understand that this is painful, Mr. Dodd.  Thank you for your time.

And there you have it.  A man turned from the help of his friends, hoping for the promise of "Peace", only to perish.

For Eyewitness news HTTN, this is Chase Simon.

(* There is no island called Maluhia.  This story is a different attempt on my part, so as always, thanks for reading).