A Cry Above the Waters: Who Will Hear?

I was sitting by the river one sunny Saturday afternoon when I saw a man struggling to stay afloat. He was waving his arms frantically, gasping for breath between mouthfuls of water.

My first instinct was to jump in and try to pull him to safety. But the river’s current was dangerously swift from recent rains.

I watched helplessly from the shore as the man continued battling the swirling dark waters. One moment his head bobbed above the surface, the next he disappeared under a cresting wave.

Part of me wondered if I should run to the nearby boathouse to grab a flotation device. Another part thought if I left to find help, it might be too late. So I kept my eyes trained on the spot I’d last seen him, praying he’d somehow stay up long enough for a rescue.

His obvious distress resurrected troubling memories of my old college buddy James. We had been nearly inseparable during our university days — cramming for exams together, hitting parties on weekends, dreaming big about our futures over cheap pizza. James was charismatic and seemed destined for great success.

After graduation day goodbyes, we vowed to stay in touch. But swept up in new jobs, new cities and new relationships, our weekly calls dwindled to the occasional holiday card before ceasing altogether.

Nearly fifteen years later, I received a surprising phone call — James asked to meet for coffee back in our old college town. I could detect a slight hint of long-buried distress seeping back into his voice.

When I suggested perhaps Saturday afternoon — same place we used to study, he paused…then agreed almost reluctantly. I chalked it up to nervousness about reconnecting after so long rather than anything more ominous.

But when James finally arrived at the cafe, his haggard appearance told a far different story than those heady days of idealism we’d shared. Shoulders slumped under a wrinkled coat.

Fingernails bitten to the quick. Deep lines prematurely aged his face. His tapping foot and trembling hands clutched a cup of black coffee as though trying to draw warmth from the hot liquid.

We exchanged stilted pleasantries at first about old acquaintances and campus changes. But as the conversation lagged into introspective silence, I couldn’t avoid the truth staring back through James’ dull eyes.

“I guess you’re wondering…well, wondering why I look like hell on toast,” James finally muttered with a caustic edge to his voice I didn’t recognize.

As the floodgates opened, the tales tumbled out in staccato bursts…losing his high-paying job to downsizing…the slow unraveling of his marriage under financial strains…a cascading descent into drinking to numb the pain. He made occasional half-hearted attempts at therapy or career networking events but they never stuck.

“I’ve thought about ending it some days, man. Just make all the hurt stop, you know?” James said, dropping his face in his hands.

Seeing my once vibrant, promising friend now treading water in his own living hell flashed me back to the dire scene at the riverside. My sense of helplessness swelled, equally unsure how to pull either from the brink.

I tried suggesting a few potential lifelines — maybe I could attend an AA meeting by his side or help retool his resume. But the challenges seemed as overwhelming to me as they clearly did to James in that moment.

Still, I resolved to start tossing whatever thin ropes of comfort I could his way — checking in more often even if our visits uncovered no magic bullet solutions.

Extending small acts of compassion to buoy his spirits when possible. He needed to know he wasn’t solely facing the menacing current without allies cheering from the shoreline.

In the end, I suppose that’s all any of us can do when we see others struggling to stay afloat in life’s rougher waters. Keep tossing lifelines however fragile.

Keep holding space on solid ground as a reminder that the tempest can’t rage forever. And keep faith that the waters will eventually calm and carry our loved ones back to safer harbors.