I clutched her little body to my chest as we bobbed in the clean warmth of the water.  I was careful to hold her up so her lips stayed above the surface as she chattered.  She was wearing a life preserver, so there was no real danger of her slipping below the water, even though I was aware that we were nearing the point where the bottom of the pool slopes away. Sure enough, in one more step the bottom fell away and disappeared.  I was over my head, treading water.  A sense of panic—born of a childhood experience of being over my head and held down against my will—rose up.

It was a hot, humid day and the pool was packed.  Children dove and splashed, turned and swam.  Squeals and shouts and laughter rang out all around us.  She was laughing, too, until a small wave caught her just as she took a breath.  She sputtered and choked.  “This pool is wavy,” she remarked after one last cough.

Before I could answer her, a great, guttural sense of grief washed over me.  Within my mind and against my will I was in a place thousands of miles from our sunshiny-safe existence.  For that one brief moment I was a salt-soaked refugee, clinging desperately to his child in the middle of an unforgiving sea.

My feet scrambled and searched for a place to touch.  As I inched my way to the side of the pool with my granddaughter’s arms clinging happily around my neck, I could not shake the sense of despair I felt for the refugee.  The sea’s salt waves are relentless and his feet cannot touch.

My heart cannot shake the sadness it feels for thousands of those who would gladly take my place on this beautiful day.  Climbing from the pool to dry off, both guilt and gratitude fight for a space within my heart.  All I can do is pray that the refugees find the sanctuary of a welcoming shore.