In a Floatie Down by the River

“Lord Jesus, I am at your mercy. You can have everything—my life, the air I breathe—but please let me just keep this one thing. Please don’t take it from me.”

I prayed this silently, begging God to save my marriage. I would have sacrificed anything, if He would just save my family. In the middle of the crisis, I didn’t do a deep dive into my motives. I couldn’t even imagine what a magical fix might look like; I just prayed for a miracle.

My husband was a pastor, and he had cheated. Not just once, but a full relationship with a girl young enough to be my daughter. On the surface, I was completely morally justified. I wasn’t the one who strayed; I just wanted to save my marriage. Jesus himself preached against divorce, so I was in the right. Wasn’t I?

But what was I fighting for?

God would show me later down the river. For now, I could only beg and plead as the swift current swept me away.

The 18-Year-Old’s Map

Most of us live our entire lives mitigating risk. In high school, I began to plot my path forward: college, marry a college-educated man, have children, work, and enjoy the occasional vacation while raising our family. It seemed a meager ask from God—just a respectable, “bourgie” life, as my students would say.

Agency is a wonderful thing, but at 18, what do we really know about who we will be in twenty, thirty, or forty years? If we spend our lives mitigating risk, might we miss out on truly living? As a believer in Christ, was I called to mitigate risk, or was I called to follow God wherever he might lead? Was it possible He might lead me far off the protected path?

At 18, I was a fledgling Christian, raised in a sheltered home. I knew so little about life.

That was before the river.

The Detour on the Deschutes

Recently, my son and I traveled with my sister down the Deschutes River in inner tubes near Bend, Oregon. This area is called Sunriver for a reason. We bathed ourselves in SPF 70 sunblock, packed a few snacks, and set off down the current—a true act of faith.

It’s a strange experience to float in an inner tube in June. The water is still glacier-cold. You can see the snowpack on Mount Bachelor and the Sisters standing majestic against the skyline, but the sun is blazing hot. My bottom was practically numb, submerged in the icy water, while my legs baked in the torrid sun. The scenery was spectacular, but the experience was punishing.

My son had started the trip agreeably, but as our progress slowed, he began to complain. I didn’t blame him. Hours into the journey—and only halfway to our destination—we made our way painfully to shore. We hobbled out of our tubes, deflated them, and hiked toward our car, still miles away.

Thank God for modern technology. I used my phone to call an Uber. The driver met us at a State Park and drove us, gear and all, to our car downriver. It was an adventure—in moments stunningly beautiful, painful, and frightening.

The Unprotected Places

We had mostly avoided sunburn, but my son had not. Throughout the day, I had repeatedly doused him in sunblock, but his feet had not gotten the memo. They were lobster red. I knew we had sprayed them, but not with the same gusto as his arms and legs. His feet had been submerged in the water where it was difficult for sunscreen to stay put, and now he was paying a price.

“I will never, never do that again,” he told me as we slathered his red feet with aloe vera.

“I’m so sorry.” I felt like crying. I had failed to protect him, and he was in pain.

I reflected on all the ways we had tried to protect him. He was wearing two kinds of sunblock. We thought we had covered every part the sun could reach, but we forgot his feet. They gleamed bright crimson under the shine of the aloe. It seems almost impossible to apply sunscreen without missing a spot. As I watched him rub lotion onto his skin, a thought crossed my mind: Was I any different?

How many times had I asked God to cover every part of my life while quietly holding one piece back? How often had I surrendered everything—except the one thing I clung to most tightly, or the one thing I conveniently forgot to place in His hands?

My son’s feet were a painful reminder of my own limits. Despite my best intentions as a mom, I would always miss something. Without surrender, I would be left relying only on myself, and I knew that would never be enough.

Terrifying Surrender

“For we know in part and we prophesy in part, but when completeness comes, what is in part disappears.” — 1 Corinthians 13:9–10

How many of us hold something back, even with God? Full surrender is absolutely terrifying. This is what I learned when my husband chose a life apart from me.