A Matter of Timing

 

As a preface, anyone who knows my dad knows he's a skiing addict. He's self-diagnosed himself with a form of depression called SDWIDS (Situational Depression When I Don't Ski) and has water or snow skied every single month of the year since 2003. Waterskiing in particular has always been one of the ways my dad and I connect. Skiing with Dad has been the source of many life lessons, including this one.

In the Northwest, waterskiing usually involves being cold, at least for a minute or two. In April, a wetsuit does little to take away the chill of the season’s first run, and in October, frozen feet throb as they pound up the dock in flip flops . Even in summer, mornings are cool and dropping in or getting out of the lake is likely to induce goose bumps.

But it’s different in the tropics.

My family spent part of one Christmas vacation waterskiing on a beautiful lake at the foot of Arenal, the volcano that is the beating heart of Costa Rica’s central jungle. When I jumped in, there was no sharp intake of breath, no muscles seizing up. The paradox of skiing and feeling warm took my mind a second to process and then I understood why some people actually choose to live in Florida.

During our blessedly warm adventure, I learned something new about how to ski a waterski course--a set of six buoys a skier attempts to turn around while the boat races down the center. I’d always seen the course as something that required pushing myself to the absolute limit--every pull-out, every turn, every trip across the wake demanded the most intensity I could possibly muster. And while it’s true that the course does require focus and major physical effort, it’s more than just muscles and drive. It’s more than I can do. It’s also a matter of timing, of figuring out the rhythm and working with it.

By the end of our trip, I realized I didn’t have to pull out like a person trying to win a tug-of-war contest against a giant to make it through the course. In the right conditions, a gentle but purposeful glide could be just as effective. Knowing when to let up was as important as knowing when to pull with all my might.

Back in the coolness of the Northwest and skiing in the shadow of our volcano, I’ve thought about that lesson as I practice my rhythm on the water. Living life to its fullest--something my dad has taught me more about than he’ll ever know--requires the ability to recognize that we can’t muscle our way through life alone. Or at least we shouldn’t.

The course lost much of its intimidation factor when I realized I didn’t have to kill myself to make it through. In the same way, finding fulfillment and purpose becomes less scary as I recognize that life requires more than I can do with my own strength. It’s also a matter of trusting in the timing of the One who will lovingly use his infinite power to empower us to finish the course.

What's the best lesson your dad has taught you?