Monday, July 1, 2024

Psalm 18.1-19: A Child's Account

 (This prose poem was written in 2020)

As a child you depend on those bigger and stronger and wiser than you for protection. Such people are your rock, your fortress, your deliverer. Such people respond to children’s crises for help.

One day, before I knew how to swim, I was sitting at the edge of a neighbour’s swimming pool, dangling my feet in the water, while other children played. Suddenly, another child, in the spirit of good fun, pushed me into the pool.

I don’t remember if I screamed before my head went under. But I remember trying to see in the chlorinated water, thrashing around in fear, and the slowing of time as my hand—raised above my head—slowly slipped below the surface as I continued to sink.

Then the water became turbulent, shaking me to and fro with its force. A dark figure appeared before me, blurred by water and my fear.

Strong, firm hands grabbed by body, pulled me to the surface, out of the water, and sat me on the edge of the pool. I remember coughing up water as I looked at her and cried. 

I don’t remember her face; I don’t remember her name. She was merely the mother of this neighbourhood home. But she drew me out of mighty waters. She brought me out into a broad place. She delivered me. And I—for one—am delighted she did so.

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