Weathering the Storm

35 That day when evening came, he said to his disciples, “Let us go over to the other side.” 36 Leaving the crowd behind, they took him along, just as he was, in the boat. There were also other boats with him. 37 A furious squall came up, and the waves broke over the boat, so that it was nearly swamped. 38 Jesus was in the stern, sleeping on a cushion. The disciples woke him and said to him, “Teacher, don’t you care if we drown?”39 He got up, rebuked the wind and said to the waves, “Quiet! Be still!” Then the wind died down and it was completely calm. 40 He said to his disciples, “Why are you so afraid? Do you still have no faith?” 41 They were terrified and asked each other, “Who is this? Even the wind and the waves obey him!”

Mark 4:35-41 New International Version (NIV)

Last Saturday morning, as I drove over a bridge offering me a birds’ eye view of our coastal town, I saw the perfect glassy surface of our bay. Determined to enjoy the day, I quickly scheduled an impromptu boat outing. Throwing together beach bags and coolers and greasing up kids with sunscreen took twice as long as I planned, and by the time we hit the boat, a summer rain shower soaked us on our way out of the marina.  

We saw it coming, and alerts of a light shower had popped up on our phones. We pointed out to the children the curtains of rain sheeting the sky as they approached.

From our very wet spot in its center, we could see the storm’s perimeter, and as it moved across the bay, we knew it would pass. The children made a game of sliding on the vinyl seats and opening their mouths to drink in the drops as they fell. Rain pelted our faces as the boat continued its race across the open water. 

And then, also as expected, it stopped, or really we emerged from the opposite edge of the shower.  And we kept on. Our destination undeterred. 

Our home is in a storm right now. My daughter’s best friend is moving away. 

To Japan.

“Are there any places farther than Japan?” she laments to me, her geography teacher mother. 

“Well, Perth, Australia, is farther…” I provide an unhelpful answer. 

The tears continue. 

I’m a fixer and a doer. In an effort to solve problems, I go straight to work to distract myself from the feelings of disappointment or frustration. But I’m bumping up against a problem I can’t fix. And there’s nothing I can do. 

This isn’t a skinned knee I can bandage. This isn’t a mess I can help pick up from the Magnatiles tower Brother knocked down. This isn’t a heart I can soothe after the echo of unkind words from a  playground encounter. 

I can’t fix this. 

We talk about how “three years will pass in a blink,” how “it’s not forever,” how “Facetime will make this easier,” and, of course, that this sacrifice of moving is their family’s gift to our country through her father’s service to the Navy. 

But at the end of this month, something we see coming towards us, something we’ve known was going to happen, will happen. Outside of my planning, and fixing, and doing, the storm is coming, and M will leave, for three years, and with few, if any, opportunities for visits. 

I think of Jesus in the boat, inviting his disciples away from one side of the sea and all that made them comfortable-- exciting crowds, nourishing food, familiar villages-- over to the other side. To the unknown.

And then a storm overwhelmed them. 

When the alarmed disciples wake Jesus and beg him to address their doom, he calms the sea and rebukes the wind. Gospel writer Mark doesn’t indicate that Jesus stopped the rain. He simply calmed the storm. He didn’t get rid of it. But he carried them safely to their work on the other side.

Back on our boat, we maximized the day, boating to a favorite restaurant for lunch, stopping in the middle of the bay to jump in and cool off, and dancing on the bow of the boat. As I dried the salty bodies of our children, the memory of the storm was evident only in the still damp towels.

As my daughter walks through this pop up storm of childhood emotions, I’ll wrap her up in me, and I’ll remind her of Jesus’ faithfulness to his disciples in carrying them through storms, both literal and figurative; the same Jesus that calmed those storms, can calm this one, too.

As M’s family maneuvers through the details of a military move and the mixed up emotions of their life transition, I hold her and her mama in mind and prayer and watch with love as the family reaches towards their exciting new life abroad. 

My words won’t work, and Facetime won’t fully console, but the beautiful thing about a military move is that it has perimeters. So we will race through this rain together, but in the midst of it, we will look to the edges of these bookended three years, to the time they shared in delightful childhood sweetness, to their separateness in the middle in which they will grow strong, and to the undoubtedly incredible young women they’ll be when their skies open back up and their ride together continues on its course.