Last Sunday afternoon, Donn and I went to the Stoneboro Fair, mainly to hear the group Justified.  Afterward, we walked around taking in other exhibits and activities. One thing that got our attention was a six- or seven-year-old girl trying to get up her courage to jump about 15 feet to a large jumping cushion below. A crowd had gathered to watch.The child repeatedly took a deep breath and got into a partial, squat, but inevitably  released her breath and returned to a standing position. The attendant, endlessly patient, stood close beside her, occasionally leaning over to make suggestions.

The minutes ticked by as the crowd did their best to encourage the little girl in various ways, sometimes counting loudly, “Three… Two… One…!” But all in vain.

It reminded me of the day my swimming instructor told me it was time for me to jump into the deep end of her pool. My father’s brother had been caught in rip-tides and drowned when he was a teenager, and my father, who was with him, had almost suffered the same fate. His fear of something similar happening to us had quickly translated into fear of the water for me.

It took a greater fear to induce  me to attempt to over come my fear of the water—a fear that Robbie our daring toddler, would jump in over his head–and mine—leaving me unable to rescue him. On my first day of swimming lessons, I was told to bob up and down in the water. After some minutes of what seemed like deep sea diving to me, my instructor said, “Now get the top of your head wet, Daisy!”

Needless to say, my progress was slow but the day I had dreaded eventually came, the day my teacher wanted me to jump in over my head. Sensing my reluctance, Joan said, “We’ll hold hands and count to three, then jump together.”

She took my hand and we counted. “One… Two… Three…” Joan jumped and I didn’t. Fortunately, my instructor was as patient as the attendant we were watching, and I think I jumped on the third attempt.

As we continued to watch the wavering child, I was thankful not only for the attendant’s amazing patience, but for my heavenly Father’s unwavering patience with me when I’ve faced big challenges. I remembered the day I headed for Grove City Alliance Church to audition to play the piano for their contemporary service. I was quaking in my boots.

The radio preacher I was listening to told about a child who ran to a small slide, climbed the ladder quickly, and slid down. Then she ran to a medium-sized slide and did the same. But when she approached the third slide, one much taller than the other two, she turned to her father who had been watching her silently.

“Daddy,” his daughter said reaching for his hand, “I’m going to need your help with this one.”

The preacher said that’s how we feel sometimes when God asks us to do something that we know is beyond our ability. That’s when we take our heavenly Father’s hand and say, “I’m going to need your help with this one!” I knew God was speaking to me. I couldn’t do this job without His help.

My oldest brother who received a frightening diagnosis ten years ago told me, “Sometimes it’s good for a person just to be set back on their heels and know that, unless God helps you, you’re not going to get through this.” By God’s grace, he got through it and now, ten years later at age 82, he continues to work four days a week, as well as pastor a church and lead worship.

I held my breath as the little girl teetered, her toes out over the edge of the platform. Would she jump or would she turn around in defeat and climb back down the ladder?

A roar went up from the crowd as the child took one more mighty breath, completed her jump and walked away triumphant. I rejoiced because I know from experience that every time we give up and climb down the ladder, it becomes that much harder to try again.

I’m praying for anyone today who might be like that little girl, wavering and afraid to commit to that leap of faith God is calling you to make. I’m praying you’ll find the courage to reach out to your heavenly Father, saying, “I’m going to need your help with this one.”

Father, grant us the courage to take our eyes off the size of task you’re asking us to do and get our eyes back on you, the One who can enable and empower us to do it. Amen.

(Blogs will resume on September 30th, 2022.)