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The Storm

Where was Jesus during my storm? Didn’t He care? Didn’t He know the storm could kill me?

The boat was practically on its side, but He was asleep at the controls. I was getting blasted by waves and couldn’t even stand on the deck. How was He sleeping?

Did I wake Him? Did He startle? Did He reach for the controls?


I shouted, “Wake up! We are going to die!”

He rubbed His eyes. “Why did you wake me?”

Are you kidding? We are dying! You were supposed to be controlling the boat. Do I have to do this myself?


Blank stare? No. Just silent, penetrating eyes, eyes that stopped me cold. The waves still thrashed about, water in my face, soaked to the skin, wind and spray like needles on my cheek. None of it mattered. His face was calm.

I’m not going to die. I could feel it.

He glanced at the controls and looked away like they didn’t matter.

We were tossed across the deck. Well, I was. He somehow stood there... and whispered to the storm.

As I held on for dear life, the wind stopped. It didn’t slow or fade. It stopped.

The rain stopped.

My clothes were dry. Not damp. Dry.

The sun was shining. The water was flat, a sea of glass.

The storm didn’t matter anymore.

When life was trying to crush me, and it felt like Jesus was asleep on the job, He was there, and He was in control.

The storm doesn’t matter any more. I know the one who commands the winds and the waves. No matter the storm that rages, He is faithful through the ages. He is the maker and master, the ruler of every disaster. The winds can howl and the waves can toss, but He always wins when all is lost. Though the ship is crashed against the shore, the storm doesn’t matter any more.

We recently took a family trip to Ontario.

A moment of peace far from home and far from shore. No social media. No phone. You could watch the storm clouds gather on the distant horizon. Darker and more dense, the storm grew. A sudden cool breeze and the smell of rain challenged the calm. The spattering sound of nature’s shower grew louder as the dark veil approached. The wall of water hid the shore, the islands, even the lake itself.

The storm swallowed the lake.

But the storm came and went, and the lake remained. After the storm, the mosquitos were nowhere to be found (until later that night). The lurching waves were gone, and the water was still. The gentle ripples reflected the setting sun, and red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, and violet stretched from the clouds to kiss the water.

Peace remained.

The storm didn’t matter anymore.

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