On the Fourth of July we went to the water slide pool for the first time this summer. They'd been rebuilding the slides last summer, and so we'd never been down them before. My oldest son raced up to the top; I stayed in the tamer parts of the pool with the baby. Fifteen minutes later we crossed paths briefly. "You have to try them, Mom," he yelled. So I did.
"It is ridiculous to feel nervous," I told myself sternly. "You know perfectly well that these slides are safe. They let five-year-old children go down them."
It's a big drop, though.
The first time I went down the twisty slide I couldn't enjoy it because I was worried about what would come next. What if I went too fast? What if I dropped my glasses? What if [insert unnameable bad things here]? That's me all over: I let fun experiences pass me by because I'm worried they won't be fun experiences.
On my fourth trip down the slide it hit me: in the big picture, we only get one trip down the water slide. I can fret about the unknown and try unavailingly to brace myself against the sides. Or I can trust the Builder and the lifeguards, and just enjoy the ride.
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