The Mediterranean Sea and the horizon blend in a blurry line, as if God took his finger and smudged the paint across the width of the paper. The moon is still visible from the beach this morning, full and round. The air is cool and the water is calm.

The night before, I dreamed I was lost at sea. The sky and water were both black, and the rumblings of an ominous storm brewed above. Drenched, cold, and left alone, I waited and waited, my feet frantically treading in the deep, dark water. I wondered how I had gotten there and if I’d ever be rescued.

The moon is slowly fading into the sky now as the sun rises. In a little while, my daughter will come running down the wooden boardwalk, wearing her favorite Minnie Mouse swimsuit and a white sun hat. My husband will be walking behind her while pushing a stroller overflowing with beach towels and floaties. He’ll challenge her to a race to the water’s edge, and they’ll both shout and sprint across the sand.

I’m drawn to the ocean’s power, mystery, and beauty but also frightened by those same reasons.

In my early twenties, I had no idea of the journey God would have in store for me in the years to come. I was beckoned into unfamiliar waves — across an actual ocean — and into a foreign country, holding nothing but a one-way ticket. This cross-cultural move was supposed to be an adventurous placeholder while I figured out what I really wanted to do with my life. But then I met a cute and funny boy, and we got married and started a family here. Days stretched into months and now years as my family waits for the necessary visas and paperwork to be processed and approved so the three of us can move to my home country.

Braided with homesickness and all the moments I’ve missed out on is the uncertainty of my family’s future. The longing for a life beyond here floats just out of reach like tiny boats on the horizon. Unanswered prayers for hope, healing, and things to be made right slosh and crash around me in the small hours of the night.

A few hundred miles south of where we play by the shore, there once was a group of experienced fishermen who set sail with Jesus on the Sea of Galilee. A violent storm suddenly arose, threatening to capsize their boat. The disciples panicked as the once-calm waters became turbulent and the waves crashed around them.

During the raging storm, Jesus remained asleep, seemingly undisturbed by what was happening. The disciples, desperate and terrified, woke Him up and pled for help. “Teacher,” they cried, “do you not care if we drown?” (Mark 4:38 NIV). 

Coming up from the stern, Jesus calmly rebuked the wind and water, commanding them to be still. At the sound of His voice, the storm immediately dissolved, the waves receded, and the wind quieted.

When treading deep waters in the middle of a storm, things can quickly turn to look dark and uncertain. The churning waves of grief, illness, betrayal, or brokenness can threaten to pull us under. My prayer in this long, turbulent season of feeling lost at sea sounds a lot like the disciples: Hey, Jesus, I’m drowning out here. Do you not care?

I watch my husband float in the water while my daughter and I fill plastic buckets with wet sand on the beach. The waves lap lazily against our outstretched legs, and the sun beams on our shoulders. I savor the gentleness of a morning that has yet to hold the stress and uncertainty of life and all that’s in it.

I know the deep waters of unfulfilled dreams don’t feel like a fun day at the beach. The swirling waves of broken relationships don’t feel like a morning of building sand castles. The raging storms of unanswered prayers don’t feel like a leisurely swim in the salty sea.

Jesus, do you not care?

I wish I had been given a tidier story, one with calm waters and warm breezes. But my family continues to endure the choppy waters of uncertainty, rowing toward a foggy and unknown future. The storm is still raging, and the boat keeps swaying. 

Jesus knew the storm was coming before he and the disciples got on the boat that day. He knew how they would react to the sudden storm. And yet, He went with them. 

Likewise, the Son of God knows what rogue waves life will throw our way. He knows how our faith will feel like a trembling flicker in the middle of a hurricane. But Jesus, who climbs into the boat and sits down next to us, is sovereign and in control. With only His voice, Jesus whispers peace over the storm.

I pray for my faith to be like a lighthouse, firmly rooted in solid ground and illuminating the path ahead. I will keep going through the storm, knowing I’m not alone . . . because I’m anchored by the One who cares.

 

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