Barefoot Rescue
My husband, Tim, and I feel the outdoors is God’s delightful treasure—that’s why we love Colorado. We travel there several times a year from our native Kansas City to ski, hike, camp, fish, and do anything else outdoors. It’s a heavenly place.
But one trip opened my eyes to a spiritual dimension I never took seriously before.
For years our two boys had asked to go white-water rafting, so when they were finally old enough, we booked a one-day trip. Colorado is famous for the sunny, clear blue skies that prevailed that morning. We checked in and were soon shuttled to the launch site on the Arkansas River.
“Your brochure says, ‘Scouting may be advisable,’” Tim said to our guide during the brief safety course before the trip. “What does that mean?”
“As you know, any white-water trip has its risks. However, this time of year, we go down the river almost daily, so we’re usually aware of any hazards,” our guide answered. “You needn’t worry; it’s reasonably safe.”
Fair enough—or so we thought.
During the first stage of the trip, the rapids were thrilling and the scenery—when we were able to look at it—showed us snow-laced granite peaks and varying species of lofty pines, a number of them growing directly out of the rocks.
Some of this area is accessible only by river, and the place where we stopped for lunch was so peaceful and relaxing, I could have stayed there the rest of the day. But alas, the rapids were calling. The ride continued with just the right mix of rapids and relatively calm, flowing waters—until . . .
The river narrowed and the rapids increased as we rounded a bend. We were almost on top of the newly fallen tree before we saw it. Immediately our raft was pinned by the force of the water and we were in danger of being swamped or flipped.
“Highside, highside!” shouted our guide.
We paused for a split second as we tried to recall the safety training we received that morning. It seemed a lifetime ago. “Highside” meant for everyone to move to the downstream side of the raft so it would be less likely to be sucked under or flipped.
We moved quickly but not quick enough. Several of us were thrown into the river. Including me.
When I broke the surface, I could see the capsized raft and several fellow rafters about twenty yards upstream. Before I knew it, I cut my leg just below the knee on the sharp edge of a rock. The bad gash in the cold water caused severe pain, and I impulsively grabbed at my wound. Then I remembered. Keep your toes up and pointed downstream if you find yourself in the water, our guide had told us. That way you’re less likely to get your foot caught and be pulled under the current.
As I started to lift my legs and turn around, my head smashed into a boulder. Dazed but still conscious thanks to the helmet I wore, I continued downstream—bouncing uncontrollably like a ball in a giant pinball machine.
I was able to keep my head up but I was tiring quickly. My head was throbbing, my leg was bleeding—and I was in trouble. One thing I’d learned on our many visits to Colorado—sometimes people drown on the rivers, on trips just like ours.
“Jesus, help me!” I called out in desperate fear.
Suddenly, I collided with another log, which stopped me. It was wedged between the rocks just under the surface. One end was near the shore, and in that hopeful moment I thought I might reach safety.
The water pressed cruelly against my back and it took all my strength to push myself up.
Inch by inch, I began to slide along the log. One foot . . . two.
By this time my arms were burning and starting to shake; then I lost my balance. The strong current thrust me headlong into the rapids.
Tumbling, I momentarily lost my bearings and sank in the white, churning water. Instinctively, I tried to paddle upward, but failed to reach the life-giving air. My lungs burned and I soon felt they would burst. What must have been only seconds seemed like hours.
“Lord Jesus . . .”
Darkness closed in and I spun out of consciousness, no longer aware of being swept downstream.
“Connie . . .” Somewhere far away, I heard someone call my name.
“Connie . . .” There it was again—closer this time but not urgent—more like a gentle wakeup call.
I felt strong hands under my arms, pulling me out of the water. I coughed, then opened my eyes. Everything was blurry. Even with repeated blinking, all I could see was a man’s white clothing. As he pulled me to a large flat boulder just above the river, I felt his long hair brush against me—but I never saw his face.
“You’ll be okay now,” he said. “Just relax.”
I opened my mouth to thank him but nothing came out.
Exhausted, I fell asleep.
The next thing I knew, I heard Tim calling my name. I awakened to see everyone from the raft standing over me.
“Are you okay?” Tim asked, helping me sit up. “That’s a nasty gash.”
“Well, my head hurts the most. I hit it pretty hard . . . but otherwise I think I’m all right.”
Our guide checked my eyes with his flashlight.
“You may have a concussion so you better see a doctor ASAP—but your leg’s not as bad as it looks.” He took some bandages from the first-aid kit. “Good thing you pulled yourself out when you did. The rapids below here could be deadly without a raft.”
“The ones I just came down were bad enough, thank you . . . and I didn’t pull myself out. Someone else did.”
Everyone looked puzzled, so I told them what happened.
Our guide stopped unrolling gauze and scowled at me.
“This area is nearly impossible to reach except by raft,” he said, “and we’re the only company currently holding permits for this section of the river. You were either dreaming or that hit on your head is worse than I thought.”
My eyes met Tim’s—his wry smile told me he believed me—then he turned away.
“That was no dream. I would have drowned if he hadn’t pulled me out. . . . I wonder how he knew my name?”
Tim was on one knee now, examining the ground several feet from where I sat.
“I know,” he said, barely audible above the sound of the rapids.
“Know what, Dad?” asked Tim Jr. as he ran to his father. Tim held out his arm, stopping him.
“Watch your step, son.” He looked back toward the group. “What I said was I know who rescued Connie and how He knew her name.”
There was a buzz from the group as they moved toward Tim.
“Watch your step,” he repeated. The group peered over Tim Jr.’s shoulders at the rocky ground. There, in the soft earth between the rocks, was a large partial print of a bare foot.
“What do you make of that?” Tim asked.
The guide knelt and gently touched the impression.
“It’s fresh—and appears to be human—but who in their right mind would be out here in their bare feet?”
Tim’s knowing smile caught our guide off guard—his eyes widened in disbelief. Standing up, Tim stepped to my side.
“Sweetheart, I think you’ll want to see this.”
I might have been imagining it, but the soft earth felt warm to my fingertips. I knew instantly why Tim was smiling. Perhaps the print by itself meant little—but it was all the proof we needed.
The doctor said I was fortunate to have only a mild concussion and prescribed rest for two to three weeks. That gave me time to reflect.
I should have drowned. Never will I forget the feeling of not being able to breathe. No longer do I take air for granted. Thank God He sent His angel to my rescue.
But why me?
Before long, God showed me. He has a plan. He rescued me so I can help rescue others. That’s His plan for me . . . for all of us, really.
Our family still spends a great deal of time outdoors, but now we have a deeper and more balanced outlook. We’re not here just for our families or our own pleasure. As long as we have the breath of life, we’re here to touch other lives too—especially one-on-one. Sometimes I even tell them this story.
Angels are real, but not everyone has knowingly encountered one. Each of us comes across people every day who need an angel. Though I may not be a heavenly angel, by God’s grace I can certainly act like one.