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If we're honest, most of us probably have some "secret fear" that no one knows about.

I grew up as the only child of a mother terrified of water—probably because her five brothers threw her in a deep pond and left so she would be motivated "to learn to swim." She probably would have died had no brother slipped back and saved her from drowning. As a preschooler, I was once trapped in our car as we drove across a bridge barely above the raging flood water of the Arkansas River with my mother in a full screaming and crying panic attack as my distressed, white-knuckled father tried to get us out of the situation. Add to that that I "thought" I was about to drown a couple of times before ever starting school, so it seems somewhat reasonable that I feared water. It's not the water itself, just getting my face in water. I could swim fine, but don't expect me to get my entire face in the water—not even shower water.

Since I married a man from dry West Texas, I never expected to encounter a "water test" in the small West Texas town of Odell. However, shortly after our wedding, Monty and his brother decided I should "experience" the fun of fishing all night on Wanderers Creek, which runs into the Red River. During high school Monty and a teenage friend made an extremely shallow boat by welding two old car hoods together and attached a couple of seats. This “boat” was so flat you were close to water coming over the sides when two climbed in. After we had baited and set out the lines along the bank, we got up every few hours through the night to "run the lines" by flashlight. Never had I dreamed I would be expected to be on the point of the boat, shoved up in the grass and bushes to feel for the line to check for a fish with only a flashlight or moon to illuminate what might be in those bushes, not to mention moving very slowly so as not to swamp the boat that was already close to water level. But I didn't have to put my face in the water, so I could pass this test.

Two children later, we moved to the Houston or Gulf Coast area of Texas. Some days, Monty and I would fix a picnic supper and head for the deserted High Island beach just as soon as the boys finished their school day. The three fellows romped and played in the waves and on the sand while I guarded the food.

All went well until 1981 when Monty and our sons decided to learn to scuba dive as a Boy Scout project. They came home from the scout meeting excited and wanted to know if I wanted to join them in learning to scuba dive.

"No," was my quick reply.

"But Mom, will you at least go to our special meeting where we're going to see all the neat things we'll be able to see underwater once we get licensed?”

"Well, I don't mind going to watch what you'll see and learn.”

Later, we and other families filed in to see the presentation. We were handed slips of paper to register for prizes as we entered.

After watching the presentation, they began drawing names out of the hat for prizes. I was sitting there in an intense silent argument with the Lord. He asked me if I didn't think it was time to overcome my fear. I insisted I was okay with my anxiety and didn't see a need to change anything. This round-and-round debate continued until I finally stated silently, "Okay, if you think it is so important that I overcome this fear, let me win one of the prizes they are drawing right now, and I'll take the scuba class."

I felt extremely confident I was safe because I had never won anything.

Yes, you guessed it. The next prize was for the grand prize—all the scuba equipment—Phyllis Kester won. Everyone turned to me in shock, but not near as much shock as I felt. The announcer came over with his mic to ask if I planned to take the class with the scouts. I gulped and weakly said, "I guess so."

Was it easy going from that point? No. I spent many days and hours at a friend's pool, learning to put my face in the water with a mask on.

"Wow! I can open my eyes and see underwater.”

Once I managed to do that, it took even longer to learn to sit in their pool and take a perfectly good mask off while still underwater without jumping out of the water the minute water hit my face. Eventually, I learned to stay underwater and take my mask off, remain underwater, and replace said mask.

All went well with the lessons until it came time to pass the final Open Water PADI test for certification. We drove to a sand pit, just a big hole in the ground filled with water. We had done all our work in a large clean swimming pool, which was quite different. We quickly found the water in the pit became murky because the activity of several classes stirred up the fine silt. Since I was one of the last to take the test, I could only see about 2-3 feet at best. 

I made it through the beginning okay, even the buddy breathing, where I had to share my breathing regulator with my instructor as well as when I had to practice finding and retrieving my breathing apparatus if it was knocked out of my mouth. However, I had problems at the conclusion when I had to remove my mask, replace it, and reseal it on my face with oxygen again inside the mask. For some reason, I tried repeatedly, but my mask refused to reseal correctly. I could sense anxiety building in my instructor watching me—he had kept a hand on my waist—probably to give me confidence deep in the dark, murky water so I didn't feel alone.

However, he didn't know that I had learned years earlier that I needed to spend time in scripture and prayer when facing a fear or challenge. I had been impressed by several scriptures, one of which was Psalm 40:1-3, especially verse 2 ("He drew me up from the pit of destruction, out of the miry bog, and set my feet upon a rock, making my steps secure." ESV). When my feet felt the solidarity of whatever I was standing on in the murky pit, I felt the Lord had set my feet upon a rock as I had thought He would. Now, I had confidence and faith that He would make my steps secure. All I had to do was relax and keep trying until I finally succeeded.

However, it took me so long that my family and the instructor were becoming distressed on my behalf, for they didn't know I was patiently reciting scripture to myself and proceeding with what had to be done. I was not without oxygen since I was breathing through my mouth connected to the oxygen tank. Once I succeeded in resealing my mask properly, my instructor was so excited we shot to the surface, and he nearly squeezed me in two in his excitement as he waved and shouted that I had passed—to everyone's great relief.

Since then, there have been some memorable underwater experiences due to facing my fear. Still, the most significant long-term benefit is I can stick my head in the shower now without nearly having a heart attack.