Step Into The Deep

I have always loved standing where the waves meet the shore. I know most people go to the beach to wade into the water and swim in the waves, but not me. I like feeling the water rush over my feet and then pull away again, taking the sand with it. I like finding shells and little treasures that have tumbled in the waves. There is something comforting about being close enough to feel the force of the ocean without having to surrender completely to it. I can stand there, let the water reach me and still know that I can step back whenever I want.

I think I have spent a lot of my life standing in places like that.

Not only at the beach, but in relationships, ministry, conflict and seasons of uncertainty. Here’s the thing: I’m very good at dealing with change on the outside. I can pivot, rework a plan on the fly and feel perfectly normal when things get chaotic. I’m only just beginning to realize at what cost.

Last week, while listening to a message from Psalm 46 alongside the song Oceans, I realized how much energy I have spent trying to manufacture solid ground.

In Psalm 46, the sons of Korah do not describe a peaceful landscape. The earth gives way. Mountains fall into the sea. The waters roar and foam. Nations are in turmoil. Everything that appears stable is suddenly shifting.

I realized that I want Scripture to promise me that none of that will happen. I want God to say that He will keep the mountain where it belongs, quiet the waves before they reach me and make sure the ground never moves beneath my feet. Instead, Psalm 46 says that God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble.

He is not only present after the waters settle. He is present while they are still roaring.

That thought has stayed with me because the last year or so has felt like standing on an eroding shoreline. I could see things changing around me, but instead of accepting that the landscape was shifting, I kept trying to steady it. I tried to fix problems before they became conflict. I softened my words. I worked harder. I stayed useful. I convinced myself that if I could just carry one more sandbag to the edge of the water, maybe I could keep the shore from disappearing.

The shoreline kept changing anyway.

That realization has made me look more honestly at why I have remained in certain places and situations even when I sensed that God might be leading me elsewhere. Leaving would create disruption. Naming what had changed would make people uncomfortable. Admitting that I no longer felt at home in the same way would mean facing grief, disappointment and uncertainty.

Staying allowed me to keep carrying sandbags. It allowed me to feel useful and tell myself that I was holding things together. It also allowed me to avoid the frightening question of what might happen if I finally stopped.

I have sung Oceans countless times and prayed for God to lead me where my trust is without borders. That sounds beautiful until the border is actually in front of you. Trust without borders means there is no shoreline left to stand on. It means moving forward without being able to see where your foot will land. It means trusting God’s presence more than your ability to create a plan.

Sometimes peace doesn’t look like a calm shoreline. Sometimes it looks like a small boat held steady in the middle of the waves, trusting that the God who is our refuge is still present in the storm. “Be still, and know that I am God.” —Psalm 46:10

I keep thinking about Peter stepping out of the boat. I have always marveled at the miracle of walking on water, but lately I have been thinking about the moment before that, when he had to lift his foot over the side.

The boat was familiar. It was still being tossed by the wind and waves, but at least it was something solid he understood. Stepping out meant releasing the little bit of control he still had and trusting that Jesus would be enough.

I think that is where I am right now.

What I am beginning to understand is that God has never asked me to see the whole path before I move. He has not asked me to steady the ocean or preserve every shoreline. That kind of control was never mine. It belongs to Him. He has asked me to listen for His voice and trust that He is already present in the place He is calling me toward.

So maybe faith does not always look like holding everything together. Maybe sometimes it looks like admitting that the ground has changed and allowing yourself to grieve it. Maybe it means releasing the need to be endlessly useful. Maybe it means trusting that a season can end without becoming a failure.

I am still learning the difference between surrender and giving up. I am learning that peace is not the same as keeping everyone happy. I am learning that someone else’s disappointment does not automatically mean I have been unfaithful. I am learning that mistakes do not erase my value or my calling.

Most of all, I am learning that I do not have to manufacture solid ground because God is already with me in the deep water.

For a long time, my prayer has been that He would calm the waves and make the next step obvious. I think my prayer is beginning to change.

Lord, help me recognize Your voice. Help me stop clinging to the shore simply because it is familiar. Help me trust that even when the waters rise and I cannot see the path ahead, You can. Amen.