The associated reading for this reflection can be found in your Every Sacred Sunday Mass journal or online here.
Whenever the Summer Olympics come around, I always watch swimming. As a former competitive swimmer, I love to think back to my not-so-Ledecky times in the pool. Before that, my parents put my sister and I in swimming lessons. We learned to float, cough with water up our noses, and eventually swim confidently.
One vivid childhood memory involves clinging to my mom’s legs and feet as she sat on the pool’s edge. I’d move up and down with each kick of her legs, slowly shifting to her feet, away from the edge, until I got scared, quickly paddling back in. We’d play this game until I could float away and swim to a nearby edge. I felt safe there, knowing she wouldn’t back away from me like my swim instructors would, like the ones drawing me into the deep end. Years went on and the pool became a second home.
Fast forward two decades. I had a chance to snorkel with my mom in a shallow Philippine bay and quickly learned one thing that I never realized before: she couldn’t swim. Those times at the pool’s edge—that was as far she felt comfortable going.
With some convincing and a guarantee that I wouldn’t leave her, we waded into the ocean. With any sudden wave, she'd latch onto me as I gently floated with her, watching curious fish nibble our hands and feet. It was one of the first times I saw doubt and fear in my usually confident mother. It was my turn to make her feel safe—the same mom who had taken me to countless swimming lessons—in the same place that I did.
In a similar way, my parents gave me “swimming lessons” in my faith. They put me through Catholic education, allowing me to learn from faithful teachers and catechists, letting me find myself in the depths of the Church’s teaching and faith.
When I encountered challenges and difficulties in my faith and life, I knew I had a safe place—the Sacraments and my parents’ advice—to swim to, a quiet, shallow cove away from the waves to recover and breathe again. Sometimes it’s hard for us to find that quietness in life, and sometimes that cove is suddenly taken from us.
Like Mary seeking refuge with Elizabeth, may we find our quiet places to recover and stay afloat in life’s waves, discovering our own miracles.
Whether it’s at Mass, or in the hands of Our Lady in the beads and prayers of the Rosary, or over a warm meal and conversation, may we remember as the Psalmist tells us: that we “are borne in with gladness and joy.”
James Ramos is a Texas-based photo-journalist, designer and founder of The Lost Pilgrims Club. He loves a good soup, roller coasters, swimming and anything by Father Henri Nouwen. Say hi on Instagram and find more of his photography and writing.