The High Dive

Watching the kids at swimming lessons this week reminds me of my early times at the pool. I was afraid to get my face wet, afraid to open my eyes under water, afraid to jump off the edge of the pool.

And the queen mother of all, afraid to jump off the high dive. From the water, the high dive didn't look so high, but as I climbed up the ladder, I found myself questioning the decision to climb. Once someone else started climbing the ladder behind me, it was too late to turn back. You don't want to known as the kid who chickened out on the high dive.

From the end of the board, it felt like the world was swaying. The bottom of the pool looked so far away. So many thing could go wrong. What if the water didn't slow my fall? What if I did a belly flop? What if I accidentally inhaled?

I fear a lot more things now that give me that same feeling. Boring grownups things like what if my husband loses his job or what if my kids don't turn out right or what if homeschooling was the most colossal mistake?

I think the high dive reminds me that often the fear of something is worse than the threat. As far as I know, no kid ever died jumping off the high dive at our pool. And in my past experience, there's never been a time, no matter what my circumstances, that God didn't sustain me until my feet could touch the bottom.