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Locked down alongside a river is a lovely place to be. Even though we’re required to remain still, we get to watch the constant movement of the river. It never stops moving. The tide rises up covering the reeds that frame it and the small sandy slipways. As the tide comes in, the river bulges from its ocean belly filling with life. Fish swim in with the salty seawater, seeking food and safer place to multiply. Then just as quickly the tide goes out. It retracts from the banks, emptying out what the river no longer needs. 

 Everyday my husband and sons wait patiently for this ‘turning of the tide’. It’s the perfect time to cast their lines into the water. The old fisherman a few houses down knows this river well. I think he’s learnt what it takes to catch more than just the incoming tide. We see him standing there, sun-tanned and big bellied. He patiently waits. He spends much longer on the waters edge than we do and he always seems to reap the rewards of the rising tide. We’re hopelessly jealous. Our efforts are not quite as fruitful. I think he feels bad that he catches so much more than we do, so the other night he dropped off a huge fresh cob for us. We had to fillet it as it was too big to fit whole on the braai. We feasted on the big chunks of white meat licking lips at the taste of lemon and sea salt. Around the braai the boys passionately debated how the old man could possibly pull in a fish of this size? What was his secret? 

 Just at the time the tide was turning yesterday, my husband had a Zoom call. He asked if I would sit and watch his rod (oh these crazy days! In one breath we’re Zooming across the world and in another we’re casting a line in the water!) I gladly obliged. My patience with the kids was wearing thin and I’d had about enough of ‘home-schooling’ for the day. And, if truth be told, I’ve always fancied myself as a bit of a fisherwoman!

 As I sat, patiently manning the fishing rod, I thought about how nature seems to move in this perfect inward and outward motion. It’s as if she knows that for every moment of fullness and of overflowing, there needs also to be a time of emptying out, of pulling back and of flushing away the dead reeds that can otherwise clog the riverbanks.  

 This brought me back to those beautiful, familiar words, “For everything there is a season, a time for every purpose under heaven … a time to plant and a time to reap … a time to break down and a time to build up … a time to gain and a time to lose … a time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing…” (Ecclesiastes 3:1-8)

 As this lockdown forces us to ‘refrain from embracing’ (I hate this as I love a good hug!), it’s also teaching us extreme patience. This week as our President addressed the nation, his tired eyes pleading with us, “We need to be patient...” 

In so many ways I’m having to learn to be patient – home schooling three kids perhaps being one of the greatest teachers! 

 I’ve spent many hours sitting on this wooden jetty watching the constant movement of the river. It somehow calms this anxious rumbling inside me. It also helps me see how, with her perfect rhythms now less disturbed, Nature is able to take a few long, deep inward and outward breaths. She continues to beckon her tides into their daily rhythm of filling up and emptying out. 

 In so many ways we’ve entered a season of extreme emptiness. My heart aches for the stomachs that are empty, the bank accounts, shops and businesses that are empty. For all of us during this season; emptiness means something different – but either way, it feels scary.

 As I sit, dangling my toes in the water, tickled by it’s continual motion; I am reminded that the tide will indeed turn. 

 If we are patient, the waters will rise, the tide will come in and fullness and hugging will again return. I think I know the secret of that old fisherman. Yes, it’s patience.  If we can learn just a little of it, who knows, we may just catch a fish of our own.