There is a rhythmic reminder in the ocean tide and a great truth deep in the expanse of the sea, that we have such little control over, nor understanding of, the ways in which God is working. When I lived in San Clemente, CA, I spent evening after sacred evening at the shoreline, as the tide ebbed and flowed, lost in my smallness, overwhelmed by the beauty that surrounded me. I can still sit here at my desk a thousand miles away and, in a deep breath, rekindle peace from the rhythm of the tide as if the ocean is in front of me whispering grace in each gently lapping wave.
I often consider the ocean a life-giving piece of my story, but last week as we rested in the mountains, surrounded by all the spectacular colors of autumn and dear friends, and in faith chorused the old hymn It Is Well with My Soul, the stanza, “When sorrows like sea billows roll...” took me off guard.
The ocean is my happy place and yet the whole song is written around the harsh truth that the ocean also swallows, pounds, destroys. It isn’t always the picture of serenity we all dream of sitting alongside, umbrellaed cocktail in hand, waves tickling our toes More often than not, coastlines are pummeled by wind and waves and the horizon line of the sea is met with foreboding clouds. Just consider the millions of people impacted by hurricanes in this season alone.
The reality of the deep sea is that sea billows are always rolling. Sometimes they wash out vessels in the sea, sometimes the billows make it all the way to shore, but they’re always rolling.
And suddenly the place I found peace is unsettling to me.
Years ago, I saw the weight of being “Pinterest Perfect.” Recognized the discontented feelings of inadequacy it stirred up in me and abandoned the platform. Facebook serves as means of connecting with friends from far away, but for the most part, I rarely find myself scrolling through posts anymore. So much hostility, anger, contention.
Then there is Instagram. This happy little bubble where people still seem to be humane. My Instagram feed is full of beautiful photos, empowering words, kind-hearted people, a hint of Pinterest-perfectness, with a mild dose of reality. While the feed tends to be filtered photos with great lighting, Instastories crack me up. People drive around talking to themselves on screen and then share it with people. And I love it. It’s somewhat whimsical, happy and carefree.
But sometimes life isn’t whimsical, happy or carefree…
I read the quotation in the midst of a long, seemingly dark season where relationships seemed so very hard. Brené Brown refers to it as “braving the wilderness” and while I didn’t have a name for it then, Joel and I had, in conviction and faith, walked away from almost all that was seemingly comfortable and known to us. Looking back we would do it all over again, but when I read the words “to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood,” I realized I was face down in the middle of arena. I had such confidence that I was where I was meant to be, but I felt battered, bloody and helplessly alone.
And then life happened and it felt like I fell from the top and hit hard ground. A shoulder injury, months of being on steroids and antibiotics fighting poison ivy turned staph infection, a season of depression I didn’t know I was in. I wanted to give up on a lot of things-climbing a rope was the least of my worries.
