On Not Being Afraid

 

She was there again this morning.
So I immediately suspended my paddle and floated in.

She didn't notice me at first -
probably why I could ease out my camera -
but when she did, she simply froze,
and we just looked at each other for a long time like that,
me floating ever so slowly towards her,
our eyes locked.

For the longest time.
Hushed and holy moment.

Why is this so humbling?
I feel invited into something unusual and privileged.
We are each other's honoured guests,
knowing the moment could end suddenly
so we hold it gently, breathing.

Here's the irony though.
My kayak was floating closer to the shoreline
than I thought she would be able to handle.
Not wanting the moment to end,
I reached ever so slowly for my paddle
and lifted it just so carefully,
thinking I would just back up and give her space.

But that's all it took.
There was a trumpet-snorting sound
and stomping of the feet
and a bolting back into the bush.

She startled me too.

Next time,
if there is one,
I won't do that.

I'll just come in as close as I'm allowed.

"Don't be afraid."

I wish I could have said it to her.
Never in a million years would I cause her harm.
But she doesn't know that.

"Don't be afraid."

How many times does God say that in the Bible?
So many.
Every time there's an encounter.
Every time it looks like there's danger,
which is a lot of the time,
even if there's not.
And I have no excuse.
Because He actually has told me that.
Not to be afraid.

How many holy moments have I missed,
I wonder,
because I bolted?