A Devotion for the Rough Seas
Eli had been asking for many months to go fishing, so this trip was a highly anticipated, and very looked-forward-to event. I grew up on the coast of Florida and have spent hours on boats – sailboats, john boats, speed boats, even the crew shells that I rowed in high school. Being on the water is natural, fun, and enjoyable for me.
When we set off from the docks, we spent about an hour going to different buoys and shallows to collect the bait fish we would need for the larger catches. After our captain, Gene, was satisfied with our haul, we headed out into the deeper waters of the open gulf. During the bumpy, windy 30 minute or so ride, I kept my eye on both my husband and son, who have a tendency of getting sea sick.
We arrived at our fishing spot with everyone feeling ok, and our captain helped set up, baiting our lines, and casting out onto the beautiful turquoise blue waters. We quickly caught our fish catch, a kingfish, which Gene told us was rare for this time of year. After that, they kept biting: bonito, blue runner, and quite a few mackerel.
My love for fishing and for being out on the water distracted me, and I forgot to check on my boys. When I glanced toward the front of the boat, I saw both of them sitting down, huddled in towels and looking fairly green. While my daughter and I had been busy reeling in the fish, the lull and pitch of the waves had gotten to the both of them.
I walked to the front of the boat and could hear my husband speaking softly to my son.
Even in his own sickness, his voice was calm and reassuring.
“Look at the horizon, kiddo. I know, it’s hard; but you’ve got to look up from yourself. Keep your eye on the line where the sky meets the water.”
As someone who doesn’t experience seasickness or motion sickness all that easily, I knew that my husband would be the one to provide the best advice to Eli; he could relate and empathize, even in that very moment.
After 10 or so minutes of horizon-looking and a bottle of water, they both felt better and could continue to fish and enjoy the rest of the morning.
When we got back from our fishing trip, I kept thinking of my husband’s words to Eli on the boat – his instructions to look up and out, to not take his eye off the plumb line, the constant of the horizon that would still his mind and calm his stomach.
How often, in the midst of discomfort, stress, and turmoil, do we forget to cast our eyes up and away from ourselves? To return to the constant that God provides, the source of our comfort and strength?
There’s a gift though, isn’t there, in knowing what those rough seas feel like? Because my husband had experienced the same disorientation and distress, he was able to speak words of comfort and of advice. He could point to the horizon when my son could not yet bear to lift his head.
The recovery journey is one of disorientation; clients and families have been torn from much of what brings comfort and stability. In their grief, anger and despair, it can be difficult for them to look up from the mess and the muck, to steady their eyes on a constant beyond themselves.
You and I, my friends, we get to be the ones that help lift their heads, to turn their eyes toward the horizon. We get to speak words of comfort and compassion, and to point them to the source of all peace.
The Psalmist writes:
I lift up my eyes to the hills—
from where will my help come?
My help comes from the Lord,
who made heaven and earth. (Psalm 121)
And later in chapter 139
If I take the wings of the morning
and settle at the farthest limits of the sea,
even there your hand shall lead me,
and your right hand shall hold me fast. (vv. 9-10)
May we learn to lift our heads, to find peace, and to be people who point to the source of our hope and our strength.
In God’s peace,
Chaplain Amy
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