Michael W. Mann

breathe

I couldn’t feel my toes, but I was relieved to be home. As the snowstorm swirled around our house, I gingerly pulled off my skates, peeled off my socks, sat down on the floor and slid my toes under the radiator. While I rubbed my red feet the feeling in my toes returned, accompanied by intense pain. As a boy of twelve who loved ice-skating, I hadn’t thought about the temperature when I had left the house that morning, only about the fact it was a sunny Saturday, and the river was calling me. With skates on my feet I would be free of the demands of shoes, shoes that brought me to school where my shyness was painfully evident.

I decided to skate all the way out to the edge of town. It was pure joy, gliding along that white ribbon of ice, listening to the swishing of my skate blades as I made my way past the bewildering civilization above. Where the river narrowed and the banks rose up on either side, the town disappeared altogether, and the ice opened up to reveal small rapids. At those spots I walked along the shore until the ice was solid again.

At the outskirts of town my familiarity with the river ended, and the unexplored territory beyond felt like the unexplored loneliness I felt within. As I turned around and began heading back it began to snow—so enraptured by my adventure I had not noticed the change in the weather. Worried I might not make it home before dark, I started skating as fast as I could. But the snow increased in intensity, and halting at the edge of one rapids, I was engulfed in white. I panicked, and held my breath.

Then I heard faint music coming up from below my feet. I looked down and discovered the source—the current of the river was caressing the rocks, birthing a soft lullaby from their stony silence. The tenderness of that melody cut through the smothering whiteness, I relaxed, and started breathing again. I realized I wasn’t alone—the river was with me, pulsing with life, running swiftly under the ice, and it would safely carry me home.

Years later, at the age of twenty-three, I was still lonely, and desperate for help. Copying from a tract I found at work, I wrote out the sinner’s prayer, confessing my need of a savior. After completing the prayer I laid back down in bed, and felt a warm sensation, as if someone was pressing a soft iron over my heart. I know now the Holy Spirit entered me that moment, and I have never felt lonely since.

After seventy years there have been many iced-over rivers in my life—and times when I have felt unworthy of God’s love. But underneath my self-created troubles, and under the chaos and tragedies of the world, God is—his Holy Spirit birthing faith, hope and love within me, enabling me to breathe.

Michael W. Mann has written short stories for family, friends and coworkers for years, and last year two of his pieces appeared in the family journal Pure in Heart. Now in his seventies, he still enjoys crafting stories of hope, and woodworking projects, in Kansas City.