When in deep water ...

Punxsutawney Area Middle School swimming pool, where I'm learning to swim

     
When you pass through the waters, I will be with you. – Isaiah 43:2 NIV
     
     
The first couple of times I jumped off the low diving board at the local swimming pool, I landed on the sloped side near the ladder, so I didn’t think it was a problem that I couldn’t swim.
     
A teenage girl wants to do the things her friends are doing, right? And I was tired of playing it safe in the shallow water while everyone else was having a blast in the deep end of the pool. Back then I didn’t even know how to tread water. The only thing I knew how to do was the dead man’s float.
     
“How hard could it be?” I thought as I watched the others splashing off the diving board that long ago summer day. All I had to do was hop off the side so I landed on the slope near the ladder. So I swallowed my trepidation and took my place in line.
     
My strategy worked twice. The third time, however, I plunged into waters above my head.
     
I don’t remember how many times I bobbed to the surface, panicked and thrashing, my short life passing before my closed eyes. Then strong arms pulled me to safety. As I sat on the concrete beside the crowded pool, gasping and trembling, a lifelong fear was born.
     
For five decades, deep water terrified me. My kids all learned to swim, no thanks to me. When we went swimming, I stayed in the shallow water. When we went boating, I made sure I had a life vest strapped on tight.
     
Then my son and daughter-in-law bought an above-ground pool. Hot summer days found me cooling off in sun-warmed water that only came up to my neck. I learned to tread water and to propel myself beneath the surface. I practiced floating and splashed from one side of the pool to the other. As long as I could touch bottom (and my head was above the water), I was fine.
     
Maybe this long, cold winter made me stir crazy, but earlier this month I bought a pass for the indoor pool at the local middle school and began swimming lessons. By December, I told myself, I’d swim from one end of the pool to the other.
     
Last week, at the end of my second lesson, I met that goal, swimming on my back, my instructor beside me every stroke of the way.
     
“You’re doing fine,” she’d say. “Just a little farther.”
     
And so I kept going—swimming in 12 feet of water—something I didn’t think I’d do for a long time. But I couldn’t have done it without my instructor there beside me, encouraging me, giving me confidence with her presence.
     
It’s the same way with my swim through life.
     
When I must navigate deep waters, I’m not alone. My Instructor is beside me, encouraging me, ready to pull me out should I go under. His presence gives me the confidence I need to push on, just a little farther, stroke by stroke, until I finally reach the other side.
     
Thank you, Father God, that You never leave me or forsake me—even when I get in over my head. Amen.

More tea: Read Isaiah 43:1–7

Walking in the dark

Let him who walks in the dark, who has no light, trust in the name of the LORD, and rely on his God. – Isaiah 50:10 (NIV)

After an evening of good eating and family fun at my son and daughter-in-law’s next door, I decided, around 9 p.m., to head home—alone, since my husband wasn’t ready to leave.

The last time I’d walked home from their place after dark, the moon reflected on the snow-covered fields. This time, however, there was no moon and no snow to light my way. The night was as black as black could be—one of those nights that I could hold my hand inches from my face and not even discern its outline.

Since I had no flashlight, I decided, rather than stumble along the two-tenths of a mile of dirt lane, to take the shorter path across the field between our houses. If I fell, the grass would make for a softer landing than packed dirt strewn with gravel.

But in the inky darkness, my eyes couldn’t find where the path began. Once I was on the familiar walkway, I knew I could find my way home. But darkness makes even the familiar become unfamiliar. Holding my arms out in front of me, I gingerly stepped toward what I thought was the path. A couple of steps later I nearly took a tumble when I tripped over what felt like a large clump of sod. After a choice muttering or two, and a few more cautious steps, I faintly discerned the path from the overgrown field.

Fortunately I made it home without falling—or encountering the polecat that visited our environs the previous night.

Walking by faith, not by sight, can be pretty scary. Even when I’m on familiar ground. I know there’s a path that will lead me to where I want to go, but in the inky blackness of circumstances, I can’t find it. There are moments I’m too afraid of falling to take one step. But I can’t stand there in the dark and wait until morning. And I can’t turn around and go back because the path behind me is just as dark. I must push on, one careful step at a time.

But it’s in the dark that faith and trust grow strong and tall and resilient. If I knew what was ahead, I wouldn’t need faith. I wouldn’t have to trust in a God I can’t see. Faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see (Hebrews 11:1). If all we experience is light, we’d have no need of faith. And it is our faith, more than anything else, that pleases God (Hebrews 11:6).

In life there are times we have no choice but to walk in the dark. But we do have the choice whether we’ll walk that black path alone—or with God, who promises never to leave us (Hebrews 13:5) and for whom the darkness is as light as the day (Psalm 139:12).

Dear God, when the path before me is inky black and fear paralyzes me, remind me that I am not alone, for You are always with me. Amen.

Special-Tea: Proverbs 3:5–6; Psalm 139