Helpless

A few days ago, I posted on my Facebook that I knew what it meant to "feel helpless". I had been enjoying the beautiful, sun-shiny days of Corpus Christi, when my son called from college in Denton, Texas. He had wanted to let me know that he was in the midst of a tornado warning, and that the clouds were a beautiful shade of green. As we "oohed" and "aawhed" over the beauty of the storm, a loud siren on his end of the line screamed at both of us. I asked if he and his roommates had a bathtub, he yelled over the siren to let me know that they were heading that way, and that he'd call me back. Click.

Not only did I "feel" helpless, I was in fact helpless to do a thing to ensure the safety of my son. Long story short, he and his roommates weathered the storm, no pun intended.

That wasn't the first time I had dealt with feeling helpless in my 21 years of parenting, and I knew it wouldn't be my last. But I certainly wasn't expecting the Governing Force of my life to dish up another round of helplessness so soon!

It all came about yesterday, when I was enjoying yet another sun-shiny day of Corpus weather, but this time with my toes in the sand, and the crashing waves of the Gulf of Mexico only feet away. I was sharing the moment with my good friend, Shereen, and we were soaking up a beautiful afternoon while our young teens and a handful of their buddies enjoyed the sand, sun, and surf.

It was a clear bright day and would have been too hot, had it not been for the constant and strong breeze off of the Gulf. The weather man probably would have described the surf as consisting of three rows of three foot waves. But the observant mother watching her children wrestle with those waves would have called it more like an aggravated washing machine, with waves of at least eight feet tall. (How do you measure a wave anyway? From the base of the wave to it's tallest point? Or by how many feet it towers over your 5' 9" son?)

The Gulf seemed angrier than usual with it's tall and constant waves. The wind was a little stronger than average, and the undertow was jealous for attention. The 1,240 foot long, reinforced concrete, "storm proof", Bob Hall Pier loomed to the west of us. After three hours at the beach, we had observed the surf long enough to predict how close our children could get to the pier before they needed to head for shore and safety. Finally and unfortunately, our children tested our theory.

My son Holden, and Shereen's son, Jake, both able bodied and strong teens, took to the waves, each hanging on to the same long surfboard. It was apparent from the moment they entered the water, that not much surfing was going to take place because the two of them seemed content to hang on the board and kick out as far as they could go. Shereen and I sat, relaxed in our beach chairs, and lazily looked on as our boys enjoyed the water. Danger crept up on us as we realized the boys were quickly drifting toward the "danger zone"... the area next to the pier where the water seems to suck you harder toward the unforgiving concrete pilings of the pier. We knew the boys would have to start swimming toward the shore soon, or they would be in a fight with the angry Gulf, with the pilings looking on and with no intention of moving out of their way.

Shereen and I were on our feet. Shereen has cornered the market on the emotion of "calm", leaving little left over for the rest of us moms. She was using every ounce of it as she slowly walked toward the pier, leaving me to wrestle with my insides and try desperately to remember what numbers to dial for 911. I followed her and never took my eyes off of our boys. We both watched them and waited for them to respond to their situation. Finally... we could tell that they were aware of the danger. But it was too late. There was no time for them to get to shore. The strong and towering waves were intent to wash our children into the pilings. What could I do? Do I go ahead and dial 911 and get the rescue teams heading our way?

Like all cheesy movies with a high intensity scene, things began to fade for me. The roar of the wind, the crashing of the waves, and the speed of our children's impending doom all slowed and left me dull. I could faintly hear Shereen's voice ask, "Do you have your phone?" I knew we were in trouble, then, since she thought we might actually need it. Her voice somehow reached my ears again with, "Don't worry. Jake is very calculating. He'll figure out how to get through."

How to get through!? So it's true! They are not going to swim to shore last minute! They have to figure how to get THROUGH the concrete pilings, driven by crashing waves, and not get killed in the process!!! Again, Shereen's soft voice, "Do you have your phone?"

We stood there and watched. The waves rose and fell taking our boys out of our sight rhythmically. And finally, quietly, they were swept through the pilings, and on the other side of the pier where a waiting life guard had observed the whole frightening experience with his fingers probably poised over 911.

My first instinct was to march down the beach, grab my son the minute he emerged from the water, then kill him for scaring me to death. But the ever-so-calm Shereen tucked her arm in mine, turned me back toward the direction of our beach chairs, and softly cooed, "They're safe. He took care of them."

And He did.

It wasn't long, and the two boys, sheepish grins splashed across their faces, calmly walked up to their grateful mothers. I fought the urge to use too many words, and told myself to never complain about feeling helpless again. I would hate to get another lesson in that too soon.