Kate Motaung grew up on the shores of Lake Michigan before spending ten years in Cape Town, South Africa. She is married to a South African and together they have three children. Kate is the author of the e-book, Letters to Grief, hosts the Five Minute Friday blog link-up, and has contributed to several other online publications. She blogs at Heading Home and can be found on Twitter @k8motaung.
“I’m gonna do it!” he declares with gusto as he wades his way to the steps of the pool.
Having just witnessed his elder brother and sister plunge into the chlorinated water feet first, his bravery has been challenged.
“I’m gonna jump!” he says again, each time trying to boost his own confidence.
He gets to the edge, torso hugged by a child-sized life jacket, toes curled over the concrete precipice, and he peers into the clear aqua. Slowly bending his knees, he leans forward … then pauses.
“C’mon, you can do it,” I urge, standing chest deep in tepid water, all too familiar with this scene of hesitation.
“Hold my hand,” he insists. “Catch me.”
And so the story goes, over and over.
So I do. To help him overcome his fear, I extend my arms and ease him into the water, and together, we call it a jump.
Doesn’t our heavenly Father do the same?
We think, so often, that we have to take a giant leap of faith into depths unknown, hoping, praying that somehow we’ll resurface and be able to catch our breath.
But He is ever present, extending His arms to ease us into the transition, not only catching us, but holding us the entire way.
And together, we’ll call it a jump.