have faith

I found this little card this morning. A drawing of a tiny boat being tossed on high curly waves, teetering atop the tallest crest, heading into a horizon with a low, dark cloud looming, tucked in the upper left corner of the frame. It has two simple words etched at the base of that middle, tallest wave.

have faith.

Sans serif. Stick-thin type. Perfect message for me today.

I’ve been lighting a candle for my sister at night. A light in the darkness, standing watch while we sleep. I blow it out each morning

I remember when I was a young girl, we spent all our summer weekends at the Officer’s Club Pool. My dad spent his weekends on the golf course, at the 19th hole and at the poker table. That left the four kids and Mom at the pool. We loved it. We swam and played all day. We would get snacks and sodas from the clubhouse.

One day I decided I wanted to go off the high diving board. It was a day when my father had joined us at the pool. I had garnered his attention. I probably wanted to win his approval.

I told my dad that I wanted to dive off the high board. Honestly, it didn’t look that much higher than the low board, and I was a pro at that. I was already doing swan dives and flips.

My father said OK, with some stipulations. “Cheryl, if you go up, you cannot back down.”

That was the deal. If I started, I had to finish. Deal.

I stood in line with the big kids, waiting to climb the rungs of the ladder. I looked back at my dad on the side of the pool.

It was my turn. I began climbing, carefully. As I got a couple rungs up, I realized I still had many rungs to climb to reach the top. I felt my first twinge of fear, and my legs felt a bit unsteady. I realized I’d gone blindly all in.

I continued to climb, now clinging to each rung as I pulled and willed myself up. When I reached the top, I put my feet on the sandpaper-scratchy board and clung to the railings.

I looked down. Big mistake.

Big mistake to look down. Big mistake to have made the deal to take the plunge.

I used the rails to steady myself as I walked toward the edge. At the halfway mark, I had to continue to the edge without the railings. I could feel the board bounce/bend/spring slightly with each step. My legs felt wobbly. My bravado had abandoned me. I was a young girl alone on the high diving board, a young girl who’d promised her father she’d dive.

My dad was looking up from the side, waiting. I saw all the people waiting in line.

Nope. I walked back on wobbly legs, clutching the handrails. I looked down at the ladder. I was scared. I wanted to go back down. But I had promised my dad.

A terrible conundrum. Bail and break my word. Or summon some courage and honor it.

I was already embarrassed (I was in fifth grade, I believe.) I felt all the eyes of the people at the pool were on me. I walked to the end of the board again. I wrapped my toes over the edge. I looked down. It was so far down. So terribly far. No way. I can’t do this.

My dad slipped into the water in the deep end. I honestly don’t remember what he said, but he was there, encouraging me to go. I put my hands over my head, bent at the waist, trembling. I couldn’t do it.

Dad was still treading water. I walked back to the railings, halfway back. I could not dive. I kept balking at the edge. Toes over. Arms up. Bend at the waist. Just fall in. Fall in. Let go. Follow your arms into the water.

I bent. I trembled. I stood up. No deal.

I don’t know how long I was up there. How long people waited for me. How long my dad tread water while my knees buckled and my will wavered. It felt like 30 minutes. It was probably ten.

I went back to the end of the board. I looked down. There was my dad, treading water.

It’s just that first step. The decision to leave.

In my mind, I keep saying one step, just go. So easy and the hardest thing in the world. Diving was out of the question. Jumping, I could do.

I wish I could say I leaped. More like I leaned out. My foot left the board and the other foot followed. I dropped in a rush of air and adrenaline. I went deep under the water, held my breathless breath and pulled my way to the surface.

Dad and I swam to the side ladder and exited the deep end.

“That was great, Dad. Can I go again?”

All my fear had been replaced by exuberance and joy.

Dad said yes and I quick-shuffled (no running on the pool deck) back into the line for the high dive.

My sister got her diagnosis just days before our father died in late August.

Her illness has been every bit as stunning, brutal and aggressive as my father’s had been.

In some ways, we know what awaits her; and, we also know that every journey is different. She’s in a mind-bending amount of pain. She’s been in and out of the ER and the hospital.

In these pandemic times, we must leave her when she crosses the threshold. She must go alone.

It was the same with my father. At one point, when they transferred him from one hospital to another 45 miles away, I begged–“Can’t we just stand outside the ambulance bay and wave? Let him see us, hear our voices? He’s all alone.”

No. Pandemic protocols.

My sister is back in the hospital, in terrible pain again. We are awaiting news from her doctors.

She wants, and we want, to get her home. We got Dad home, by the grace of God, by my father’s will, by our family’s love, by the incredible work of surgeons.

This morning I came across that card with the little boat teetering atop the rogue wave, dark clouds looming.

have faith.

I thought of my sister. I thought of my father. I thought of that day on the high diving board long ago.

have faith.

Sis, take all the time you need at the end of that board. We’re all here. Take it all in.

And when you’re ready, walk off the end of the board. Or jump. Or twirl. Or dance.

Our father is waiting for you.

Dad is waiting for you.

Copyright 2020 Cheryl Hatch ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Photo caption: My sister and I making mud pies.
Copyright Anne Hatch All rights reserved