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Column ![]() by Pamela Heckinger
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Back to Table of Contents | Back to Main Index Every September, my college group travels to eastern Washington and goes white-water rafting down the turbulent Tiatan River. One year, we decided to run the four-mile rapids in the early morning before the sun had risen over the hills. But when we put in our boats at an unfamiliar place in the river, we had no idea what we were getting into. The water chilled my ankles as we lowered the raft into the water and launched into our first set of rapids. "Back left!" our guide shouted. I dug my paddle into the waves. Water splashed onto my skin. Without warning, we hit a boulder, and I catapulted off my seat and into the middle of the boat. I screamed as an icy wave engulfed the nose of our raft. Clutching my oar, I held on until the rapids calmed. Sometimes life at Multnomah feels like a white-water raft trip. The stress of school, work, and relationships often jolts me from my security, and all I can do is hold on and wait for the end of the ride. Steven Curtis Chapman says in his song "Hold On": "I have come to this ocean, and the waves of fear are starting to rise; doubts and questions are rising with the tide; so I'm clinging to the one sure thing I know." Sometimes I sense disaster -- the eight-page paper I put off until the last minute, the friendship that's on the rocks, the doubts I have in my walk with God. One thing after another seems ready to capsize me. I know that down river life will be calm, and I can bask in the sunshine. But in the rough times, when I'm shivering in the middle of the boat, I'll hold on because I know Someone holds me. Back to Table of Contents | Back to Main Index |