There's nothing like a near-drowning to make you wanna teach your kid how to swim. The eldest flailing with arms barely above water as half-a-dozen family members played and splashed and paid no mind to the child gasping for breath just out of reach. It was a cousin nearby, a superhero of a girl, who noticed him and pulled him out of the depth and towards safety. And we were all scared witless.
So it was that we moved to an apartment with a pool and we taught the boy to swim. His sister, too. They were nervous at first, him moreso than her, for she is very rarely ever nervous about anything slightly dangerous. In no time at all they went from tip toes and gentle wading near the steps, to cannonballs and running jumps and searching for lost crocs at the bottom of the deep end.
And then they met the ocean. The boy no longer afraid, emboldened by courage and confidence and trust. The girl chasing waves, searching for treasure.
We see it in them, how they learn so readily and happily, growing in faith and gathering their strength. That dark day in the pool was the start - the tipping point - of our long journey from flailing towards trust. They lead the way, without knowing it, teaching us how to do it.
Two years can change everything. More than that, it can change us.
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