Currents

Somebody recently described it as attempting to row a boat across deep, ocean water. Waves are the unseen ambush threatening to straight overturn you and throw you into merciless cold, and you think you just might drown in the depths. They are dark, these places. And when the waves still a bit, you try to row your boat...just a little. But then they come again. You wonder if you'll ever see land again. Will ever set foot on anything solid when you've felt you were so long at the whim of the expanse in front of you, behind you, beneath you. 

Feeling adrift. That's what I'd say. It's bewildering, this space. It makes one feel lost constantly, even if one still thinks they're being led onward for an unseen purpose. Sometimes one questions if the journey is still worthwhile - if the promised destination is still worth holding out for. If hope isn't maybe just a myth after all. A times it feels like those disciples of Christ's who were caught in the storm and became convinced, even while He slept there in the boat, that their demise was imminent and they would never reach the other side. Sometimes you've hoped for so long - have been brave for so long - have held out faith for so long - you just get tired of seeing nothing but open water. Waves keep on beating your little bark... emotional ambushes they! Your strength and will to row have nearly run out and sometimes, you think you simply cannot carry on anymore. One more great wind, one more breaker, and you just might watch your belief sink as you sink right along with it. 

As I find myself over a year into a journey of grief I never asked for, never wanted, there are days I must agree with author Nicolas Wolterstorff when he lamented that, "sorrow was no longer the islands but the sea." Sadness was no longer an isolated incident but the fundamental tone of existence. I know how it feels. So isolating. So lonely. So never-ending. Just when I think the waves might stop, they come again. The tears stream all over again and the soul bears down and I stare into space, adrift once more, just as if goodbye happened yesterday. 

Yet...into this emptiness...into this seemingly endless expanse...into the desperation of ever setting foot on solid ground again...comes this little glimmer of faith. And it has to do with understanding the current. It never stops flowing. It never ceases to move one forward, even as one continues to ride out the storms. The current is always propelling one on, even when one can't feel or see it. When one can't row, can't move ahead, they're still moving ahead. One just has to trust that it's true. 

His love is the current - His Holy Spirit, the drive - leading onward, pushing homeward to a promised rest in store. The oceans rise, and the heart trembles at the great unknown. The faith may fail and the strength to press forward may escape. But God hasn't stopped moving. Hasn't ceased carrying. When it seems that we are most adrift, the underlying Grace is keeping us afloat and heading us toward the  living hope we are assured of. 

The sight of land will arrive...sometime. Just not now. Things will get better...at some point. Just not now. And it's okay to feel all these things and ask all the questions. It's human to think you're alone. Grief does that to you. And it's natural to sense the panic rising, the hopelessness setting in, as you wonder if you'll ever make it out of this. Just trust the current. Trust that Spirit-Love is guiding you to where you're supposed to go. There will one day come a time when sorrow is once more the islands and no longer the sea. Until then, drift (and row when possible) with the movement of the same God who slept through a storm, knowing that He who rules the waves will not let you drown in them but will give you safe passage to the other side.