On rainy summer days, my mum used to send us children up into the attic. As an adult, I understand why. Ours was only a small cottage, and when rain kept us indoors, we children must have made the walls ring with our noise, our energy, our endless movement. Sending us upstairs must have brought her at least a little peace.

Up we went, one after another, climbing the steep, narrow staircase into the roof space above. Attics are so often cast as gloomy places in stories — full of shadows, secrets, and things long forgotten. But the attic of my childhood was nothing of the sort. To me, it was the most special part of our summer cottage.

It was a world of wonder.

A treasure trove of old things and quiet beauty, filled with curious objects that seemed to belong to another life, another age. There were old suitcases, spinning wheels, elegant bird cages, and all manner of fascinating things that stirred my imagination. The ceiling was low, the rafters close enough to knock your head on if you forgot to duck. Light poured in through a small window at the far end, soft and slanting, as though it had entered reverently. The floorboards creaked beneath us as we made our way to our floor beds.

And then there was the rain.

That was always the best part.

Lying there under the roof, listening to the steady patter of rain overhead, I felt something I would not have had words for as a child. The world outside might have been grey and wet, but inside that attic I felt sheltered, held, and strangely at peace. It was a place where my thoughts seemed to slow down. A place where dreams came easily. A place where I could speak to God in the quiet simplicity of a child’s heart.

Even now, when I think of that attic, I do not just remember it. I feel it.

I woke this morning to the news that, after significant rainfall, thousands of Victorians had been told to evacuate as floodwaters continued to rise. I sat glued to the television, watching the images of the Maribyrnong River flooding. Street after street disappearing under muddy water. Homes threatened. Lives interrupted. People standing helplessly at the mercy of something far bigger than themselves.

And Maribyrnong is not just a place name to me. It is part of my own story.

It was the very first suburb my family lived in when we came to Australia. It was where I went to school. It was where the beginnings of our Australian life were written. Then, in the middle of the flood coverage, I heard our old street mentioned by name. And suddenly this was no longer simply a news story unfolding somewhere else. It felt personal. Intimate. As though the floodwaters had reached not only streets and homes, but memory itself.

Later, as I drove to an appointment, I kept listening to the radio. The message was constant, urgent, impossible to ignore: evacuate now, move to higher ground.

I heard the story of a woman trapped on the upper floor of her home, carrying upstairs whatever she physically could before the lower level flooded in the early hours of the morning. I could picture her so clearly. The strain. The fear. The desperate instinct to save what matters while the water keeps rising.

Then came the policeman’s warning over the radio: deciding to drive on a flooded road could be the last decision you ever make.

Not long after, my own car came to an abrupt halt.

I was only a few blocks from home, but the road ahead had disappeared completely. There was no road any longer, only water stretching out before me. Water as far as my eyes could see. And there, almost absurdly, ducks were swimming in it, as though this sudden watery world belonged to them. The surface looked calm enough, almost still, but there was something deeply unsettling in that calm. Floodwaters do not need to rage to be dangerous. What appears quiet can still carry enormous force. What seems gentle can still sweep a life away.

Sitting there, staring at that vanished road, I found myself thinking about how quickly life can change.

How one moment the path is clear, and the next it is gone.

How what feels solid can suddenly give way.

How fragile our plans really are.

And perhaps that is why these floods returned me, in my mind, to the attic of my childhood. Perhaps because both places speak to something deep within me. One reminds me of danger entering uninvited, the other of safety found above it. One speaks of rising waters, the other of higher ground.

Floodwaters permeate homes much the way sorrow permeates lives. Illness does not knock politely before entering. Cancer invades bodies. Accidents happen without warning. Loss comes, and all at once what once felt ordinary becomes unbearably precious. So much of life can feel random, unstable, and painfully beyond our control. We build, we plan, we love, and still there are seasons when the waters rise.

Maybe that is why the words move to higher ground feel like more than practical advice.

Maybe they carry a spiritual truth as well.

As I listened to those words repeated again and again for families in flood-affected areas, something in me began climbing the stairs of memory. Back up the steep, narrow staircase of my childhood. Back to that attic beneath the roof. Back to the sound of rain falling safely above me. Back to the little girl who lay there in stillness and talked to God.

And there, in that remembered place, I found something I think I still search for now.

Serenity.

Not because the world is safe. Not because life is predictable. Not because sorrow cannot reach us. But because even when the waters rise, there is still a place the soul can go. A higher place. A quieter place. A place of refuge. A place where fear loosens its grip and the heart remembers that it is not alone.

Perhaps that is what faith has always been for me.

A climbing.

A lifting of the eyes.

A making my way, however shakily, towards higher ground.

And when life feels flooded, when the road ahead disappears, when the world becomes uncertain and the waters rise around the things we love, I find myself returning there again — to that attic of memory, to that childlike place of prayer, to that sacred stillness where God meets me.

There are some refuges we never truly outgrow.

For me, one of them will always be a childhood attic, a rainy roof, and the quiet comfort of talking to God.