The wind stung my teeth as I stood, grinning, watching a herd of boys barrel toward the ocean. A few steps into their icy plunge, the kid on the far left—the thin one with the too-short Captain America trunks—jerked his arms up and flicked his hands back and forth like he was shaking invisible maracas. Wave after wave pounded him and his comrades, yet he continued wiping out merrily till his lips turned blue.
Being in water makes my son happy. That’s not a surprise considering that the beach is my happy place too. We also share a love of swimming, which is why my husband and I signed him up for swim team two years ago. At the time, we had no idea how much the activity would help him thrive in body, mind, and spirit.
Many kids like my 12-year-old who are on the autism spectrum have a special relationship with water. Studies show that swimming helps children with Autism Spectrum Disorder (ASD) develop better speech, coordination, self-esteem, and cognitive processing. Aquatic therapy similarly improves kids’ motor skills and social functioning. Interventions involving water appear to have a calming effect on children with ASD, leaving them more relaxed and able to interact with others.
These therapies work especially well for kids on the spectrum because water offers intense sensory stimulation requiring physical movement. The specific properties of water such as pressure, buoyancy, and turbulence create a natural environment for teaching balance, a skill that can be more difficult for children with ASD to learn on land.
I dug up this research after coming across a sweet video in a Facebook group for parents of kids with high-functioning autism. A mom shared how she noticed her son, who was gleefully sloshing wet sand in and out of a yellow pail, showed his autistic mannerisms more at the beach. Dozens of parents chimed in saying their kids also acted excited and stimmed frequently when visiting the lake or ocean. One commenter added that some children with ASD feel that water is a safe place where “all their amazingness comes out because it doesn’t have to hide.”1
Reading these comments warmed my heart. I was glad for the families who had found an outlet for their children to keep regulated and play freely. Gratitude fills me when I think of that little boy happy-flapping by the shore, because I’ve witnessed the same joy in my own child.
We talk about this sometimes while driving to swim practice. I tell him, “Bud, isn’t it awesome God gave you a fun way to help with your challenges and do something you enjoy? See how much he cares for you!”
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The waves seemed tamer during our family’s second trip to the coast this summer. Their whooshing song nearly lulled me to sleep, but I knew the stillness could turn on a dime. Riptides can surprise even experienced swimmers.
Thoughts of water hazards reminded me of the floods that ravaged Texas in early July. Weeks after the news hit, I was still reeling along with the rest of the world. I consumed an unhealthy amount of media, as though I owed it to the people who died to find out what led to the catastrophe.
My friend and coauthor, Kelley, lost a college friend who was caught in the flood with her husband and two young sons. Their dog survived and is serving as companion to their 8-year-old daughter. I can’t imagine the grief she faces as the only one left in her immediate family. And to think of all the other sisters and brothers, moms and dads, grandparents and church congregations who are also mourning—it’s too much to fathom.
When tragedies like this stun us, we ask why God could allow such horrific loss. A disaster that claimed so many lives doesn’t fit with the traits he attributes to himself: loving, all-powerful, good, and kind. My initial reaction was full-on accusatory. “A campful of little girls? What are you doing, Lord?”
Our wrestling tries to solve the dilemma of God’s sovereignty. The King who commands the wind and waves could have stopped those currents from swallowing the campsite. But he didn’t.
The details of how and when God chooses to intervene in his creation remain a mystery to me. I’ve seen the way he works through water—how he calms autistic kids through drips and ripples and rhythmic strokes. The peace he gives them contrasts harshly with the devastation wreaked on Texas hill country. One context brings comfort; the other produced death. Surely those girls’ families will never look at a river with happy thoughts again.
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Bodies of water have had a treacherous reputation since ages past. Ancient civilizations associated the sea with chaos and destruction, inspiring myths of fickle gods and epic monsters. God’s Word paints a similar image. In case you haven’t noticed, many of our Sunday school classics include deadly water encounters—a global flood, a river spewing blood, and a sea that devoured hundreds of chariots and their riders.
People in biblical times didn’t trust large water sources for good reasons. As far as they knew, God put the sea on earth to administer punishment.
Like the ancients who side-eyed the deep, I tend to doubt God when life feels chaotic. If troubles are piling up and anxiety starts to rise, I lash out at him. He’s in charge; why isn’t he rescuing me from my problems? Or does he not care that I’m suffering?
Thank the Lord he has patience with his critical kids. Even amid my venting, God has proven the truth that there’s nothing more secure than his love for me. I can trust him because he is both sovereign and merciful. He wields his power for my good—the good he knows through his wisdom, which far exceeds what I can see here and now.
All those Bible tales that mention water phenomena show how God intervened to deliver his children. He took what people saw only as an instrument of destruction and used it as a vehicle for rescue. From Noah to Moses to Jonah, he made a way to bring salvation, culminating in the baptism of our Messiah.
These stories offer reminders that God is always moving us to ultimate safety. That doesn’t mean we can understand why he allows tragedies, or dismiss the ache of grief, or cure my anxiety for all time. Yet we can take comfort knowing we’re being delivered.
If you ask me, I think that’s why Paul can get away with calling trials “light and momentary”—because, like water, they ebb and flow, but not for eternity.
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Every time I watch the tide roll in at my happy place, I think of God’s promise in Isaiah 43:2. “When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and when you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over you.” The words surge with the fizz curling around my toes.
Not to sound woo-woo, but I believe water has a unique ability to convey Jesus’ presence to us. Its thundering roar and crystalline sheen and rockabye pulse let us experience his power and beauty and gentleness, like a sensory playground for the soul. I’m convinced this is one of the reasons why kids with ASD feel happy and calm near water—because they’re sensing the God who immersed himself in flesh to be our peace.
Seeing water this way helps ease my distrust. What more could I want than a King who gets in the chaos with me.
Where do you feel most relaxed, happy, and at peace? I may be biased toward water, but I’d love to hear how other people find the serenity we all crave.
People with autism vary widely in how they respond to sensory input. While some children find water calming, others have sensitivities to the environment that might lead to emotional distress. So although water can offer therapeutic benefits, it’s not a surefire solution for all kids with ASD.
I love all these connections you made, Jenn.