Ocean Waves

this is the life of faith

I keep going back to the ocean in my mind. We took a family trip in May. I spent most sunrises alone on the shore, shell-hunted with my children, splashed around with the babies, stole moments to walk on the beach with my husband. I sat on the pier when the tide came in and our stretch of quiet beach was no longer accessible. The waves were so changed when they were crashing wildly at the base of the staircase, breaking themselves onto the rock wall, climbing higher and higher, daring us to come closer.

There were living things everywhere to behold. Beautiful things, the whole breathtaking life-force of the ocean compelling us to come back, over and over throughout the day. To see what was new. Under the surface of the waters were hidden terrors and treasures.

I feel drawn to the ocean in the same way characters in books are drawn to some unknown place they have only seen in dreams. They spend all the rising action of the story getting there, and then the climax trying to understand why they were compelled to make the pilgrimage. Why am I here? What does it mean? What is the question that I don’t even know how to ask until it will be answered by this searching stare out into the sea?

Over the years, I have often written in my journals about ocean waves. They have always symbolized hard things to pass through. Things that threatened to drown me, but I somehow passed through and made it to the shore. This is how I have pictured birth—like someone traveling across a wild ocean to bring back a treasure from the shore of another world. It always feels so near to death, the contracting waves of the sea. And yet, I have survived each journey, exhausted but laughing, trembling with relief and joy, new baby in my arms.

I have felt the ocean waves of grief and sadness as I witnessed the life leave the bodies of first my mother and then my father. Those tides coming in and out of longing and loss, of gratitude and remembrance. That weakness that hit me in the heart and the knees when I walked, for the last time, through the lifeless room, the empty house, the overgrown garden. The sudden realization that will always seem unreal: people die. The heart breaks in waves. It aches. And yet, love remains.

I have spoken of our needs as a family like ocean waves. I don’t pretend that I am not in over my head with all these children. There are seasons when the needs rise up and hit hard and knock us under. And just when I think I have found my footing and am breathing a sigh of relief that we survived the crash, another wave begins to peak before me. There are the physical needs—three meals a day and paying bills, the small crises of car trouble and house repairs, sicknesses that linger, pregnancy quirks and challenges. And there are the pervasive needs for strength, for stamina, for the know-how to do everything in a family this size. I am desperate for the God-breathed vision of how to raise these children to be who they were created to be in a culture that feels so hostile, in a world that feels so bleak, in a life where horrors beyond description are just below the surface of the waters. In a world of terrors, I have a desperate need for faith and hope and the kind of perfect love that casts out all fear.

The ocean waves can be relentless. And when the tide is high my heart may tremble. But standing on the shore at low tide, walking along the painted edge of the quiet water, witnessing the pinks and yellows of sunrise, and watching the world wake in beauty, I see the waves differently. From a distance, and from memory, I see them through the eyes of God’s faithfulness, his provision, his abundance. How many times did I think I was going to drown in those very waters? I survived every storm that threatened to wreck me. Looking back through the years, I see the waves of terror changed to waves of mercy. Waves of my own insufficiency changed to waves of grace. Waves of my incessant need changed to waves of the limitless provision of God, breaking over me in lavish love, more than I could even begin to think or imagine.

This is the life of faith. It is a life of ocean waves. And the maker of the wind and waves is holding me in the palm of His hand. No matter the storms that come, His love is deeper and wider, and his mercy will always carry me safely home.

Dear friends,

Last week, I had the joy of spending the night with a friend at Christwalk in the Valley, one of the quietest, soul-nourishing spaces I have ever been. We stayed in a sweet little house, drank tea and coffee and celebrated a birthday with fajitas and Tres Leches, talked and prayed and journaled and had a little mini-retreat. My soul needed it. Today’s post was written as a response to some things God stirred up in my heart through that time.

Today, I pray that you will be able to look back over your life and see the hand of God reaching down to you, carrying you, bringing you through the storms that threatened to drown you. May you find Him in the memories of your darkest moments. May He reveal to you that He was with you.

Sending love,

Mackenzie

From the family archive:

I have to share this song by Randy as it is so related to this post. These lyrics are like a prayer of response to follow.

Thank you for being here. It means so much to me!