"If You Want To Walk On Water ..."

"... You've Got To Get Out Of The Boat"

That's the title of a book I've just finished reading. It was written by an American, John Ortberg, and recommended by a blogmate, over at Fumbling For Words. Thanks, Heather.
In it, the author uses the Bible story about Peter walking on water to invite us to step out of our comfort zones and trust that all will be well. The story was the basis of the sermon I wrote last month. Remember, Ms J?

Well yesterday, I tried it. Stepping out of the boat, I mean. Venturing cautiously into Terra Incognita. Here's what happened:

Richard is a man who works where I work. Until a few months ago, he was a supervisor. Occasionally in the past, Richard and I have been adversaries. He was my boss, Ms J. I don't care much for authority and I really didn't like Richard. But the political climate at Canadian National Railway is distinctly un-Canadian these days. Distinctly uncompassionate and unforgiving. Distinctly profit-driven. The atmosphere is one of fear and resentment. It's unpleasant for us peons, but it must be dreadfully stressful for lower management. So Richard fled his manager's job and returned to the ranks. Yesterday afternoon, he was part of our crew. An equal.
We rode together on the locomotive as we ferried our empty train back into the city to collect more homeward bound commuters.

"Hi Dale," he chirped as he climbed the steps into the cab. "How's the leg feeling?"

I stared straight ahead at the red signal and silently willed it to turn green.

"Fine," I mumbled.

I really didn't want to have to sit with this clown all the way back to Union Station. He was trying to be pleasant, though. I didn't feel like being pleasant. I felt like ignoring him. I felt like telling him finally, what an arrogant prick I thought he was. I looked over at him. He was turned to open the sliding window on his side of the cab. When he turned back, he was smiling.

"Isn't it a beautiful day?"

"Yeah," I said without expression. "Beautiful day."

I'm not very good at hiding my feelings, Ms J. I sounded like Dustin Hoffman in "Rainman". Richard knew something was wrong.

"Are you OK?" he asked. "You look a little disturbed." I wished he'd stop smiling.

"No, I'm fine," I lied. "It's all good."

The signal turned green and I rang the bell and pulled the throttle lever toward me. Three notches. Click, click, click. After a few seconds, the train began to move. I waited til the speedo registered ten miles per hour and then I advanced the throttle again. Click, click, click. I turned off the bell and watched the indicator lights on the speedometer as they gradually circled the face. Seventeen miles per hour. Eighteen. Nineteen. Richard was right. I was disturbed. I wanted to hate the S.O.B., but he was making it difficult. He was being nice. He's still a jerk, though. He's just trying to get me to like him. I've never liked this guy. Twenty miles per hour. And I never will.

And then came that little voice again. That still, small voice. It was nothing more than a passing thought. My conscience. The good part of me. The best part. The pure part.

"Get out of the boat. Now's the perfect time to try it."

I looked again at the speedometer. Twenty-four. Twenty-five. I performed the obligatory brake test. For safety, Ms J. We have to do it whenever we reverse direction. I closed the throttle, applied the brakes gently and continued to observe the speedo. The lights extinguished one by one as the speed decreased. At fifteen miles per hour, I released the brake and advanced the throttle again.

"If you want to walk on water, you've got to get out of the boat. Talk to him. Tell him how you're feeling. Get to know him."

My conscience was really starting to irritate me. I uncapped a bottle of water and took an angry swallow. I replaced the cap and set the plastic bottle on the little pull-out table beside me. I tried my best to ignore this ... this ... ANNOYING voice in my head. I watched a large red-tailed hawk swoop to land gently atop a telephone pole. It was graceful and precise, regal even, but I took no pleasure in it.

"Fine. Suffer then. Suffer alone because Richard's still smiling. Look at him."

I glanced over at him and he was still smiling at some private thought. He was tapping his toe in rhythm to a song in his head. The sun shone directly in his face and he had his eyes closed. He looked so comfortable there, under the sun's warm blanket.

"Screw this, then," I said in a voice that seemed loud in my own ears. I wear earplugs, Ms Journal. They make my voice seem loud in my head. I pictured myself in a little row boat on a stormy lake. Then I pictured myself climbing over the side of it. "I'm outta here."

I turned to the man in the other seat.

"Richard," I said.

But he didn't hear me. Maybe I didn't have to do this. It's not too late to get back in the boat, I reasoned. But no. I was committed now. I raised my voice against the roar of the three thousand horsepower engine.

"RICHARD!"

"Yeah?"

"Can I talk to you a minute?"

"Sure, Dale. What is it?"

So we talked. Mostly, I talked. He listened. I told him I was angry with him for being a bully when he was my supervisor. I told him I resented him telling me how to do my job when he couldn't do it himself. I told him I didn't want to be angry anymore and that I hoped he could understand and forgive me.

The time passed quickly, Ms Journal, and before we knew it, we'd arrived at Union Station. Richard listened to my words, honoured my feelings and I think, understood. I'm so glad I got out of that stupid little boat.

As he descended the steps to exit the cab, I called to him.

"Richard?"

His head popped up from behind the control console.

"Hmmmm?"

"Thanks a lot for listening. I don't hate you anymore."

He laughed it off.

"That's good to hear, Dale. I never hated you. See you at Pickering."

And he was gone.

I am so glad I found the courage to talk to him. I'm so proud of myself for doing what was right instead of what was easy. Is it easy to be angry? Is it easy to hold a grudge? To be miserable and suffer? No. Probably not. But it's easier, it seems, than getting out of that damned boat sometimes.

***