Water Walker (The Full Story, Episodes 1-4)

by Dekker, Ted

  “I’m walking on water!” I exclaimed.

  “You’re walking on water.”

  “Can I run on it?”

  “You can dance on it if you like. Do you know how to dance?”

  “I don’t know. Do I?”

  “Well . . . you aren’t operating under the old laws anymore. You can probably do anything.”

  I turned in a circle, still flabbergasted by the miraculous shift that had transformed my world. But even in that, I was wrong wasn’t I? The world hadn’t changed—I had. Or, more accurately, my perception of the world had changed.

  I had forgiven—let go of—the old offense and saw none of the threat that had once promised to drown me. And I’d done it by stepping out of a boat I was sure would save me from all of that trouble.

  “So now you know,” Stephen said.

  “Now I know.” I faced him, curious. “But I’m dreaming, right?”

  “It doesn’t matter. If you think about it, your reality is only as real as you perceive it to be in any given moment, wouldn’t you say?”

  I got his meaning immediately. “And so all of my troubles are only as real as I believe they are.”

  He dipped his head. “Bravo, my dear. Now you see.”

  “Now I see,” I said grinning wide. “Nothing can hurt me unless I say so.”

  His smile softened. “Always remember . . . You have been given the power to forgive any offense, and in so doing, remove it from your awareness as far as the east is from the west. True vision is his gift, allowing you to see no blame; forgiveness is your truest purpose in this life. Seventy times seven, always, leaving the old self in a watery grave and rising to find no fault. That’s grace, that’s true baptism, and that’s good news, wouldn’t you say?”

  My mind spun. A lump formed in my throat.

  “It’s fantastic . . .”

  “Fantastic.” He winked at me.

  “Far better than the watery grave my mother baptizes me into each week!”

  He nodded. “So then, take care not to forget just how good this news is when your eyes open in your mother’s house.”

  And with that, Outlaw unfolded his arms, clapped his hands together, and vanished.

  But then so did I. So did everything.

  I snapped my eyes wide.

  It was dark.

  I was lying in my bed.

  And every inch of my body was soaked.

  27

  IT WAS DARK and every inch of my body was wet and I thought, Dear God, was that real?

  I didn’t necessarily mean it as a prayer, but that’s how it came out, and immediately I knew the answer, as if a voice deep in my soul had answered.

  Yes, Eden. More real than anything you have ever experienced.

  I closed my eyes, and a gentle portion of the staggering truth I’d just observed washed through me. My body began to shake, from my head to my feet, and my breathing came in deep, heavy pulls.

  I didn’t dare move because I was smothered by a knowing of good news so profound that I could barely grasp it, and at the same time so outlandishly contrary to the beliefs my mother had drilled into me that I was afraid I might forget the goodness of that news.

  In reality, I was invulnerable, and nothing—no power on earth or in heaven or under the earth or under the heavens—could separate me from the infinite love that held me secure, right then, as I lay trembling in bed.

  Not Kathryn; no, she was only a lost soul trying to find her own way.

  Not Zeke; no, he was only a spoiled child who did what he thought to be right in his own eyes.

  Not the loss of my childhood; no, that was only a story of the past.

  Not my captivity, nor my broken leg, nor anything that happened to this body because Eden was only my costume.

  I was lying on my back in the darkness, I knew that, but it seemed like I was also above my body, watching what wasn’t myself at all. The form below me was only a shell in which I temporarily resided. A sled on which to slide down the snowy hill. A car on a roller coaster in which to take the ride.

  A boat on the stormy seas of life, to be stepped out of because I was a water walker, unaffected by the storm unless I clung to that boat.

  There are no words to express how I felt in that moment as the truth raced through me, not on rails of reason, but on rails of a far deeper, infinite knowingness flowing with a bottomless peace that passed any understanding I had ever sought, much less embraced.

  I think the awareness of that truth affected me more profoundly as I lay awake than it had in my dream. Every cell in my body vibrated with certainty, all in perfect symmetry and union. I had never felt so whole and complete as I felt at that moment in that house, which was also just a temporary holding place, like my body, like the roller-coaster car, like the boat I’d clung to with all of my strength.

  I was free. I never had been a captive. I was whole! Nothing could hurt me. All of the threats had been of my own making because I’d mistaken my body for the real me, and my place as Kathryn’s suffering daughter for far more than it was—just a temporary role.

  All of this came to me in the space of one breath and I couldn’t contain the gratitude that welled up in me. Tears began to flow from my eyes, and once they started, there was no stopping them.

  Great sobs silently wracked my quivering body. I was gripped in the embrace of peace and love, a drug so powerful that even a hint of disappointment or an ounce of grievance could not be known in its presence. And without the slightest disappointment or grievance, only intoxicating love remained.

  I could feel slight, throbbing pain my right leg, gently reminding me that it was broken, but I didn’t care, you see? I wasn’t disappointed by the condition of that right appendage down there. What could it possibly matter? In fact, I was so lost in gratitude and peace that I couldn’t remember why a broken leg had ever mattered more than a broken blade of grass underfoot. Both would soon heal. Or not.

  I don’t know how long I lay awake because each moment felt like an eternity to me. Time didn’t seem to exist in that place of being. It was ticking away, naturally, but I would only notice this in retrospect without being able to quantify those ticks with labels, like seconds or minutes or hours.

  So I don’t know how long it was before I heard the whisper from my dreams, reminding me of my purpose. Outlaw had said it on the lake, but now I heard it come from me, spoken by a gentle, prodding, female voice.

  You have been given the power to forgive sin . . .

  Yes.

  And how staggering is that power.

  “Yes,” I said aloud, eyes still closed. Then again, weeping with it. “Yes . . .”

  True vision is his gift, allowing you to see beyond all blame.

  “Yes . . .”

  Forgiveness is your only true function in this life.

  “Yes . . . yes.”

  Seventy times seven, always, leaving the old self in a watery grave and rising to find no fault.

  And then I couldn’t speak because in that moment I knew the course before me with such clarity that it robbed me of breath. So I said it with all of my mind and all of my heart.

  Yes! Yes, I will! I will, I will, I will . . . I lay in bed with tears streaming down my face, repeating the same words over and over in my mind, embracing them, loving them.

  I will, I will, I will, I will . . .

  “What’s wrong?”

  The voice came from the door and it confused me, because nothing was wrong.

  “Eden?”

  I let my eyes flutter open and I saw that morning was coming.

  “Why are you all wet?”

  I slowly turned my head and looked at the door. There, dressed in a pale-blue, flowered nightgown, stood my mother, arms at her sides, eyes wide like a deer caught in headlights.

  This was Kathryn, my birth mother, who’d subjected Eden to countless challenges to her self-worth. There stood the woman who had drowned the me I used to know in the waters of condemnation and guilt
every week, every month, every year, determined to purge me of my endless failure. There was the one who’d attempted to break my leg and then blessed the man who had.

  But that’s not what I saw.

  I saw a woman who was blinded in her own suffering.

  I saw a mother confused by a role that she’d tried desperately to fulfill.

  I saw an innocent child who felt abandoned by love and worth because she didn’t understand either.

  I saw an astoundingly noble being, loved without blame by her Father and not knowing it, and therefore utterly lost.

  I saw . . . I saw myself.

  I saw all these things and an aching knot coiled in my throat. I knew—even as my mouth parted in a soft groan of compassion, even as tears gushed from my eyes—that she wouldn’t be able to comprehend what she was seeing. But I couldn’t seem to contain the emotions bubbling out of me.

  She might interpret the sight of me crying on the bed as a sign of trouble, but there was more in that room than just a mother and her broken daughter. There was a connection between us that I can’t possibly begin to describe.

  I was looking at her, you see, and I was feeling nothing but endless love for her. No, not just feeling . . . Offering. Giving. And I think this, more than my crying, confused her.

  “What’s wrong?” She glanced about the room, searching for any sign of trouble, maybe half expecting to see Zeke sitting in the corner. But there was only me. And her.

  She walked in slowly, dumbstruck, the stopped a few feet from the bed and looked at my body.

  “What happened? You’re wet . . .”

  I tried to speak, but only raspy breath came out, and, judging by the wrinkling of her brow, this confused Kathryn even more. Alarmed, she sat on the bed and quickly placed her palm on my forehead.

  “What’s wrong, sweetheart? You’re frightening me! What happened?”

  I took the hand on my forehead in my own and tenderly pressed it against my cheek.

  Immediately tears sprang to her eyes. It was then that I realized we were already communicating. Our hearts had somehow found each other’s.

  I stared into her eyes and I offered her only love with all of my heart. I couldn’t remember anything but her innocence, and in that place I saw her as a precious and perfect child who could not possibly disappoint me, much less her Father.

  My only problem was that the more I offered her love, the more I cried. And the more she received my love and saw my tears, the more she cried. At first perhaps misunderstanding the reason for my demonstration of love, maybe thinking I had finally come to my senses and was once again on the correct path. But she’d never seen this kind of outpouring from me, and I could see the question in her eyes.

  Tell her, Eden. Speak to her.

  “I forgive you, Mother.” The words came out strained. I kissed her hand and said it again. “I forgive you.”

  She blinked, struck by these simple words. Then meaning fell into her mind, and her face knotted in anguish.

  “I love you,” I said.

  And she could take it no longer. She closed her eyes and began to sob, then lowered her head to my belly and wept into my already wet pajamas. She didn’t offer any words, only those tears of remorse and guilt.

  But I didn’t want her to feel any guilt because that wasn’t my intention or business. I only wanted to love her and find her blameless, and as she began to come apart, I found that my own strength returned and my own crying began to settle.

  You would think that it would take more than a few words to shatter my mother’s hardened shell after living so many years under her burden of guilt, and you would be right. Far more than a few words. Something with far more power than mere words.

  A true expression of love born of the heart, not the mouth. In the space of that love, no words are required. My mother was being deeply impacted by something I could hardly understand myself and still, I gave it with all of my heart.

  I saw myself as a tree, administering healing over a wounded spirit who had come to me for love. She was my mother and I was only too willing to stroke her head and give her as much love as she could possibly drink in. And to offer her a few words as well.

  “I love you, Mother. It’s all going to be okay.”

  “I’m sorry.” She sobbed into my pajama top. “I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s okay, Mother . . .”

  “I didn’t know what to do. I’m so confused. I’m so sorry.”

  I had always wondered something about the crucifixion scene—the part where Jesus says, ‘Forgive them for they know not what they do.’

  It had confused me because I’d thought, Well of course they know what they are doing. They’re treating him with cruelty. They’re pounding nails into him and hanging him up on a cross. Every cruel person always knows that they’re being cruel.

  But in that moment with my mother begging on my belly, I understood perfectly. She, like those who’d crucified Jesus, had justified what she’d done and made it permissible in her own mind. And so goes the whole human race.

  They should have known better, and there was plenty of cause for blame, and yet blamelessness had been offered. That was grace and that was me, ministering forgiveness to my mother by offering her no blame.

  I drew a deep breath and I said what was in my spirit to say.

  “I forgive you, Mother. You’ve done nothing wrong to me.”

  The moment I said it, a tingling spread over my scalp.

  Mother’s crying eased and her body stilled.

  “Nothing, Mother,” I said. As if following specifically routed electric circuits, the tingling sensation rode down my arms and spine. “You did nothing wrong to me.”

  She sat up and stared at me with red eyes. “How can you say that?” she cried. “How can you even say that!?”

  I’m sure there are ways I could have psychoanalyzed her angry response, but my mind wasn’t interested. It was captivated by the power flowing through my body, from head to foot. The current buzzed through my bones for a moment, and then it was gone, out the bottom of my feet.

  Overcome by her own failures as a mother, Kathryn covered her face with both hands and wept. And I let her, silent now, still captivated by the lingering balm of that energy that had swept through my body. For a long while, we remained like that, me prone on my back, her sitting, basking in a power greater than both of us.

  Something had happened to me, hadn’t it? Something about me had changed.

  “What did you do to me, Mother?” I asked.

  She shook her head in shame.

  “Tell me what you did to me,” I said.

  “You don’t understand, Eden. I had to. I can’t disobey. I just can’t go against him. I can’t . . .”

  “Tell me, Mother. Tell me what you did to me.”

  “I hurt you!” she blurted, pulling her hands from her face. “I took my little daughter and I . . .” She looked away, choked up by terrible guilt.

  “You forced me under the water and made me stay in my closet and starved me?” I asked.

  “Yes!” she sobbed. “Yes!”

  “And tell me how Zeke hurt me.”

  “He broke your leg!” she screamed, standing. “He commanded me to break it and when I didn’t he broke it!”

  “He hurt your daughter,” I said.

  “Yes! Yes, he hurt my daughter!” She was livid.

  I let a beat pass.

  “But don’t you see, Mother . . . I’m not hurt.” I sat up in bed and stared at her. “I don’t feel any of the wounds that were in my heart only yesterday.” I leaned over and began to unravel the bandages on my right leg. “I’m a water walker, Mother. Water walkers don’t assign blame. Only their costumes can be hurt, and costumes come and go.”

  I continued to unwrap my leg.

  “What are you doing?”

  Zeke had opted not to put a cast on my leg so that walking was out of the question. But he’d never broken a water walker’s leg before, had he?
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  “I’m showing you how unhurt I am,” I said, and pulled the last of the bandage free.

  My mother took a step back, eyes fixed on my right leg, which was smooth and white and showed not a single bruise, much less swelling, from any break.

  “Sweet Jesus,” Mother breathed. “Oh dear, sweet baby Jesus.”

  I swung my legs off the bed and pushed myself to my feet, still weak from the exhausting emotional journey I’d taken through the night. Then I walked to the window, parted the curtain so that I could see out, and stared in the direction of the lake.

  “Sweet baby Jesus,” my mother said yet again. “You . . . What happened?”

  I turned back to face her. “Forgiveness happened,” I said. “Just the way it’s supposed to happen.”

  “You . . . Your leg isn’t broken.”

  I looked down at my body. “No, it’s not.”

  “But how?”

  “I went for a walk on the lake last night,” I said.

  “The lake? That’s why you’re wet? How . . . I . . . I don’t understand.”

  “You don’t need to, Mother. I’m not sure I do either.” I approached her slowly, heart bursting with compassion. “There’s only one thing you need to know right now.”

  Her eyes searched mine, stricken with apprehension. This was new territory for both of us.

  “I’m your daughter,” I said, reaching for her hand. “You’re my mother and I love you with all of my heart. And if I love you that way, your Father loves you far more, just the way you are. You can’t possibly impress him or upset him, he’s not that small. Everything you’ve done, you’ve only done because you were lost, but today you are found by your daughter and your Father.”

  Overwhelmed in ways that I couldn’t possibly fully grasp, Mother sank to her knees, took me into her arms, and wept. I held her and stroked her hair, feeling beautiful and whole and overflowing with gratefulness.

  I had finally found my mother and I found her only by finding myself.

  For a long time we held each other. I didn’t know what effect this might have on my mother, or her strict religious code, and honestly, I didn’t care. I felt utterly loved and invulnerable, both in my mother’s arms and apart from them.