Chasing Waves

A few years ago, my family enjoyed a Christmas celebration on the beach at South Padre Island.  Instead of holding the Wilks family Christmas traditions at one of our houses, my amazing in-laws decided we would all gather at a sunny-condo.   We had all the beauty, all the relaxation, all the fun of a shore-line respite without the crowds, or any vain stress over swimsuits.  Add to that Christmas memories, lots of family time, and well, awesomeness ensued.  (Plus, John and I won the cooking competition, but that's another story.)

The trip was brimming with moments that I will carry with me forever.  One image in particular, has been flashing to the front of my mind today.  Shortly after we arrived and unloaded, John and I took the older kids (then 6 and 3-ish) to experience the ocean.  (Ian was tiny, still small enough to sleep in a suitcase sized crib, or in Grandma's arms, so that is where he stayed.)  We played in the sand.  We looked for shells.  We watched the clouds move on the horizon.  We listened to the waves crash.  We ran along the tide-line.  

It was an immense time, with immense surroundings.  I think it was the sheer enormity of everything that affected Ben that evening.  He thoroughly enjoyed himself, but he would not go near the waves.  He was very careful to stay where the sand was wet, but the water would not wash his feet.  He laughed and explored and went his usual mile-a-minute-way, always respecting that invisible line..... in the beginning.

And then, the line was gone. Something snapped. The boundary that kept him out of the water disappeared.      Was it erased by the security of the moment?  Was obliterated by his curiosity?

Forever Mr. Independent,  Ben had managed to run several yards ahead before breaking free.  He was running in and out with the water trying to beat the waves back to the soaked sand where we were.   I watched him from a distance, soaking in his freedom before moving closer.

My barely six-year-old boy was taking on the waves like a champ.  He was so free, so alive, so very happy and strong.  Laughter came from deep in his belly.  Oh, and another thing... and he was talking smack to the ocean.  I couldn't hear it over the roar of the waves, until I moved closer.

 At the top of his lungs, with joy in his heart  Ben was shouting at the waves that surrounded him: "Oh yea!  Take that!  You are BIG!  But God is Bigger.  He makes me strong.  I can take you.  Knock me over-- I'll just get back up again.!!!!..."

Normally, the worrier in me would have been rearing her ugly head at the thought of my boy running off into the waves with that much gusto.  Not that day.  My heart swelled with pride and joy and shared freedom in that moment.  I knew he would be okay; better than okay actually.

Right then, before I forgot, I said a prayer that Ben and our whole family could hold on to that picture.  I wanted him--and all of us--to keep that forever.

Because there are oceans that we face  through out all of life: Oceans of doubt, oceans of depression, oceans of pressure, oceans of  sickness, oceans of every day stress.  All kinds of things threaten to engulf us,  drown us, or keep us from enjoying the fullness of all that God has in store.   They are real. They are big.  And they are scary.

One of my favorite authors, Anne Lamott, says, "Faith is fear that has said it's prayers."

Facing  the waves in our life, we want to look to Jesus; to walk on the water.  Peter was so lucky that day. That must have been so amazing:  a little stroll that defied the laws of physics. What did it feel like?   And then, in the end Jesus was right there to catch him, and pull him up.  The actual hand of God stretching down to lift him out.   Again, amazing. (Matthew 14:22-28)

Never happened to me.  So far I haven't gotten to tread upon the surface of the water,  When I fight the waves I end up like Ben: fully clothed.  fully wet. fully sandy.  And fully surrounded.  Does it take any less faith for us  to continue to be fully joyful in the midst of the onslaught, than it took for Peter to remain focused on Jesus in those moments?  No.  And is it any less amazing when HE is right there with us, rescuing in the midst of the waves and bringing us back to walk with Him along the shore?  Not at all.

The floods have lifted up, O Lord,

    the floods have lifted up their voice;

    the floods lift up their roaring.

⁴ 

Mightier than the thunders of many waters,

    mightier than the waves of the sea,

     the Lord on high is mighty!       Psalm 93:3-4

The Pink Elephant

I am a worrier. I admit. It's not a popular thing to say in circles of faith. I aspire to let things go. I desire to let go of the nagging negativity that negates my progress in the Way. But it remains. It seems, sometimes, as if my mind does not know what else to, or that it's genetically wired to worry.

Monday was a huge day for us. My husband John had major interviews on his journey toward ordination. We had thought, studied, written, prayed and prepared for months leading up to this day. He had put his heart, soul, sweat and tears on the line... and I could tell he was nervous about what would transpire in the future hours. On my way out the door I said, "You'll be great. Try not to worry. I know it's impossible, but try." The words rang hollow and my heart sank with them them. On the heals of my empty words I heard the whisper of the Word of life.

Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus. (Philippians 4:6-7)

I looked.  No "it's impossible, but" phrases are included before the the "do not".  Truthfully, scripture is rich with reference to worry's place, or lack of place,  in the life of a disciple.  We are to trust that The God who created us, and began a good work within is will remain faithful and care for or needs.  Right, and I do.  But those nagging thoughts still creep in.  Trying to ignore them is like trying not to think of a pink elephant when you read the words pink elephant.  (Was yours pastel or fuchsia? ) 

So what are we to do?  In his letter to the Philippians Paul tells us the antidote for my poison of worry is prayer.  But I do that.  Words cannot express how much I have seen in answer to those intimate moments.  My family is praying.  The church is praying.  For years, prayers have gone up about this day.  Still the worry consumes.  Am I not doing it right?   I had thankfully, fervently, repeatedly, honestly opened my heart on the matter.  We all had.  And still we are very anxious.

I craved that "peace" that Paul spoke of so long ago.  I desired it deeply for myself.  I hungered for it on John's behalf.  I wanted transcendent peace., not the kind that would have to ignore, or make its way around a parade of pink pachyderms.  On this issue, as on so many before, my antidote seemed only partially effective against the anxieties we felt.  But that sweet Whisper had more to say: 

Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things. (Phil.4:8) 

I was thinking about elephant-sized concerns rather that an infinite-sized God.  My worries were not "excellent" or "praise-worthy".  Was there anything admirable about those thoughts worth holding on to?  Conversely, what could be more lovely than the One with whom I had an audience?    What could be more true than Truth incarnate?  I made a conscious effort to alter the direction of my pondering for the morning.

This decision occurred right before I was to begin  teaching reading to my class Monday morning.  As we began to go through the alphabet routine we have established.... A---alligator, B---ball,C---computer, D---doll.  I did my own elementary intervention.  E---everlasting. F---freedom G---Grace H---holy.   Every time,  I started to feel those anxieties.  I went back to my ABC's and the attributes of God.   Those elephants of anxiety shrank under the enormity of God.  As my mental picture of Him sharpened, it left little room for much else.

A wise friend once told me, if you can worry.  You can meditate.  This ancient practice uses the same mental muscles that I strengthened so well in my practice of worry.  Meditation only focuses that strength in another more productive direction.  You are still  dwelling and thinking repetitively.  Worry looks inward.  Meditation looks toward God and sets the posture for worship.  Transcendent peace can only happen when we make room in our hearts and minds for the transcendent God.  In the light of that God, our pink elephants of worry must fade away.