The Slow Way: The Ministry of Water
The really real is always here among us. I’m pretty sure that the ache and the grace of seeing it are two sides of the same coin.
Friday we loaded up the car and picked up Ace early from school to make the hour drive to Spring Lake, New Jersey. Snagging him a spot with the surf therapy program for kids with disabilities that comes through the east coast once a year is not exactly the same as getting Taylor Swift tickets, but it has the same general intensity of internet-page-refreshing-–the texting between friends about when the sign ups will open, the stopping everything to log in, the acceptance of being on the waitlist, and the thrill of finally getting a spot, planning the day months in advance.
The night before, as I helped Ace into his pajamas, and went through the rituals of teeth brushing and washing his face, we talked, as we usually do about all the things he did that day, and all that we were going to do the next. Ace remembered surfing last year for the first time, and he flapped his hands when I reminded him of what it was like to be up on that board, hoisted to his feet by a professional surfer out there in the water with him, both of them carried along the waves all the way to shore. Ace loves the ocean and has, since his toddlerhood, had the remarkable ability to spend hours at its shoreline, entranced by the water at his feet. Sometimes I wonder if the ocean speaks to him Moana-like, and I’m just not in-tune enough to realize.
At bedtime we pulled out the story of Pete the Cat’s adventure learning to surf, and I reminded him that out there in the water, he would probably fall off the board, but even when he did, he would be surrounded by people right there waiting in the waves to help him up. Riding a surfboard is always scary and fun at the same time.
At the beach, once Ace was dressed in his wet suit and life jacket, he was introduced to Dan, the instructor who would take him out for the hour. “Ace is nonverbal,” I told Dan after he had introduced himself to Ace and they had exchanged a high five.
“Sure,” he said, nonplussed. “How will I know if he’s having a good time or if he needs to take a break?”
“I’m pretty sure he’s gonna be pumped the whole time. This is totally his vibe,” I said. “But squeals and arm flaps are happy sounds. If he’s scared, he’ll grab you and hold on.”
And then they paddled out into the ocean.
After my dad died, I took more baths than ever before. Showers weren’t enough. I needed to be surrounded by the water, not merely dribbled on. And in those baths, I found space to tune in to my grief, but also to relax the neck and shoulder muscles that were carrying the bulk of it. The water ministered to me. It pastored me.
I’ve thought a lot about the way that water heals us, how we need its power. There’ve been scientific studies that show how even the sight and sound of bodies of water can increase neurochemicals in the brain, increase blood flow, which ultimately leads to relaxation. So maybe the ocean is talking to Ace, or maybe my child is uniquely designed to be more in touch (this is my suspicion) with the ways we humans are naturally oriented by our Creator toward goodness. We long for the beauty and power of water. We long for adventure. We long to be held and carried, to be released from the weight of our land-locked lives.
On the board, Ace sat, his back straight and sturdy as the waves rushed him to shore, and as the crowd on the beach cheered him on. And later, he stood as his instructor and a safety volunteer held him in the shallow end on either side, letting him feel the movement of riding that board alone, all the way home.
In the book I recently finished writing about the Beatitudes, I think of Jesus’s phrase “the kingdom of God” as better understood to our modern ears as “the really real.” The really real isn’t something we can work toward or earn. It’s something we can only be given the grace to grasp, to join, through the gift of our own limits and longings. And that’s where the whole life, the flourishing life is found.
There are times, eight years into being this child’s mother, where I still can’t believe this is my son. The boy who, at the second grade choral performance, sits in a chair beside the risers, not singing as his peers perform the songs I’m certain he knows every word to deep inside his body. This boy, who arrives at the little league baseball game as bat boy to his classmate’s cheers of “Ace is here!”, and who then repeatedly attempts to run into the field when he’s not supposed to, Chris chasing after him. This boy who, on the surfboard, lifts his arms as if conducting the waves, and flaps them. His version of wild joy.
After our afternoon at the beach, we joined my brother and sister in law for dinner, and I asked Ace if he wanted to share the poem he had written himself for the poetry cafe at school, the event we missed in order for him to surf on a Friday afternoon. He smiled wide and flapped. And so we pulled his talker out, where the poem he had written using his iPad device, was loaded. A haiku. We walked together back to where everyone was gathered around the couch, and I interrupted. “Everyone, Ace wants to share a poem he wrote himself.”
On the screen there were two buttons. I helped him get his finger on the first:
“‘Hula Hooping’ by Ace.”
Then he pushed the button beside it:
Excited.
Really Proud.
Fun. Happy.
He looked up to the room of six people clapping, and he smiled.
The really real is always here among us. I’m pretty sure that the ache and the grace of seeing it are two sides of the same coin. Call it magic. Call it joy. Call it divine. See it in the ocean talking or the autistic boy who conducts the waves with his own arm flaps. Either way, the invitation is to pay attention, to allow ourselves space to see it.
A Slow Practice
Summer is unique because of the presence of water in our days and memories. And the gift of moments spent outside. Of course, some of you all live in spaces where it’s already too hot to even be outside. That is, unless you’re in the water, right? So today’s slow practice is simply to acknowledge the gift of water in your life.
There’s a reason baptism is a sacrament, a reason water is the only element that washes the filth from our bodies, and also manages to cool us off. Depending on where we live, natural water sources may be easily available, or they may be harder to come by. For those who can't just hop over to the ocean or lake or stream, studies have shown that even being beside a swimming pool can be calming and restorative for the body and mind.
This week give yourself the gift of getting to some water. And when you’re there, whether you’re alone or overseeing some splashing toddlers, here’s a simple prayer exercise you can use to connect with your Creator.
Begin by placing some part of your body in the water, whether it’s your feet in the ocean or lake, or letting your legs dangle in the pool. And as you do, allow yourself to tune in to the sensations of the water on your skin.
How would you describe the feeling of water to someone who had never felt it?
What memories does this body of water bring up for you? Are they memories of joy? Memories of fear? Memories of rest?
What gratitude comes to the surface with those memories?
What sorrows come to the surface?
Now take a deep breath and invite the Spirit to be present with you in this moment, to meet with you, surrounding you as closely as the water surrounds your skin.
Begin to practice breath prayers, repeating this simple prayer as you breathe in and as you breathe out.
Breathe in: Maker of water, surround me with peace that restores.
Breathe out: May I live today buoyed by your presence.
Breathe in: Maker of water, surround me with peace that restores.
Breathe out: May I live today buoyed by your presence.
Breathe in: Maker of water, surround me with peace that restores.
Breathe out: May I live today buoyed by your presence.
Continue this prayer for as long as you need.