Here's the Facebook post: pictures of four happy kids splashing about at Lake Macbride. Three are much larger than one. Selfie takes with the three bigs playing among themselves and the little one unsure of where to look and deferring to something in the middle distance, a slight frown from the midday sun. A perfect Sunday afternoon.

Reality: one of the bigs, Malachi, slipped while following the other two bigs and was carried out into the lake by the spillway’s ripcurrent.

Here's the image seared into my memory. Malachi's head is just above the swirling water. His arms are barely visible beneath the surface, but I can tell they're swimming for all they're worth. I’m in the water with him a little further out in the lake while he’s facing away from me toward the bank he's trying to get to. This frame is frozen, evidence that I will not let his bobbing head out of my sight. If he goes under, I will, too.

It was a perfect summer day in Iowa. Recent rains had brought the 90s to the 80s, and we were all grateful for some cooler weather. It was, after all, July, and there was still August to face. I had taken four of the five kids for a Sunday afternoon excursion, and it held promise. We'd begin with a hike at Lake Macbride, stop at an old-fashioned ice cream shop called "The Brass Fountain," and finish off the day at City Park Pool. Exercise, a treat, and a swim. The kids and the weather were cooperating.

We made the twenty minute or so drive to Lake Macbride, and I suggested we walk to the spillway, which comes up in Google searches under "Iowa waterfalls," though it's not really a waterfall. The spillway regulates the level of the upper lake by draining into the lower. Rocks and grasses give the impression of the remnants of wilderness, but it, too, is a façade. Everything here is choreographed to inspire outdoor activity within well-regulated, man-made parameters. A raised dyke navigable by maintenance vehicles connects the mainland to the spillway. The kids had run ahead of me while I brought our one-year-old, Eden, in the stroller. By the time I reached them, they had climbed the hill, a rather random outcrop at the end of the dyke and just before the spillway, and then descended the hill to remove their shoes and sock for playing in this Iowa “waterfall.”

For the next twenty or thirty minutes, we waded in the spillway’s rapids still strong from the rains. I carried Eden, and the rest of the kiddos helped each other with a steadying hand here, a little advice there, a test to see how deep the water was further on. Joy-filled shrieks and happy banter punctured the calming roar of rushing water. “Can we just stay here for the day?” one asked. “Sure,” was my reply. Neither the ice cream parlor nor the pool were going anywhere.

I like to see myself as friendly. A run through town often hears me bantering with strangers I meet. Most achieve their desired effect; some are awkward. I’m undeterred because it’s me, and I wear my awkwardness like a rockstar. At least, that’s what I think. So, it’s not surprising that I find myself talking with a group of adults on the shore. They were colleagues at Mercy Hospitals CT department being shown about by one named Kim. I’m speaking with the second one whose name I remember: a man from Utah named Tremaine. The three bigs have now waded to the middle section of rapids about sixty or seventy feet from me. I’m keeping one eye on them; the other enjoys adulting.

"Dad! Malachi fell!"

That’s the yell that rips me from my conversational attentiveness and finds me in the lake making sure I don't lose sight of Malachi’s bobbing head. I had just been looking at them. Noah and Tirza were on one side of a rapid; Malachi on the side closest to me. Tremaine had asked a question, and I was responding when Noah's frantic voice yanked me back to see Malachi being swept feet-first, belly-down out into the lake. I’m now running over rocky soil to the lake's edge about thirty feet to my right when I realize I’m still holding a one-year-old. I return to the adults, shove Eden into Kim's arms without asking, and pick my way over the sharp, rocky descent to the lake’s edge. Why do I not have my Chaco’s on? I ask myself as I see, horrified, Malachi still in the spillways current being pushed away from the lake shore, his arms muted flashes beneath the tea-colored, swollen waters.

The terror of watching my son struggling to keep his head above water and out of reach . . . what does it do? Time slows and rushes all at once. Perhaps that’s why I’ve heard the expression “time warp.” Time is no longer linear. It’s exposed for its duplicity, both for its slowness and its speed. The muscles in my entire body arc into overdrive as I breast-stroke toward him. He’s forever out of my reach as I now feel the rip of the spillway forcing me toward the lake’s center. Like nightmares of running from some mysterious adversary where your legs don’t seem able to stretch into a run—bound by unseen, palpable, titanium-strength forces—just before waking in a panting, sweaty horror, I’m forcing my hands through the miring water to my son. I’m determined not to let his fighting self out of my sight. My head stays up and watching as long as his is up and struggling.

The lake is an eternity of fifteen or twenty seconds.

"Jesus, help me" and "Oh, God! Help!" punch through my swimming despite my newly confessed agnosticism. I don’t care about the hypocrisy as a “You got this, Malachi!” tries to reach the struggling eight-year-old. His arms swirl just beneath the water’s surface. His focus is the rocky bank as he pushes back again the bullying current. I’m locked on him, the edges of this memory image will forever be obscured by my adrenaline’s laser focus. Malachi will reach the rocks before me. He’ll haul himself up, bleeding from the slide down the boulder-branched spillway. His shins are bruised. I’ll move immediately to an overhead crawl for the bank, where I’ll hug him tighter than ever before. He’ll say, “Dad, I want to go home!” and I’ll answer, “We will. Let's just—” to be cut off from his terror-filled “No! I want to go home now!”

Time has stopped, respectfully, for this moment.

The rest of the excursion is numb. I know that I put Malachi on my back and crossed the currents on my hands and knees. I know this scared both of us, but I also know that I kept myself composed until I had gotten Eden from Kim and packed everything into the stroller. I know I lost it emotionally on the dyke. I know he comforted me. "Dad, I'm okay. I'm okay." I know that I told him over and over how proud I was of his focus and ability and resilience in the water.

But I also know that there was so much more to this frightening experience than what happened at the lake.

It came to me later that night. Malachi has—as have all my kids—been forced into a situation they never asked for and I never wanted them to experience. Their mother and I have separated for good. I'm not using the sterile, legal word for a permanent separation out of a request by one of the children. At least, not for now. Eventually, we’ll use it. We'll have to. But that's the current that's thrust him into unknown waters. He's scared. He's focused on keeping his head above water. He's fighting.

The event allowed me to pull him aside the next day and this to him.

I see you, Malachi.

I see you facing something I never had to face.

I know you're scared.

I see you keeping your head up.

I see you focused on finding safety.

I see you, Malachi.

I'm in the water with you.

I'm scared.

I'm not going to let you go down without me going after you.

I see you, Malachi.

Being flushed into the lake gave me the image and words to convey what I feel so deeply: I love you. I'm sorry you're having to experience this. I see you. And you're making it.

Numerous people that found out about the lake ordeal would respond with comforting things like, "You know, events like that are helpful because they create a healthy respect for water." They're correct. I told myself and the kids that on the way home. I'm grateful for that truth.

But I'm most grateful for the way that the experience helped me share what was within me that I simply didn't know how to share. It was like the trauma of that experience pushed me past my comfort zone into a mental space where I could talk about the deep things of the heart, the deep things of my heart for Malachi. This is so true about me. I feel deep things. I struggle communicating those deep feelings to others. And I'm choosing "deep" over "big" because my feelings aren't right at the surface. They're not loud and blaring and bowling me or other people over with their volume. Rather, they're hidden from others and me. Layers must be removed for me to see them, know them, communicate them. Traumatic events like watching your 8-year-old swept out in a powerful current sweep those layers away, give the feelings air to breathe, space to emerge, an identity. They are the impetus for bringing what is hidden into the light.

I'm hoping that it won't always be this way. Or at least this dependence on external events to find my feelings. My journey has found me on a path that is tapping into my intuitive strength more confidently. Trusting myself is becoming more possible. I saw a plaque—a literary plaque that's in the downtown area of Iowa City—that reads, "Maybe being oneself is always an acquired taste." It's possible that drilling down through the layers to get to my feelings becomes easier. I don't want to have my feelings right on the surface where they occlude my ability to navigate difficult situations. I'm okay with there being layers that I work through. I just don't want to be incapable of accessing them.

To be more specific, the layers my feelings must transcend are things like the layer of relationships. I am careful with my feelings around people. Some may not know how to handle them; some may even be damaged by them. Feelings in their immediacy are not always helpful. They're tools for living fully. They're not fulness in themselves.

There's the layer of myself and my perspective. Feelings appear to inform this perspective, but they're not the same thing as my perspective. I've seen my feelings change when I changed my perspective.

There's the layer of my own self-care. My ability to navigate difficult people or stressful situations is directly proportional to the level of self-care I've invested that day. Rest, exercise, and writing are the most meaningful activities for me. I'm able to withstand much more when I've invested adequate time in all of them, and it's fairest to acknowledge that all three contribute to multiple parts of my soul. None of them pertain to just one aspect. It's a misnomer to say exercise is for my physical health only or that writing is only for my mental/intellectual health. Writing contributes to my entire soul as does exercise.

There are other layers, but these three are enough to understand what I'm talking about. To say that "being myself is always an acquired taste" includes becoming okay with the drilling process. Evaluating what's going on deeply within me takes a little time, and I'm okay with that. The process reminds me of how our pain receptors are slow compared to other sensory receptors. There's a split-second delay that allows us the wherewithal to act before the pain sets in. I think of the split second of touching a hot stove and knowing that I've touched it before actually feeling the pain. My athletic supervisor Kevin Jones taught me about this phenomenon in Athletic Training 101 at Gardner-Webb University.

I'm also wanting to rest in the fact that traumatic events can be redeemed. I'm not romanticizing trauma in this statement. Viktor Frankl, the holocaust survivor, notes that . . .

I don't like seeing the mental image of Malachi's head just above the water while I'm out on a run in Iowa City and finding myself incapable of getting to him or up the hill more quickly. But I do trust that there will eventually be a moment when my soul makes meaning of a terrorizing event.

Rip current

On the final day of summer

On courage