One of my favorite moments in Finding Nemo is when Dory—sweet, forgetful, slightly chaotic Dory—looks at Marlin having a full-on panic spiral and chirps, “Just keep swimming, just keep swimming…”
It’s funny because it shouldn’t work.
And it’s true because, somehow, it does.
That line became a real-life theme in our house when Tom decided to start doing triathlons.
Now—if you know Tom—you know he can bike for days. He can run on hills that make I get tired walking on.
But the swim?
The swim was… a whole thing.
When he first started training, I’d take the kayak out with him on Lake Norman. And I wish you could’ve seen us out there. He’d start strong, determined, slicing through the water. And then—right in the middle of the lake—he’d suddenly pop his head up, tread water, and start talking.
Not breathing.
Not swimming.
Talking. Aka – complaining,
“I can’t do this.”
“I think I’m swallowing the entire lake.”
“I’m never going to be able to do the swim.”
“My legs feel like dead weight.”
And I’d sit there in the kayak, trying to look supportive while also thinking, “Well, stopping in the middle of open water to have a conversation probably isn’t helping…”
Then, we’d have some energy around how I wasn’t being supportive.
There he was . . . bobbing up and down, saying how he “couldn’t” do it.
My dad used to say, “Can’t never could do nothing.”
One day, I’d had enough. It was hot. There were spiders in my kayak (which is not ok). And I had things I needed to do.
“Will you just shut the f*** up and swim?”
Not my finest moment.
But – one thing about Tom . . . every single time, after the rant, after the doubt, after the moment where fear tried to win—he’d take a deep breath, put his face back in the water, and keep going.
Stroke after stroke.
Not perfectly.
Not confidently.
But faithfully.
Just keep swimming.
Even when it doesn’t feel great.
Even when the middle is scary.
Which brings me to Luke 17:
“They went. And while still on their way, they became clean.”
— Luke 17:14
Jesus didn’t touch them. Didn’t pray a grand healing prayer. Didn’t give them a guarantee.
He just said, “Go show yourselves to the priest.”
So imagine this:
Still leprous.
Still outsiders.
Still marked by everything that had defined their pain…
And he tells them to start walking toward the very system that had rejected them.
The guts that must have taken.
That’s not certainty. That’s not clarity. That’s courage.
And somewhere between their starting point and their destination… they were healed.
Not at the beginning.
Not at the end.
Right in the messy, scary, uncertain middle.
Honestly? That’s been me lately.
Months of “the funk.” Not full-on depression, just that foggy space where your mind won’t stop overthinking, where everything feels heavier than it should, where you forget you have community even when community is standing right beside you.
And like Tom out there in the lake, pausing mid-swim to declare his imminent doom, I’ve had my own moments of popping my head up out of life’s waters to say, “Is this working? Am I working? Shouldn’t this be easier by now?”
But here’s what Luke reminds us:
Healing doesn’t usually hit like lightning.
It comes while you’re still moving.
Still doubting.
Still breathing hard.
Still taking the next step when your emotions are telling you to quit.
Wholeness happens in motion.
Just keep swimming.
Just keep walking.
Just keep doing the next faithful thing.
Somewhere between here and there… something is already being restored.
Reflection
What’s the “middle of the lake” moment in your life right now—the place where you’re tempted to stop and question everything?
Take a breath.
Take the next step.
Your healing may already be happening—not at the finish line, but right in the middle of the messy, faithful movement forward.
Grace and Peace,
Andrea