Sunday Meditation 8

In the spring of 1965 I went swimming at a lake in central Pennsylvania before the season opened so there was no lifeguard. No problem. I was young and confident; convinced I could frolic in the water, no need of a guardian — human or otherwise.

I was wrong.

The problem: The summer before I’d worked construction, as a laborer, so my body was fit and strong. That body was long gone. In the fall I’d started college — and started smoking. By the time I hit the water some six months later, my belly was flabby and my lungs had entertained more smoke than air. Unfortunately, I came to that realization about halfway cross the lake.

Too late. Too bad.

I treaded water to buy time and recover strength. With each hand-paddle and foot-flap, I became weaker. Lo these many years later, I can still feel the lake closing in, like a gentle, lying lover, promising peace, while my lips danced anxiously, just above the surface, trying desperately to suck in air.

Until I gave up.

Eyes wide open, blue-green. Then shut. Fade to murky-black. Bubbles-troubles. Going down. One final act: One hand reaching upward, caressing the sad sky, one last time.

Then it happened. Hands. Strong ones. Out of nowhere. Pulling me up. Out of death’s reach. Onto a surfboard. My body exhausted, yet breathing, haltingly. Being brought to who knows where by who knows what — or whom.

We reached the beach. He and me — my newfound friend, savior, angel, lifeguard. He’d gotten me to shore. Settled me down. Then left. Never to be seen again.

The end. Yet not.

I was but 18. The episode haunted me. After that, I never felt invincible again. Death, though not a constant companion, was a distant dark cousin: once met, never forgotten.

Years later, in Vietnam, my gentle, lying lover returned. Promising peace. In the midst of turmoil: “Take the gun. Pull the trigger. Ready. Aim. Over.”

Eyes wide open, blue-green. Then shut. Fade to murky-black. Bubbles-troubles. Going down. One final act: One hand reaching upward, caressing the sad sky, one last time. Then it happened. Hands. Strong ones. Out of nowhere. Pulling me up. Out of death’s reach. Onto a cross. He and me — my newfound friend, savior, angel, lifeguard. His name? “Jesus.”

Jim Lamb is a retired journalist living in Florida. He’s author of “Orange Socks & Other Colorful Tales,” the story of how he survived Vietnam and kept his sense of humor. He accepted Christ at a Sunday chapel service in Da Nang. For more about Jim, visit www.jslstories.com.

Sunday Meditation 1: The Prodigal Son

Sunday Meditation 2: Ode to Jim Elliot

Sunday Meditation 3: House of Bread

Sunday Meditation 4: Run, Baby, Run

Sunday Meditation 5: When Jesus Prayed

Sunday Meditation 6: The Hebrew Alphabet

Sunday Meditation 7: Lost my Friends

My Testimony: Stealing Psalm 40