In the summer of 1988, when our children were two and four, some of our long-time friends came from Louisiana to enjoy the Blue Angels air show.
Pensacola Beach was crowded, the warm water inviting, and the blue sky promised a spectacular display of aerial acrobatics. Jeff and I lived thirty minutes from the beach. I had swum in the Gulf of Mexico all my life, cognizant of its dangers.
Alex and Libby played at the water’s edge, begging me to go further into the waves. Firmly holding each other’s hands, we waded into the choppy breakers with inflated swimmies hugging their tiny arms. Splashing and laughing distracted me from the gentle pull of the undertow at my feet. Before I realized it, we were further from shore than I intended.
Between each rising wave, the weight of my children on each shoulder pushed me down to the sandy bottom. The undercurrent dragged my feet out each time they touched the gulf’s floor. I launched myself up for air in spurts and frantically waved at the thousands of people, oblivious to the drama unfolding before them.
Finally, an air-show spectator jumped to his feet and raced toward the water. Jeff saw him out of the corner of his eye and followed. Within seconds, they lifted both children from my shoulders.
I’ll never forget that day as the day God’s angels reached out and rescued me and my precious children from the grasp of the unrelenting gulf as the Blue Angels soared above.
Like the psalmist, I thank my heavenly Father for the many ways He has freed me from the depths of danger and despair.
How can you do a better job of thanking God for His rescues?
(photo courtesy of pixabay.com.)
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