Sign up to save your podcasts
Or
Share #9: One Flesh
Share to email
Share to Facebook
Share to X
Share to email
Share to Facebook
Share to X
Or
#9: One Flesh
A wedding, a honeymoon, and a perilous outing on the river bring up concern of idols and how to best live one’s life.
Download>>
A month ago, the day after my wedding, I uploaded my pre-recorded account of God’s blessings leading up to and, at the time, hopefully including my wedding day, and contemplated what the future might hold. As I have stated before, this podcast and blog has been a long-overdue outlet for writing that is now over three years old, seen through the lens of my current perception. That’s all well and good, but there are very few pages left in that old journal. I have been keeping shorthand notes for years on different musings and contemplations, but eventually, if I keep this up, I’ll be writing and recording in real time, and that troubles me. You see, the struggles I reflect on in my writing are easily recognized three years down the trail, but in the moment, absent my commentary and reflection, I thought myself to be in-tune and in the right. It took stumbling and failure to see my hubris, and where idols had sprung up in my life. I am concerned that if I begin writing and recording in real-time, I won’t have the same degree of accountability, and as such will have to keep an ever-more vigilant watch over my heart. I don’t make the same exact mistakes twice, but I do make the same type of mistakes again and again. My marriage, wonderful as it is, has exposed this truth, and what’s more, my heart.
For years I have heard that there are a few landmark “happiest” moments in a person’s life. A month ago, I crossed one off of my life list: my wedding day.
How shall I relate the joy of that day? Any attempt to record it will seem cheap and dim. It was day on which heaven touched earth very briefly, yet distinctly, and all in attendance were privy to that fact—especially those who had no conception for it ahead of time. Of all of the well-wishes that have followed from that day, none have stood out quite like those of unbelieving friends and family who were astounded at the sense of love, warmth, and overflowing joy that emanated from not only myself and my beautiful bride, but likewise from the community that God has brought us into. It brought to mind the scriptural teaching that the world would know Christ’s believers by the love they showed one another. Sure enough, the witness was there.
I’ve been turning back the pages of my wedding gift to my bride, a hand-bound journal chronicling our relationship, and now our marriage, and with each summary sentence of the day’s memorable moments, precious sacred scenes flash by my sight and I am again humbled at how truly blessed we have been in our romance. What could I possibly relate that could summarize that day?
The night before when my brother and I, in a last hurrah, pranked the bridal party by banging on windows around the venue before patching Jocelyn Pook’s “Masked Ball” into the A/V system? In my revelry I witlessly cut power to the reception hall, making it exceptionally easy for my bride-to-be to track me down. As I crept back around the building she threw a door open and I saw her briefly in silhouette before I ran, shrieking, and ducked into the cattle paddocks, fleeing for dear life as “the bride” stalked after me, calling out “Thorne Winter,” into the frigid night.
I climbed back up to the A/V booth and urged my brother to hide, “game over man!” but it was to no avail. The door flew open once more and we were found out, and succinctly doused in freezing water and publically humiliated. It was glorious.
The ceremony itself: lining up outside, a feeling of peaceful finality coupled with frenetic electric trepidation at the gravity of it all. The image of Christ and the Church before the throne of God: the wedding party, closest friends prior to the union, looking ever-so-much like the twelve disciples standing beside the altar. Then, my bride, radiant and joyous, and living up to the meaning of her name: “captivating.” So many memories from that night will be remembered only in photos, because I so seldom looked away from her from that moment on.
Our vows, custom-written. I had writer’s block leading up to the big day, and finished mine the night before:
I once was but a traveller,
Set firmly towards the sea,
Caring not for none but I,
No thought for us nor “we.”
Then all at once I knew myself,
Knew the lonely ties that bind,
Then, in fear, I made my way,
Leaving woe and strife behind.
Till finally there, upon a shore,
Bright shining as the sun,
I left my burdens to themselves,
And then, the battle won.
For then, no sooner, had I dropped
My burden by the shore,
By Christ’s own light,
And none my own,
I found love and so much more.
You, my bride, I love you dear,
Let not my heart e’er stray,
Might I keep a steady watch by night,
And at the break of day.
May I ever hearken close to thee,
May I ever seek thy heart,
And until the Lord may call us home,
Let our hearts not drift apart.
Our officiate, our mutual mentor who had counseled us before and during our relationship preached a sermon on how Rebekah and I complemented one another: how she drew me out of my shell, and how I kept her more carefree personality grounded.
Communion together, prayer, and finally: the kiss.
After the ceremony: bountiful barbecue, the humorous sight of my grandmother nearly kissing one of my groomsmen, my bride singing to me during our first dance, the tearful father-daughter dance to “Butterfly Kisses”, the lighthearted mother-son dance to “Stand By Me” that devolved halfway through into a choreographed “Thriller” dance-session fitting of a flash mob. The roar of the crowd, the joy in the air, the sparklers blazing as we made our escape—Rebekah fell getting into the carriage and sported a bruised shin for the first two weeks of our marriage. The horse pulling the carriage getting spooked ten yards away from our car and nearly bolting into the night–
Then it was over. The long drive home. And then, I cried.
I cried because our wedding was everything that we had ever wanted it to be. I cried because it was perfect. It was Christ-centric. It was God-honoring. But more than that, I cried because it was truly a slice of Heaven. And yet, by the end of it…we had wanted to leave.
The first week of marriage was a whirlwind of conflicting emotions as the inevitable dopamine crash of the “big day” hit the next morning. It scared the daylights out of my wife to see me alternate between being overjoyed at our marriage and a sobbing mess at the prospect of never getting to eat our wedding meal again as it was specially catered by a family friend. Me at one moment gushing at how beautiful the ceremony and reception were and then immediately weeping over the exact same thing. It was so incredibly humbling to see how many people showed up to help prepare for and celebrate our wedding day. I won’t try to list their names here because I’ll forget someone and never be able to forgive myself.
I’m very glad to have those strange first days behind me.
We honeymooned in Asheville, North Carolina, took in the splendor of the city and the wilderness surrounding it, living life-on-life in a way neither of us had before and, finally, returned home.
The honeymoon was over, back to real life.
The daily grind, the familiar schedule, now complicated by another life.
I wish I could say that we remained joyful and happy throughout the complications of our new life, but I would be lying.
We have laughed and cried together, argued and reconciled, counseled and annoyed one another. We’re living life together, and I couldn’t be happier.
That’s how I feel right now, as I write this. But the fact is that this month has opened my eyes to the fact that though I am a married man, there is still a great trail ahead of me, and much work to be done.
When we argue, it tends to be over matters of communication: chiefly that I am terrible at it. If not communication, then I will be brooding and somber and unable or willing to articulate it. My recurring excuse: “I need some time to be creative, I need some time to unwind, I need some time to be by myself and….”
That may well be. Our time in marriage counseling revealed as much. However, this is not the full story. There was a war within my heart that I had not yet recognized, and it wasn’t until this weekend that God presented it plainly before me.
Saturday was our one-month anniversary, and Rebekah’s request was to do something adventurous, outdoorsy, and new. Music to my ears.
We set out in a canoe, a family heirloom borrowed from my grandfather, along the Chattahoochee River, my first such endeavor in ten years and Rebekah’s first time period. What could go wrong?
My communication, for starters.
I had neglected to process that Rebekah didn’t know how to sit in a canoe, balance in a canoe, or paddle a canoe until we were on the water. That first twenty minutes was rough, and I thought that the day might be lost due to my grumpiness and her ensuing reaction. But, sure enough, I was wrong. She took to canoeing like a champ, and we made our way down flat water and tiny rapids for a few miles before passing under I-285 and approaching “The Devil’s Racecourse”, a notorious set of rapids just inside the perimeter. I assured her that we would be fine, these rapids were only slightly bigger than those we had already conquered.
I was wrong.
We made it through the first set with little incident, but a rock beneath the surface of the water coupled with my mind blanking—are we supposed to stop paddling or just power on through this?—lead to the first spill of the trip.
We were swept down the rest of the Devil’s Racecourse, clinging to our swamped boat, until we hit some calmer water, and were able to drag ourselves to shore with the help of some good Samaritans.
It wasn’t the best introduction to the sport, but I assured Rebekah that it was a fluke—”we won’t hit anymore rapids like those,” I promised, and if we did, “there’s no way we’ll flip again.”
So, after an appropriate time of contemplation during which I ferried our newfound friends to the local “Jumping Rock,” we set out once more, hit a series of rapids, and promptly flipped again.
We dragged our boat to shore once more, and I repeated my spiel: “no more rapids, no more flipping, yadda yadda yadda.”
Rebekah was skeptical, but we were stranded on an island in the river and had to get back into the canoe. I pointed out an ideal point of egress, and, after much convincing, we disembarked: and immediately lost our canoe as it was quickly submerged in a strainer against a fallen tree.
I helped Rebekah climb out of the boat, over the tree, and drift downstream to a safe place onshore. I, on the other hand, was royally screwed.
The canoe, my grandfather’s
canoe, was pinned by the river, half-submerged, and not going anywhere.
A crowd was gathering onshore, watching me as I appraised the
situation. “Do you need help?” One of the onlookers called. I forewent
my natural response, a hand gesture and cocktail of four-letter words,
to simply nod before untying our belongings, stowing our paddles on the
tree, and jumping into the water to join them onshore.
“The river has taken your
boat,” a man on the shore told me solemnly in a vaguely Eastern European
accent, “you will surely never recover it until the water has
subsided.”
He and his party departed, leaving Rebekah and I to contemplate our next steps. “Should we call someone?” She asked.
“Hell no,” was my response.
“I think we should call someone.” She reiterated, forcefully.
“Yeah.” I concurred.
I called my brother, and explained the situation.
“Well, you’re screwed.” He responded.
“Yeah.”
Family legend held that
this canoe was not only the one that my grandfather had taught
Atlanta-born Ted Turner to canoe in during their friendship several
decades back, but also one that accompanied he and the Buckhead Boys, a
local fraternal society, on many outings down the North Georgia rivers
along with their comrade James Dickey. These outings would serve as inspiration for Dickey’s most famous novel and its film adaptation: Deliverance. My
grandfather claimed to have been present on set for some of the movie’s
production and was able to walk away with a vest worn by Burt Reynolds.
This canoe, the canoe that I had successfully shipwrecked in the most
greenhorn way possible, was a piece of family—nay, Georgia, literary,
cinematic and otherwise—history.
“I’ll be damned if I’m walking away without it.”
I put on my life jacket and descended the banks.
“What are you going to do?” Rebekah asked.
“I dunno, something.” I jumped into the river once more.
I climbed onto the canoe
and set to work, desperately feeling for weakness in the tree beneath
the rushing frigid waters. I looked to the bank numerous times, sure
that the fear in my eyes was a dead giveaway that what I was doing was
patently foolish. One slip up, one nasty spill and I would be swept
under the canoe, into the submerged tree branches, and possibly injured,
or God-forbid, drowned.
“It’s the damned Ted Turner-James Dickey-Lewis effin’ Medlock-canoe!” I cried to myself, “I cannot go home empty handed!”
I kicked at a branch
beneath the water—it cracked. A few more kicks and it snapped, freeing
up some space to maneuver. I mounted the canoe, planting my feet on the
inside of the bow and began to rock myself backwards until…
The canoe jostled, spilling
me into the water. I scrambled back on top, then over onto the exposed
tree trunk as the canoe rolled over and submerged. My feet touched it
for but a moment and then…
It was gone.
“Oh my God. I just lost my granddad’s canoe.”
Rebekah looked on from the bank, speechless.
I clung to the tree,
staring intently at the river. Maybe it would resurface somewhere
downstream. Maybe the family had insurance on it. Then it dawned on me:
no, I had lost the canoe. I had lost that connection to my family, and
Georgia’s past. I would return home defeated. I would have to face my
grandfather and tell him that I had succeeded where all other Winters
had failed throughout the decades: in sinking the venerable old canoe.
The anxiety would hang over
me for months, I was sure of it. I would wake in cold sweats in the
dead of night remembering what I had done. My work would surely suffer
as my quality of sleep declined. I would inevitably begin smoking again,
and most likely become an alcoholic. Worst of all, I would be unable to
intimately satisfy my wife. I was entering a world of pain.
A glimmer of yellow beneath
the surface. A rope—then I saw it: the canoe was lodged just beneath
me, pinned by another branch, belly-up, a foot underwater.
“The damned thing’s right here!” I cried out hysterically to Rebekah and a dumbfounded couple on the shore.
Fear of assured impotence and eternal shame gripped me. “Not today. Not today.”
I rocked back and forth on
the boat. Over and over again. Back and forth. Back and forth. The
spectators on the shore were incredulous at the sight: a wild-eyed,
sunburned, hairy man clinging to a tree rocking back and forth like a
skateboarder.
It didn’t seem like much,
but I could swear that I felt the boat move a bit. I kept at it,
shifting my weight more to the stern. Back and forth. Back and forth.
Then–
With a spray of whitewater
and the sound of a breaching whale the bow of the canoe emerged from its
aquatic prison. The seal had been broken. The boat rolled over once
more, floating free, and I along with it. I cried out in triumph,
grabbing hold of the rope secured to its bow and pulling it safely to
shore.
With a renewed sense of confidence I assured Rebekah that “this time, from now on, we would not flip,” and we embarked!
And then flipped over not thirty seconds later, this time skupped by a low-hanging branch and generally low morale.
She had had enough. The sun
was setting, the air was cooling, and we were easily a few hours from
our destination. We could portage the canoe and hitch a ride back.
I was livid. After all that
I had done to save the canoe, surely we were going to finish the damned
voyage! I protested, I yelled, I pouted, and then I saw her face. I
mean, I really saw her face. She was hurt, she was scared, and I was
making things worse with my attitude.
I was so damned proud of
“beating the river,” so wrapped up in the pseudo-machismo of dislodging
that canoe, so enamored with the heroism of finishing the voyage, that I
was completely disregarding my wife’s feelings, and frankly, her
safety. It was way too late to get back on the river. We were already
risking hypothermia as it was, and having lost our shirts and soaking
our towels during our first spill, that condition was only going to
worsen.
I was ashamed of myself, and I acquiesced. We called my brother, got his help carrying the canoe back out, and went home.
After that experience we
had a long series of talks about what had happened. I hadn’t properly
communicated ahead of the trip, hadn’t considered her inexperience to
begin with, and hadn’t known when to give up. I had made an idol out of
the experience of the epic river journey.
Today at church, in the
midst of a sermon concerning these very issues. God laid it on my heart
that that idol was only the most recent. I had another to address. My
“alone time, creative time, my work”
to put it bluntly…that had become an idol in my heart as well,
usurping God’s rightful place and complicating my relationship with my
wife. How many arguments had we had with my excuse for my attitude being
that I needed to “be by myself”? How many dates and experiences during
our honeymoon did I wholesale miss because my mind was in another place,
contemplating my next professional move in the name of “providing for
my family”? How long had I been putting my career in front of my
marriage, and more catastrophically, before God?
This is why I fear writing
in real-time. I only came to this realization today, but I fear that I
have been laboring in service to this idol for a while now. If I am to
continue, I must keep short accounts, because a little yeast spreads
through the whole dough.
Idolatry of any sort, the
usurping of God in the human heart, leads to strife and destruction. No
idol can bear up the weight of a god. If it be marriage, then the
marriage will break as one spouse leans on another for all spiritual
fulfillment. If it be career, then the work will become a cyclical
process chasing after the wind to earn more money and gain more power
while friends and family fall away from that singular pursuit of the
almighty dollar. And then with retirement…death soon follows. Strive
after an idol, and everything that idol represents will crumble and
suffer. Lay down the idol and strive after God, and every good thing you
might otherwise serve will improve.
Seek ye first the Kingdom of God, and all this will be added to you.
I must focus first on God,
and cease striving after experiences, relationships, and career. In
striving instead towards God, I know that all areas of my life will
improve in turn.
I’ll close with a brief entry from my journal, because it really is telling. I wrote these words three years ago:
We
first bonded over our own individual spiritual strivings to grow closer
to God; and in that time, as we drew closer to God, the Lord drew us
closer together. It was a few months ago that I confessed a spark—she
confessed one as well, but we resolved to wait until we knew
wholeheartedly that this was “of God” before we would proceed. Much
prayer independently, and together, went into the interim months as we
both leaned directly on the Lord and grew in our own ways until, at
last, we just knew. The Lord, and spiritual counsel, gave blessing,
though we are still two months away from commencing a romantic
relationship. Love is, after all, patient; and it has been nothing
short of an unexpected blessing to be gifted a friend like her, whose
path and passion is so similar yet opposing—complementary opposites.
Yet,
even in all of this—she is not my rock nor primary source of joy. She
is a blessing, not the blesser. So many broken relationships and
suffering in my past and it all ultimately points to one key fact—that
my greatest longing has always been God-sized and shaped, and I have so
often, time and again, sought to fill it with hopes of love and romance
as I searched for a soul mate. I, time and again, settled for
spiritually stagnant dalliances, justifying my ways by way of the world
while negating the Way and answer to all. The irony of all of this does
not elude me—that I might find love of this sort—of a purity I thought
unthinkable in the very instant I tore down the strongholds of idolizing
romance. Now, when I no longer feel the need for such things in a
God-sized manner, I find what I was looking for all along, and consider
it but overflow of the blessing of dwelling in the Father’s presence.
Indeed,
now it is not from spiritual dearth, but overflow that my heart opens
to Rebekah—just when I realize that I do not need it. God certainly has
an interesting sense of humor.
Whoever
said that “your heart’s desire is never closer than the day you give it
up for lost” was right—for that object, if it is not God, will never
ever satisfy, only enrage and disappoint when the burdens of deity are
laid upon it. Only in a steadfast feasting on God might all other things
be granted and enjoyed as He intended.
So,
truly, seek ye first the Kingdom of God, and all these things will be
added to you. May I never depart so far from that precept again, for
the pain of its rejection far outweighs the trials of its embodiment.
The post #9: One Flesh appeared first on EXPATS OF EDEN.
View all episodes
5
33 ratings
A wedding, a honeymoon, and a perilous outing on the river bring up concern of idols and how to best live one’s life.
Download>>
A month ago, the day after my wedding, I uploaded my pre-recorded account of God’s blessings leading up to and, at the time, hopefully including my wedding day, and contemplated what the future might hold. As I have stated before, this podcast and blog has been a long-overdue outlet for writing that is now over three years old, seen through the lens of my current perception. That’s all well and good, but there are very few pages left in that old journal. I have been keeping shorthand notes for years on different musings and contemplations, but eventually, if I keep this up, I’ll be writing and recording in real time, and that troubles me. You see, the struggles I reflect on in my writing are easily recognized three years down the trail, but in the moment, absent my commentary and reflection, I thought myself to be in-tune and in the right. It took stumbling and failure to see my hubris, and where idols had sprung up in my life. I am concerned that if I begin writing and recording in real-time, I won’t have the same degree of accountability, and as such will have to keep an ever-more vigilant watch over my heart. I don’t make the same exact mistakes twice, but I do make the same type of mistakes again and again. My marriage, wonderful as it is, has exposed this truth, and what’s more, my heart.
For years I have heard that there are a few landmark “happiest” moments in a person’s life. A month ago, I crossed one off of my life list: my wedding day.
How shall I relate the joy of that day? Any attempt to record it will seem cheap and dim. It was day on which heaven touched earth very briefly, yet distinctly, and all in attendance were privy to that fact—especially those who had no conception for it ahead of time. Of all of the well-wishes that have followed from that day, none have stood out quite like those of unbelieving friends and family who were astounded at the sense of love, warmth, and overflowing joy that emanated from not only myself and my beautiful bride, but likewise from the community that God has brought us into. It brought to mind the scriptural teaching that the world would know Christ’s believers by the love they showed one another. Sure enough, the witness was there.
I’ve been turning back the pages of my wedding gift to my bride, a hand-bound journal chronicling our relationship, and now our marriage, and with each summary sentence of the day’s memorable moments, precious sacred scenes flash by my sight and I am again humbled at how truly blessed we have been in our romance. What could I possibly relate that could summarize that day?
The night before when my brother and I, in a last hurrah, pranked the bridal party by banging on windows around the venue before patching Jocelyn Pook’s “Masked Ball” into the A/V system? In my revelry I witlessly cut power to the reception hall, making it exceptionally easy for my bride-to-be to track me down. As I crept back around the building she threw a door open and I saw her briefly in silhouette before I ran, shrieking, and ducked into the cattle paddocks, fleeing for dear life as “the bride” stalked after me, calling out “Thorne Winter,” into the frigid night.
I climbed back up to the A/V booth and urged my brother to hide, “game over man!” but it was to no avail. The door flew open once more and we were found out, and succinctly doused in freezing water and publically humiliated. It was glorious.
The ceremony itself: lining up outside, a feeling of peaceful finality coupled with frenetic electric trepidation at the gravity of it all. The image of Christ and the Church before the throne of God: the wedding party, closest friends prior to the union, looking ever-so-much like the twelve disciples standing beside the altar. Then, my bride, radiant and joyous, and living up to the meaning of her name: “captivating.” So many memories from that night will be remembered only in photos, because I so seldom looked away from her from that moment on.
Our vows, custom-written. I had writer’s block leading up to the big day, and finished mine the night before:
I once was but a traveller,
Set firmly towards the sea,
Caring not for none but I,
No thought for us nor “we.”
Then all at once I knew myself,
Knew the lonely ties that bind,
Then, in fear, I made my way,
Leaving woe and strife behind.
Till finally there, upon a shore,
Bright shining as the sun,
I left my burdens to themselves,
And then, the battle won.
For then, no sooner, had I dropped
My burden by the shore,
By Christ’s own light,
And none my own,
I found love and so much more.
You, my bride, I love you dear,
Let not my heart e’er stray,
Might I keep a steady watch by night,
And at the break of day.
May I ever hearken close to thee,
May I ever seek thy heart,
And until the Lord may call us home,
Let our hearts not drift apart.
Our officiate, our mutual mentor who had counseled us before and during our relationship preached a sermon on how Rebekah and I complemented one another: how she drew me out of my shell, and how I kept her more carefree personality grounded.
Communion together, prayer, and finally: the kiss.
After the ceremony: bountiful barbecue, the humorous sight of my grandmother nearly kissing one of my groomsmen, my bride singing to me during our first dance, the tearful father-daughter dance to “Butterfly Kisses”, the lighthearted mother-son dance to “Stand By Me” that devolved halfway through into a choreographed “Thriller” dance-session fitting of a flash mob. The roar of the crowd, the joy in the air, the sparklers blazing as we made our escape—Rebekah fell getting into the carriage and sported a bruised shin for the first two weeks of our marriage. The horse pulling the carriage getting spooked ten yards away from our car and nearly bolting into the night–
Then it was over. The long drive home. And then, I cried.
I cried because our wedding was everything that we had ever wanted it to be. I cried because it was perfect. It was Christ-centric. It was God-honoring. But more than that, I cried because it was truly a slice of Heaven. And yet, by the end of it…we had wanted to leave.
The first week of marriage was a whirlwind of conflicting emotions as the inevitable dopamine crash of the “big day” hit the next morning. It scared the daylights out of my wife to see me alternate between being overjoyed at our marriage and a sobbing mess at the prospect of never getting to eat our wedding meal again as it was specially catered by a family friend. Me at one moment gushing at how beautiful the ceremony and reception were and then immediately weeping over the exact same thing. It was so incredibly humbling to see how many people showed up to help prepare for and celebrate our wedding day. I won’t try to list their names here because I’ll forget someone and never be able to forgive myself.
I’m very glad to have those strange first days behind me.
We honeymooned in Asheville, North Carolina, took in the splendor of the city and the wilderness surrounding it, living life-on-life in a way neither of us had before and, finally, returned home.
The honeymoon was over, back to real life.
The daily grind, the familiar schedule, now complicated by another life.
I wish I could say that we remained joyful and happy throughout the complications of our new life, but I would be lying.
We have laughed and cried together, argued and reconciled, counseled and annoyed one another. We’re living life together, and I couldn’t be happier.
That’s how I feel right now, as I write this. But the fact is that this month has opened my eyes to the fact that though I am a married man, there is still a great trail ahead of me, and much work to be done.
When we argue, it tends to be over matters of communication: chiefly that I am terrible at it. If not communication, then I will be brooding and somber and unable or willing to articulate it. My recurring excuse: “I need some time to be creative, I need some time to unwind, I need some time to be by myself and….”
That may well be. Our time in marriage counseling revealed as much. However, this is not the full story. There was a war within my heart that I had not yet recognized, and it wasn’t until this weekend that God presented it plainly before me.
Saturday was our one-month anniversary, and Rebekah’s request was to do something adventurous, outdoorsy, and new. Music to my ears.
We set out in a canoe, a family heirloom borrowed from my grandfather, along the Chattahoochee River, my first such endeavor in ten years and Rebekah’s first time period. What could go wrong?
My communication, for starters.
I had neglected to process that Rebekah didn’t know how to sit in a canoe, balance in a canoe, or paddle a canoe until we were on the water. That first twenty minutes was rough, and I thought that the day might be lost due to my grumpiness and her ensuing reaction. But, sure enough, I was wrong. She took to canoeing like a champ, and we made our way down flat water and tiny rapids for a few miles before passing under I-285 and approaching “The Devil’s Racecourse”, a notorious set of rapids just inside the perimeter. I assured her that we would be fine, these rapids were only slightly bigger than those we had already conquered.
I was wrong.
We made it through the first set with little incident, but a rock beneath the surface of the water coupled with my mind blanking—are we supposed to stop paddling or just power on through this?—lead to the first spill of the trip.
We were swept down the rest of the Devil’s Racecourse, clinging to our swamped boat, until we hit some calmer water, and were able to drag ourselves to shore with the help of some good Samaritans.
It wasn’t the best introduction to the sport, but I assured Rebekah that it was a fluke—”we won’t hit anymore rapids like those,” I promised, and if we did, “there’s no way we’ll flip again.”
So, after an appropriate time of contemplation during which I ferried our newfound friends to the local “Jumping Rock,” we set out once more, hit a series of rapids, and promptly flipped again.
We dragged our boat to shore once more, and I repeated my spiel: “no more rapids, no more flipping, yadda yadda yadda.”
Rebekah was skeptical, but we were stranded on an island in the river and had to get back into the canoe. I pointed out an ideal point of egress, and, after much convincing, we disembarked: and immediately lost our canoe as it was quickly submerged in a strainer against a fallen tree.
I helped Rebekah climb out of the boat, over the tree, and drift downstream to a safe place onshore. I, on the other hand, was royally screwed.
The canoe, my grandfather’s
canoe, was pinned by the river, half-submerged, and not going anywhere.
A crowd was gathering onshore, watching me as I appraised the
situation. “Do you need help?” One of the onlookers called. I forewent
my natural response, a hand gesture and cocktail of four-letter words,
to simply nod before untying our belongings, stowing our paddles on the
tree, and jumping into the water to join them onshore.
“The river has taken your
boat,” a man on the shore told me solemnly in a vaguely Eastern European
accent, “you will surely never recover it until the water has
subsided.”
He and his party departed, leaving Rebekah and I to contemplate our next steps. “Should we call someone?” She asked.
“Hell no,” was my response.
“I think we should call someone.” She reiterated, forcefully.
“Yeah.” I concurred.
I called my brother, and explained the situation.
“Well, you’re screwed.” He responded.
“Yeah.”
Family legend held that
this canoe was not only the one that my grandfather had taught
Atlanta-born Ted Turner to canoe in during their friendship several
decades back, but also one that accompanied he and the Buckhead Boys, a
local fraternal society, on many outings down the North Georgia rivers
along with their comrade James Dickey. These outings would serve as inspiration for Dickey’s most famous novel and its film adaptation: Deliverance. My
grandfather claimed to have been present on set for some of the movie’s
production and was able to walk away with a vest worn by Burt Reynolds.
This canoe, the canoe that I had successfully shipwrecked in the most
greenhorn way possible, was a piece of family—nay, Georgia, literary,
cinematic and otherwise—history.
“I’ll be damned if I’m walking away without it.”
I put on my life jacket and descended the banks.
“What are you going to do?” Rebekah asked.
“I dunno, something.” I jumped into the river once more.
I climbed onto the canoe
and set to work, desperately feeling for weakness in the tree beneath
the rushing frigid waters. I looked to the bank numerous times, sure
that the fear in my eyes was a dead giveaway that what I was doing was
patently foolish. One slip up, one nasty spill and I would be swept
under the canoe, into the submerged tree branches, and possibly injured,
or God-forbid, drowned.
“It’s the damned Ted Turner-James Dickey-Lewis effin’ Medlock-canoe!” I cried to myself, “I cannot go home empty handed!”
I kicked at a branch
beneath the water—it cracked. A few more kicks and it snapped, freeing
up some space to maneuver. I mounted the canoe, planting my feet on the
inside of the bow and began to rock myself backwards until…
The canoe jostled, spilling
me into the water. I scrambled back on top, then over onto the exposed
tree trunk as the canoe rolled over and submerged. My feet touched it
for but a moment and then…
It was gone.
“Oh my God. I just lost my granddad’s canoe.”
Rebekah looked on from the bank, speechless.
I clung to the tree,
staring intently at the river. Maybe it would resurface somewhere
downstream. Maybe the family had insurance on it. Then it dawned on me:
no, I had lost the canoe. I had lost that connection to my family, and
Georgia’s past. I would return home defeated. I would have to face my
grandfather and tell him that I had succeeded where all other Winters
had failed throughout the decades: in sinking the venerable old canoe.
The anxiety would hang over
me for months, I was sure of it. I would wake in cold sweats in the
dead of night remembering what I had done. My work would surely suffer
as my quality of sleep declined. I would inevitably begin smoking again,
and most likely become an alcoholic. Worst of all, I would be unable to
intimately satisfy my wife. I was entering a world of pain.
A glimmer of yellow beneath
the surface. A rope—then I saw it: the canoe was lodged just beneath
me, pinned by another branch, belly-up, a foot underwater.
“The damned thing’s right here!” I cried out hysterically to Rebekah and a dumbfounded couple on the shore.
Fear of assured impotence and eternal shame gripped me. “Not today. Not today.”
I rocked back and forth on
the boat. Over and over again. Back and forth. Back and forth. The
spectators on the shore were incredulous at the sight: a wild-eyed,
sunburned, hairy man clinging to a tree rocking back and forth like a
skateboarder.
It didn’t seem like much,
but I could swear that I felt the boat move a bit. I kept at it,
shifting my weight more to the stern. Back and forth. Back and forth.
Then–
With a spray of whitewater
and the sound of a breaching whale the bow of the canoe emerged from its
aquatic prison. The seal had been broken. The boat rolled over once
more, floating free, and I along with it. I cried out in triumph,
grabbing hold of the rope secured to its bow and pulling it safely to
shore.
With a renewed sense of confidence I assured Rebekah that “this time, from now on, we would not flip,” and we embarked!
And then flipped over not thirty seconds later, this time skupped by a low-hanging branch and generally low morale.
She had had enough. The sun
was setting, the air was cooling, and we were easily a few hours from
our destination. We could portage the canoe and hitch a ride back.
I was livid. After all that
I had done to save the canoe, surely we were going to finish the damned
voyage! I protested, I yelled, I pouted, and then I saw her face. I
mean, I really saw her face. She was hurt, she was scared, and I was
making things worse with my attitude.
I was so damned proud of
“beating the river,” so wrapped up in the pseudo-machismo of dislodging
that canoe, so enamored with the heroism of finishing the voyage, that I
was completely disregarding my wife’s feelings, and frankly, her
safety. It was way too late to get back on the river. We were already
risking hypothermia as it was, and having lost our shirts and soaking
our towels during our first spill, that condition was only going to
worsen.
I was ashamed of myself, and I acquiesced. We called my brother, got his help carrying the canoe back out, and went home.
After that experience we
had a long series of talks about what had happened. I hadn’t properly
communicated ahead of the trip, hadn’t considered her inexperience to
begin with, and hadn’t known when to give up. I had made an idol out of
the experience of the epic river journey.
Today at church, in the
midst of a sermon concerning these very issues. God laid it on my heart
that that idol was only the most recent. I had another to address. My
“alone time, creative time, my work”
to put it bluntly…that had become an idol in my heart as well,
usurping God’s rightful place and complicating my relationship with my
wife. How many arguments had we had with my excuse for my attitude being
that I needed to “be by myself”? How many dates and experiences during
our honeymoon did I wholesale miss because my mind was in another place,
contemplating my next professional move in the name of “providing for
my family”? How long had I been putting my career in front of my
marriage, and more catastrophically, before God?
This is why I fear writing
in real-time. I only came to this realization today, but I fear that I
have been laboring in service to this idol for a while now. If I am to
continue, I must keep short accounts, because a little yeast spreads
through the whole dough.
Idolatry of any sort, the
usurping of God in the human heart, leads to strife and destruction. No
idol can bear up the weight of a god. If it be marriage, then the
marriage will break as one spouse leans on another for all spiritual
fulfillment. If it be career, then the work will become a cyclical
process chasing after the wind to earn more money and gain more power
while friends and family fall away from that singular pursuit of the
almighty dollar. And then with retirement…death soon follows. Strive
after an idol, and everything that idol represents will crumble and
suffer. Lay down the idol and strive after God, and every good thing you
might otherwise serve will improve.
Seek ye first the Kingdom of God, and all this will be added to you.
I must focus first on God,
and cease striving after experiences, relationships, and career. In
striving instead towards God, I know that all areas of my life will
improve in turn.
I’ll close with a brief entry from my journal, because it really is telling. I wrote these words three years ago:
We
first bonded over our own individual spiritual strivings to grow closer
to God; and in that time, as we drew closer to God, the Lord drew us
closer together. It was a few months ago that I confessed a spark—she
confessed one as well, but we resolved to wait until we knew
wholeheartedly that this was “of God” before we would proceed. Much
prayer independently, and together, went into the interim months as we
both leaned directly on the Lord and grew in our own ways until, at
last, we just knew. The Lord, and spiritual counsel, gave blessing,
though we are still two months away from commencing a romantic
relationship. Love is, after all, patient; and it has been nothing
short of an unexpected blessing to be gifted a friend like her, whose
path and passion is so similar yet opposing—complementary opposites.
Yet,
even in all of this—she is not my rock nor primary source of joy. She
is a blessing, not the blesser. So many broken relationships and
suffering in my past and it all ultimately points to one key fact—that
my greatest longing has always been God-sized and shaped, and I have so
often, time and again, sought to fill it with hopes of love and romance
as I searched for a soul mate. I, time and again, settled for
spiritually stagnant dalliances, justifying my ways by way of the world
while negating the Way and answer to all. The irony of all of this does
not elude me—that I might find love of this sort—of a purity I thought
unthinkable in the very instant I tore down the strongholds of idolizing
romance. Now, when I no longer feel the need for such things in a
God-sized manner, I find what I was looking for all along, and consider
it but overflow of the blessing of dwelling in the Father’s presence.
Indeed,
now it is not from spiritual dearth, but overflow that my heart opens
to Rebekah—just when I realize that I do not need it. God certainly has
an interesting sense of humor.
Whoever
said that “your heart’s desire is never closer than the day you give it
up for lost” was right—for that object, if it is not God, will never
ever satisfy, only enrage and disappoint when the burdens of deity are
laid upon it. Only in a steadfast feasting on God might all other things
be granted and enjoyed as He intended.
So,
truly, seek ye first the Kingdom of God, and all these things will be
added to you. May I never depart so far from that precept again, for
the pain of its rejection far outweighs the trials of its embodiment.
The post #9: One Flesh appeared first on EXPATS OF EDEN.