The storm rages.
Again.
And I wonder—why must I always brave these wild seas?
Why must every lesson be learned in the tempest’s fury? Could I not also be shaped by sunlight, by waters so still they mirror the sky?
Then, a whisper—gentle, yet unshaken.
“Fear the still sea more than any other.”
Confusion knots within me
as the waves rise and break over my trembling boat. Why should I fear the quiet?
Wouldn’t it be a mercy, a refuge?
A place to rest, to breathe, where no wave threatens to swallow me whole?
“You wouldn’t cling to Me in the stillness.
You wouldn’t call My name.
You wouldn’t need Me if your sea was calm.
You would rest in yourself.”
And suddenly, I see.
How would I have known He walks on water
if I had never cried out from the depths?
How would I have seen the power in His voice
if I had never felt the wind obey?
How would I have learned He is faithful
if I had never faced the storm that tried to undo me?
So, with weary hands, I let go.
I lift them high, surrendering, worshiping—
not in spite of the storm, but because of it.
Because today, my sea is not still.
And I would rather know its Maker,
deeper than I ever have before,
than sail a sea of glass and never need His hand.
Today, I thank Him for the waves.🤍
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