Kitchen Table Wisdom

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Here at the kitchen table, we’ve learned that some lessons stay with us because they were written into our bodies long before we had words to explain them. One of mine begins at the river.

I didn’t learn to swim in a pool.

I learned in the river—cold, moving, alive.

In the shallow places, the water was gentle. You could stand there without thinking. You could feel the smooth stones beneath your feet. You could pretend you were in control.

But the river has a way of calling you deeper.

My dad knew that. He knew I would never learn to swim if I stayed where the water behaved. So, one day, he took me into the deep.

He led me out past the place where my toes could grip the riverbed. Out where the current moved faster. Out where the water pulled instead of supported.

He held me with his hands and said, “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

And then—slowly, deliberately—he let go.

The river felt different in the deep.
It didn’t wait for me.
It didn’t pause to see if I was ready.

It simply moved, and I had to move with it.

I panicked at first. The current tugged at me, and I was certain I would go under. But before fear could swallow me, my dad’s hand came back beneath me—steady, sure, familiar.

He reminded me that he wouldn’t let me sink, even when I couldn’t feel his arms around me.

Somewhere in that deeper water, trust began to grow.

Not because I was brave.
Not because I suddenly understood the river.
But because I trusted the one who held me.

Eventually, I began to swim—awkward, uneven strokes at first, but real ones. I stopped fighting the river quite so hard. I discovered that confidence didn’t come from mastering the current. It came from trusting the one who was with me in it.

I think about that river often, especially when life carries me somewhere deeper than I planned.

The shallow places feel safe. They’re predictable. They’re manageable. They let us believe we’re in control. And sometimes, for a season, that’s exactly where we need to be.

But we aren’t meant to live there forever.

Shallow water shelters us.

Deep water forms us.

The deeper places — the ones with stronger currents and uncertain footing — are where trust becomes more than a word. They’re where faith grows muscles. They’re where we discover that being held is stronger than holding on.

There is a line of Scripture that has followed me through many seasons, especially the ones that feel like deep water:

“The eternal God is your refuge, and underneath are the everlasting arms.”
— Deuteronomy 33:27

Underneath.

Not watching from the riverbank.

Not waiting in the shallows.

Underneath.

The arms that steady us when the current picks up.

The arms that catch us when fear rises.

The arms that hold us when life moves deeper than we expected.

I didn’t learn to swim because the river was gentle.

I learned because I trusted the one whose arms were beneath me.

Faith grows the same way.

Life has a way of carrying us into deep water:

A diagnosis.

A loss.

A change we didn’t choose.

A season that asks more of us than we feel ready to give.

We don’t always get to stay in the shallows.

But we do get to be held.

Kitchen Table Wisdom

If you find yourself in deep water right now, take heart.

You don’t have to be fearless.

You don’t have to understand everything.

You don’t have to hold yourself up.

The current may be stronger than you expected, but it is never stronger than the One who holds you.

You are not alone in the river.

And underneath you—steady, unseen, everlasting—are the arms of God.

Cathy D.