Today I was reading this passage in Luke:
“And a windstorm came down on the lake, and they were filling with water, and were in danger. And they went and woke him, saying, “Master, Master, we are perishing!” And he awoke and rebuked the wind and the raging waves and they ceased and there was a calm. He said to them, “Where is your faith?” And they were afraid, and they marveled, saying to one another, “Who then is this, that he commands even winds and waters and they obey Him?” (8v23-25)
This is my response:
I like the calm after the storm. The way the water begins to flow softly, tenderly. The way sun breaks through the clouds, pushing darkness to the edge of the world. The golden light that shakes water from tree branches, touches the tips of the waves, kisses light, goodness, and peace back into the places that had, moments before, been places of upheaval.
I like the calm after the physical earth-shaking storm. I like the calm after the spiritual one, too.
The peace. The easy-breathing. The golden days. The light.
And this metaphor is horribly cliche and yet ever so telling of how trials and tragedies and dark times feel. Like chaos. Like disorder. Like darkness. And as I was thinking about the words of these 3 verses of scripture, this seemed to bubble up out my soul.
Storms inevitably rise up in our lives. In places that were once calm, in places that we’ve never been before. They rise. Around us, in us. The kind of storms you don’t see coming that happen in places of joy and peace, are suddenly ripped apart the winds and rain. And we tremble. The ground beneath our feet gives way. We shake. The physical, worldly comforts are removed. We are filled with fear.
In these seasons, how quick we are to ask the King to calm it.
We are taught that He is our helper, our merciful Lord, our sure and steady rock and He is all these things.
So we accuse him of distance and detachment when the storms gurgle and boil and rise.
As our boats fill with water and the waters bubble up within our hearts, fear and trembling and doubts creep in to a faith that we once dubbed as being strong.
And when the Lord returns to view, when he wakes and draws near and calms the wind and the raging waves with but a word, we are filled us with marvel. Suddenly our long drawn out season is but a drop in the bucket, He becomes the “Good God” in our hearts, he becomes the caring, merciful King once more.
And it begs this simple question: “Where [was] your faith?”
The disciples marveled at his ability to calm the sea, once it was no longer a threat.
And I think we feel this same marvel too, when trials and valleys disappear.
But how incredible is the wind?
The way the waters rise and surge? The electricity pops and the darts of light that drag themselves across the sky? How wonderful are the disasters? How messy, how muddy, how beautiful.
These things should fill us with marvel. Metaphorically and physically.
They are extraordinary, beautiful, disasters.
I want to be filled with marvel and wonderment in the midst of the flood.
In the midst of the deep. In the midst of the storm. In the midst of fear, in the midst of pain, in the midst of tragedy. I want to see the ways he has strengthened the pain so I might become less. So He might become greater.
May the pain of trial, winds, and rain show you the greatness and
Unfathomable beauty of our Savior and king.
In our weakness, He is made strong.
The calm will come, but until then, be filled.