And so to the water again.
Four weeks of beautiful emptiness, an unopened diary and no cares. Four weeks of book after book after book. Four weeks of no diary reminders popping up on my phone, eating too much and just being. Four weeks of sunshine? Well, no…this is England, after all!
Four weeks of calm seas, drifting where the wind would take me. But now the water is calling and it’s time to get out of the boat and walk again. Time to step out in the same old ways, experiencing the same new challenges.
Not for me the bone-crushing fear of a year ago when I was about to embark on an unknown research project. No, instead the same fear, only this time because the work is now known and I wonder whether I am equal to it.
Not for me the preoccupation of a year ago when we were about to launch into a year of cementing vision at church. No, instead the same preoccupation, only this time about how we might strip away some of the consumerism endemic in how we’ve been doing church and do nothing more than make disciples.
It’s time to walk on water again. The waves are already high, my little boat looks preferable to the alternative. But it’s time to go where he is, knowing that there are no promises of good weather, no guarantees against the perfect storm this year. My feet will be wet, my hair spray-bedraggled and, at times, my head will not be above the surface.
And, though this water-walking, risk-taking faith led me through a flirtation (in fact, probably more of a full-blown affair!) with depression in the last year, I am still glad I walked that way. Though ministry hurt more than I thought it would sometimes and demanded more than I thought I had to give, I would do it again. Though it didn’t always work out the way I had hoped, though I sank probably more than I walked, it was worth it.
On the water, you see, was where I found him.
And that made sense of it all.