It’s a sunny September Saturday at the end of the first full week back in school, and I feel like I’m just about coming up for air. For a summary of what this week looked like, we did:

32 school/bus drop offs and pick ups (5 children, 3 schools, 2 different entrances, different times of day..)

2 school visits

2 mornings dressing/driving whilst on hold to the GP

2 pharmacy visits to collect antibiotics

1 ‘independent’ gymnastics session with a child attached to my leg

5 days of reminders to make your lunch, take your lunch, make a drink, take the drink, find the mask, find the mask bag, remember your equipment, don’t forget the antibac gel, check what room you’re going to, practice the piano, put your mask in the wash, put your uniform in the wash, wash your hands, wash your hands, wash your hands.

Made 1 spreadsheet to make sure no-one was left abandoned and no meetings were missed.

Rearranged a school meeting 5 times whilst the staff member waited for test results.

Walked 1000 steps on the school one way system along 3 streets 12 times.

Kept one poorly child home and given them countless doses of calpol and antibiotics.

Watched 1 neighbouring county go into lockdown.

Had conversations over 7 days about jobs, money, and the next 6 months.

Bought 5 more masks.

Tried to work out which 2 family members we are allowed to meet with from Monday. Until Toby turns 11. And then we’re down to hanging out with one other person of our choosing.

It feels like the storm clouds are swirling again, and talking to others, I don’t think I’m alone in feeling that. There is hard news in the media, hard news in people’s personal lives. Nothing in life at the moment seems simple or familiar. We tasted a lifting of lockdown and now the gates are closing again. Or to misquote Notting Hill (best film. fact.), it’s like we’ve taken freedom heroin and now we can’t ever have it again.

I was thinking in the week, how do I get through these days when I feel like the waves are getting bigger, when I’m fed up and I’m struggling to stay positive, how do I keep swimming?

This wife of a surfer-swimmer man has a confession.

I’m afraid of the sea.

When I was a child, we once had a special day out, where we got to meet one of my Dad’s work colleagues. My Dad worked in central London, so we didn’t generally meet any of his work friends. But this particular man kept animals, and invited our family to go and visit his land and ride his horses. It was a big event in my mind, a day to be remembered.

And then a few months later, we heard that the gentleman had disappeared. He went sea fishing, and he never returned. His body washed up further down the coast a few days later.

And the sea became an enemy in my mind. Something dangerous, powerful, unpredictable. I loved standing and looking at it, but I didn’t feel safe enough to get in it. And then I married a man who loves the sea, and we took our children to the beach, and I had to choose anxiety or enjoyment on those beach days. And so over the years I’ve learned to understand it more. To trust Liam’s strength and knowledge and ability when he goes surfing – although he knows I don’t rest until I get his text to say he’s out of the water. We’ve made swimming lessons of high importance for our children. And a couple of summers ago, Megan and Maisie took part in a Swim Safe course, organised by the RNLI and Swim England, to give children the skills to enjoy open water, and to know how to deal with potential risks, and to teach them the anti-drowning campaign – Respect the Water.

And the advice is this. When you are at risk of drowning, fight your instinct to thrash around. Relax. Float. And call for help.

I had a restless night earlier in the week when I was feeling unwell, and as I dozed on and off and then came to, the words of the Lauren Daigle song I’d been listening to in the car came to me – ‘look up child.’

‘Where are You now, when darkeness seems to win?

Where are You now when the world is crumbling?

Oh I hear You say, I hear You say, Look up child.

Where are You now when all I feel is doubt?

Where are You now when I can’t figure it out?

Oh I, I hear You say Look up child.

You’re not threatened by the war

You’re not shaken by the storm

I know You’re in control

Even in our suffering

Even when it can’t be seen

I know You’re in control.

Oh I, I hear You say, Look up child.’

My only answer in these days and weeks of that drowning feeling is to follow the advice. Stop fighting. Relax. Float on the promises of hope that safety will come. And ask for help.

For me to stop fighting it takes reminding myself it’s ok to find it hard. It’s ok to only manage one thing at a time. One day at a time. It’s ok to slow down when I’m tired and ill. To talk – or not talk. To read. To listen. To rest.

Relaxing looks like reminding myself of all the good that we’ve found this week. The many answers to prayer. The kids who are running happily into school and loving it. The schools that care and the staff that go above and beyond to help our children through their differing challenges. The successful school visits. The amazing friends, old and new. The ones who love our family, the ones who love our kiddos. The other children who have befriended ours, who welcome them as they are, who make them feel like they belong. The car that passed it’s MOT. The happy post. The chance of going to church again tomorrow. Modern medicine that provides relief and healing. Seeing family. Creating. The stuff that’s made us laugh a lot.

I look up the verses that have kept me afloat before, and ride the waves of uncertainty on them. ‘But now, thus says the Lord, he who created you O Jacob, he who formed you O Israel: ‘Fear not, for I have redeemd you; I have called you by name, you are mine. When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you; when you walk through the fire you shall not be burned, and the flame shall not consume you.’ (Is 43).

And I need to remember to call for help. Sometimes on weeks where it feels like there’s something going on with every family member, if I’m asked how we are, I don’t really know how to respond. I’m grateful for the people who take the time to listen to the details, because often I feel I should condense it so I don’t bore the listener – ‘oh, ups and downs.’ Or ‘some struggles with some kids but lots to be thankful for’. Obviously not everyone needs to know everything, but there are times when I need to find the people who I can share the burden with, the ones I know will be kind and real. Who will care and pray. Who will bring coffee/cake/prosecco. Who will help me remember there’s always something to be thankful for.

And most of all I need to call for help from the One who made the waves. Who can speak and stop the storm, or who will walk through the rising waves and wind to grab my hand, and pull me to safety through it. I need to look up. At the One who isn’t threatened by the war – or by my doubts. Who isn’t shaken by the storm – or my fears and tears. Who is in control.

This year continues to throw out the bad and the ugly, but I don’t want to get dragged down by them and miss the good. I read an article this morning that talked about the prospect of Christmas being cancelled this year, potentially the next casualty of 2020. And in amongst all the depressing reading was a quote from a professor from East Anglia University, who said ‘Christmas is a religious festival and will never be formally “cancelled”. And that was the bit that gave me hope. It may not come with all the trimmings this year, but Christmas can’t ever be cancelled, because Christ came. The One who formed the oceans came down to earth and walked on the waters that He’d made, reaching out His hand to his drowning friend and lifting him to safety. And He’s here still. Reaching out to us in the wild waves of 2020. So even in the uncertainty I can relax, float, ride the waves, and call for help. And help will come.