Jesus is in the boat with his disciples. A big storm comes up. They’re frightened, as anyone would be in a little boat with big waves. Waves and boats are a pair of things that always inspire in me a sense of God’s superlative and inarguable power. Jesus is not worrying with them, or holding their hands, or calming them down. He’s asleep in the front of the boat, which frightens them all the more.
Jesus, Jesus, wake up! He awakens, commands, “Peace be still”, and there was a great calm. He turns to the disciples and is testy with them, that they had no faith.
This morning’s pre-trip reflection is about having faith in God, in the face of storms. When a group of well-intentioned North Americans, accustomed to our normal things, intentionally put ourselves in the midst of well-intentioned Latin Americans, accustomed to their normal things, it is only natural to think there will be storms. We’re heading – intentionally – into uncharted waters. We go with deep faith, and still will encounter the unexpected that will frighten, unsettle, or challenge our sense of the known and predictible. We are asked to remember that Jesus is, in fact, with us as we go. We are charged with refusing to doubt that, even in the face of – whatever.
It is Saturday morning, and my house is quiet. The storm in my life has been stilled, for now. My loved one is in the hospital for up to 90 days, after quite a tumultuous three weeks that involved several police and mental health crisis visits to our house. A couple of days where they were on the street, absolutely ill-equipped, a breakdown that resulted in another contact with the police, admittance to the hospital, and a court hearing for longer-term placement. It definitely felt like I was in a little boat, with big waves. I was afraid.
And while fear may not be ideal, I think it’s normal. The difference, I hope, is that I didn’t doubt that God was present. To be clear, I didn’t have the sense that if I only tapped on Jesus sleeping shoulder, he’d awaken and make all things calm. This wasn’t a faith necessarily intercedes for miraculous results. But a conviction that God was with me and with my loved one, the whole time.
Now, in their muddled state, my loved one isn’t speaking to us. We cannot talk to them or visit them. Should they remain in this frame of mind throughout their recovery, upon their release, we won’t know when or where they are, and will not be able to learn that. To be clear, that frightens me.
That feels normal. Fear, I think is not the problem. Fear kept our ancestors from walking into lions’ dens. Doubt is the problem. Doubting that God is with me, with them, with their care team, with them upon release. It’s not that storm didn’t happen in the small boat. It did, and it will in my life again.
Right now, my house is quiet; for now, the sea is calm. My husband and I are very aware that our home calm is likely temporary, and we’ve decided to intentionally enjoy these respites of calm. Maybe we’ll go out for a movie tonight. The storm is at bay, but not gone forever.
This morning, I’m thinking about the difference between fear and doubt, about how to manage fear so it isn’t overwhelming, and how grateful I am that doubt hasn’t been a temptation for me. I’m looking forward to going with this lovely group to uncharted waters in Guatemala, to see what storms we encounter, and to watch God’s amazing calm-making. If God can make calm in my house after this month, I’ve no doubt about God's providence for this trip!
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