Didn't My Skin Used to Fit? by Martha Bolton Page B

pastor. I didn’t know how to swim, so every time he’d dive under the water to grab me, I’d take refuge by standing on his back. This seemed like a good idea to me at the time, but he was of a different opinion. Something about needing to breathe. Each time I stood on his back, he’d carry me for as long as he could, then finally knock me off so he could—breathe.
    Once when he knocked me off, though, we were in nine feet of water, and down I went. I could hear voices laughing and talking in the background, but no one seemed to notice I was drowning. All I could do was pray and try not to open my mouth while doing so. The only parts of my body I could raise out of the water were my hands. I tried waving them, but still no one noticed my plight.
    On my fourth attempt to rise to the surface, no part of my body cleared the water. That was when I began to accept the fact that it was over. I wasn’t happy about it, mind you. Drowning was not on the list of retreat activities. But there wasn’t a thing I could do to help myself.
    Finally, someone yelled, ‘‘Hey, look, she’s drowning!’’ From the moment I heard those words, I knew everything was going to be OK. I was still sinking like a rock in nine feet of water, but I now had hope.
    Our youth pastor swam over to me and pulled me up and to the side of the pool, thus saving my life. I easily could have drowned that day. But God had a different plan for my life.
    In the years that have followed, I’ve had other brushes with death. I’m sure you could relate some of your own. Arriving at an intersection four seconds earlier, you might have been hit by that car running the red light. Taking a closer look at the prescription spared you from swallowing someone else’s medication.
    Each of us may have missed death hundreds of times without even being aware of it.
    Only God knows precisely how much time he’s assigned us. There’s no drop-in company in heaven. We’re not going to get there a day sooner than he’s expecting us. So whether we’ve been given forty-five years or ninety, it’s up to us not to waste a single second of it.

    Many of life’s failures are people who did not realize how close they were to success when they gave up.
—Thomas A. Edison

49

And Another Thing . . .
    A character’s dying words are usually pretty moving—in the movies. Their lines have been brilliantly scripted by a screenwriter. They are concise yet poignant. There’s no redundancy or bad grammar. You won’t hear any clichés uttered on a deathbed on the big screen. The writer will give his character something memorable to say, something that will put the audience in awe of his wisdom at such a time.
    It doesn’t always happen that way in real life, though. Most of us don’t wax eloquent when we’re taking that final breath. On his deathbed, H. G. Wells uttered these memorable last words: ‘‘Go away. I’m all right.’’ Pancho Villa was even less prepared for his final sentiment. He said, ‘‘Don’t let it end like this. Tell them I said something.’’ Convicted murderer James Rodgers had a little more time to think about what he would say before his death. When asked for his final request before facing the firing squad, he said, ‘‘Why, yes—a bulletproof vest.’’
    Dying people have left us with brilliant insights as to the meaning of life. They’ve used their final words to reconcile broken relationships not only with people but also with their God. They’ve even used their last breath to utter revisions to their will, especially if their beloved beneficiary is standing at their bedside with a date.
    When it comes time for me to utter my last words, I’m afraid I won’t be able to do it. As a writer, I know I’m going to keep wanting to do a rewrite. I can hear myself now: ‘‘Take time to stop and smell the roses.’’ Too cliché. ‘‘I regret that I have but one life to give for my cooking.’’ No good either. That would force an