Close Calls

White Water Rafting Adventure - Arkansas River, Colorado

There are moments when danger announces itself with violence—roaring water—and moments when it arrives quietly, gliding just beneath the surface, and others that strike without warning, cracking the air itself. I have known them in that order: first on a river, then on open water, and finally inside the walls of my own home. What remains with me is not the fear, but the unmistakable awareness that I was never navigating alone.

The Arkansas River in Colorado was running deceptively low that day, which our guide explained meant faster water and harsher exposure to boulders and rock shelves. Snowmelt had narrowed the channel, forcing the current to carve its way through stone. We were warned. We were fitted with life jackets. None of that prepared us.

The raft overturned.

In an instant, our entire group was thrown into the river. The water was violent, cold, relentless—slamming bodies into rock, pulling without mercy. My husband and I were swept in a different direction from the others, dragged beneath the surface by the force of the current. The life jacket meant to save me became irrelevant as the current pinned me down. Underwater, time fractured.

I watched shadows pass above me—other rafts drifting helplessly overhead, their occupants staring down in horror, unable to stop, unable to reach us. I knew then that no human rescue was coming in time. My lungs burned. Panic gave way to clarity.

I prayed. Not for rescue—but surrender. God, if I am not going to make it, please keep my family well.

The moment I could no longer hold my breath, I was pushed upward. Not pulled. Pushed.

I broke the surface gasping, air searing my lungs like fire. Behind me, my husband surfaced at the same instant, equally shocked, equally alive. A lone rescue kayaker appeared and escorted us to a cement wall at the end of the rapid.

There were nine more rapids ahead. There was no way out but through. We rode every one of them.

We made it safely to shore—bruised, shaken, changed forever. That was the day I realized our son could have lost both of us. That understanding settles differently in the heart. It humbles. It clarifies.

After the river, I learned that danger does not always arrive loudly.

Living near the Gulf, we often paddled our kayaks to a beachside restaurant for breakfast on weekends. Scott and I shared a tandem kayak. Our son paddled nearby in his own. The water that morning was crystal clear—emerald green over pristine white sand—and we were not far from shore.

That’s when we saw it. A massive, dark shadow moved beneath us. Without speaking, we withdrew our paddles and froze. We waited as the shape passed directly under our kayak—and then bumped us. The bull shark was as long as our thirteen-foot kayak.

We signaled calmly to our son, who immediately paddled toward shore and safety. The shark lingered just long enough to determine we were not prey—not sea turtle, not dolphin—and then disappeared into deeper water.

Only afterward did the fear arrive.

Yet somehow, in that moment, we had remained calm. Once again, something steadier than instinct held us in place. We did not make it to breakfast that morning. Instead, our son walked the shoreline home while Scott and I separated our kayaks, staying close to shore as we paddled back.

With every stroke, we gave thanks.

The third close call came without movement or warning—inside the walls of our home.

It was a stormy Sunday morning. Thunder rolled close. Lightning followed without delay. We stayed indoors, believing ourselves safe, until a blinding flash and deafening explosion tore through the house. Our home had been struck by lightning.

The force bombarded the internal walls like a bomb detonating from within. Smoke filled the rooms almost immediately. Panic arrived—not loud, but eerily quiet.

Instinct took over. We didn’t think about ourselves. We thought about life.

We moved our livestock guardian dogs to safety in the field with the sheep. Scott and I backed vehicles out of the garage to make space for our pets. Flames shot from the gas hot water heater. I grabbed a fire extinguisher—one I had never used before—and put the fire out. I don’t know where the knowledge came from. I only know it arrived when it was needed.

Dogs and cats—normally kept separate—were loaded together. Disaster dissolved every boundary.

When we thought everyone was out, Scott was missing. I ran back inside.

Black smoke was now filling the house. I found him in our son’s room, trying to coax our terrified cat from hiding. I screamed for him to get out—this is how people die. The cat bolted. I grabbed him by the fur and we ran.

We made it out. All of us.

We waited at the top of the drive as the fire department arrived, watching smoke pour from what had been our safe place. Looking back, I cannot explain the calm, the clarity, the precise order of our actions. I only know it did not come from panic. It came from somewhere steadier.

Three close calls. Three moments when control slipped away. Three times when presence arrived instead.

I have come to understand them as I understand faith itself: God revealed in different ways—the Father who holds, the Son who enters danger with us, the Spirit who steadies and guides when words and strength fail.

I am forever humbled by His mercy and grace. And I suspect these are not the only close calls He has guided us through—only the ones clear enough to mark our lives. I do not know how many times I have been spared, only that when my strength ended, I was held.

Author’s Note

The experiences shared in this essay are true. Writing them required revisiting moments that altered how I understand fear, control, and grace. With time, I have come to see these close calls not as isolated incidents, but as reminders of a presence that steadies when certainty disappears. I offer this story with humility and gratitude, aware that many moments of mercy pass unseen, and that some are given to us simply so we might learn to recognize them.

This blog accompanies 5 March Instagram Reel with actual pics of all events.