Deep Water

I biked across the Golden Gate Bridge. On a whim. In 2011. Aunt Lynne and I were painting San Francisco red for our birthday trip; we ate at Zuni and Fino, bought fringe scissors at Bell'occhio, turtle-shaped paper clips at Flax, and dead sea mud mask from those kiosk salesman that violate your human rights when you walk by. This particular morning we had separated until noon, so I took the trolley to the pier, signed the waiver, and started pedaling. After all, the Stake Trek leaders had encouraged me to “do hard things” in preparation for the upcoming 17-mile reenactment in Wyoming.

Funny, now, to see what younger Melissa thought was a hard thing. I’d never biked enough to own a helmet and was alone in a large city; I guess hard starts with leaving one’s comfort zone.

I quickly regretted wearing thin-soled ballet shoes for the impromtu ride. Quadless, I had to walk the last incline that fed into the actual bridge. Crossing took as long as the headwind demanded. From the middle of vermillion suspension I ate Chocolate Cheerios from my purse (leftover airplane snack) and wiped fog droplets from my face. Dolphins danced below. I grabbed one of the cables and took a picture of my hand on it. Turns out the Golden Gate Bridge is a winner with my skin tone and the color of my still-haven’t-found-it perfect lipstick. I was faster coming back. Only four completely downhill minutes from the bridge to the pier, to be exact.

The following is the story of William Atkin of the 1859 Rowley Handcart Company, as recorded by his granddaughter Luella M. Atkin.

"[Your grandma and I] traveled on until dark and again camped alone. Although we were in Indian country and nearly every white man we met was an avowed enemy of the Mormon people, we were not afraid, but laid down and took sweet rest.

"In the morning we started out early and on arriving at the Green River, we found that our company had crossed it the night before and they were gone out of sight. Your grandma and I looked at the river and I said to her, 'We cannot cross this river alone.' She replied, 'No, but the Lord will help us over.' At these words my heart seemed to leap for joy and I said, 'Yes, He surely will.' We then knelt down and in all humility told our Heavenly Father that we were doing all in our power to keep His commandments and to gather to Zion; and now we had come to this river and could not cross it alone. We knew He could help us and we now relied on Him to assist us over. Your grandma and I then pulled our cart into the river, which was swollen; we could see the deep water just ahead of us, but every step we took the deep water was still one step ahead of us, and we landed on the western bank without even wetting the axletree of our cart. Our hearts were full of gratitude to our Heavenly Father for thus again answering our prayers."

This story reminds me of being married to Greg and of a loving Heavenly Father who is interested in what we are walking through and where we are headed.

No matter how brave I am—and I’m brave time after time—I’m always tense about what is coming next. I have conquered so much and yet I’m a flincher and a wincer. Oh no, Greg, I see a trench! This is the big one, the deep one, the wheel buster, the wagon sinker! Don’t expand our business! Don’t buy a starter house! Don’t build a new house! Don’t invest! Don’t loan your truck out! Pack your bear spray! Back it up to a second cloud! Get it in writing! Buy an antidote for swine and bird flu! All three embryos will take! Put a copy of our will in the van while it’s parked at the airport in case our plane goes down! You name it, I’ve anticipated and feared it. I don’t even know if I can relax with a First Aid Kit, AAA membership card, wind-up radio, and emergency flare on my person.

Greg, on the other hand, worries about precious little. For years I underestimated him—I mistook his lack of fear for a lack of awareness—but the irony is that he has perfect vision. He sees every situation with the clarity of optimism. Because he believes it will all work out it always has and when adversity has struck it has hit him from behind when he was busy taking pictures of rainbows. As the worrier in this relationship, I’ve often found it irritating that the man who isn't afraid of anything scarcely faces fear! The nerve!

Year after year he has endured my doomsday forecasts of each proposed step forward, all the while walking beside me in his patient and laconic way, single-handedly pulling us across every span we ever dared to cross. And every time we get to the other side he pulls me close and says, “Wasa, don’t worry. We can do anything if we do it together. See?” Somehow he values me as a teammate when, in fact, I often act like dead weight.

Greg knows I was shallow enough in my teens to hope I’d marry some dashing Italian scholar with a waxed chest, blousy linen shirt, and leather book of poetry in his pocket. It is very fortunate for me that I landed the least worldly (but slightly poetic) American on earth whose true gifts surface (and keep us afloat) so wonderfully in deep water. 

Top photo: old postcard from 1937, no artist mentioned. Bottom photo: vintage sticker illustrating the perfect "Chinese red" (my color-perceptive aunt taught me the term) I need my lipstick to be.

p.s. Greg could give or take the Golden Gate Bridge but seriously loves the theme song (and can often be heard singing it in the shower) of The Golden Girls. Proving again we have no shared taste in music.