It’s the middle of May in northern Ontario. We’re battling wind and waves before our canoe betrays us entirely.

The water is so cold, it burns.

And it’s a race against the clock to get out of the lake and get warm. “Help us, Lord,” I say.

Tipping moments.

Is that what it takes to launch us over the edge of indifference and passivity?

A brutal awakening of the senses?

Later, on a Saturday, we sit across from him as he picks away at his sesame seed cake. I gulp down my freshly-pressed coffee like it’s going to save my life.

And he mentions how he’s waiting. He’s waiting for eternity to be imminent before dealing with decisions of the soul.

And when I’m drying off from the frigid lake and shivering uncontrollably under five layers of blankets, I realize I do the same thing.

I wait. I wait for the devouring eyes of eternity. I wait for the moment it’s about to pounce on me before I realize that I want a greater treasure-store in heaven.

My soul is secure. But where is my treasure?

I’ve invested all my savings plans in the pleasures of the flesh, in the snooze button, in the sufficient bank account, in the approving eyes of my co-workers.

Until I reach the tipping point.

In the middle of a lake. Immersed in frigid waters. There is nothing left except.

“Help us, Lord.”

But I don’t want God to be my last breath. Or my dying wish.

I want Him to be my morning song. And my First Thought.

And tipping points can put you right-side-up again. If you don’t throw it in the category of coincidence.

“Let me hear in the morning of your steadfast love, for in you I trust. Make me know the way I should go, for to you I lift up my soul.” Psalm 143:8