It is I

Starting college was probably the toughest experience of my life. Which isn't saying much I don't guess...there aren't just a whole lot of terrible things to be in the running for worst. But moving away from home was definitely tops.

I've always liked being at home. I don't know why I have such a strong bond with my parents, but I do, and the thought of being without them for extended periods of time causes me nearly physical pain. And I understand that it's something I need to grow into. I'm working on it. Just don't rush me.

But the first couple months of my first time ever not living at home was easily the lowest point of my life. 

One night I was talking to Momma about how everything seemed to get worse at night. I would be laying in bed with nothing but my pillow and my thoughts to  haunt me, thinking about home, almost obsessing over how much I wished I could be there to eat a real supper with them, watch tv, go pile up in bed and just be together. And Momma said that well, you know, the devil knows just where to get you and when. Don't think he doesn't know that those thoughts are what's going to hurt you worst right now.

But that's not the part that really fixed things. It helped, a lot, but the next part did too.

She said that when the apostles went out on the boat and the storm hit, don't you think it was terrifying? And then Jesus was there, and the storm was still going, but He was there in the middle of it with them. And when Peter started walking toward Jesus he was on top of the water, but then he realized where he was an he started paying too much attention to the storm and the waves and his faith faltered and he was afraid again and sank. And life is a lot like that. We can't pay so much attention to the storm that we take our eyes off God or we start to sink. God will keep us afloat, just have a little faith.

That story seems to pop up in times when I really need it, and Brother David mentioned it again this weekend. It also works really well as a starting place from which my metaphor-loving brain can branch out rather rapidly.

I've been on boats of all sizes ranging from little kayaks to great big cruise ships, and there's a certain level of unnatural-ness to all of them. The first time you step into a boat of any size there's a sort of new connection that you form with the water. It's a sort of respect-based relationship where all the respect has to come from you or the results aren't pretty. You have to understand that you are dependent upon the water, you have no connection to solid ground anymore, and if you refuse to acknowledge the way the water moves and sways, you won't stand long. 

And life's situations are a lot like that. You have to accept that there's very little you can do to control the movement of the water, the predicament you're in, and you just have to hold on and float.

Once you see that you can survive though, you notice a sort of rhythm to the sway. It's a beautiful dance between you and the wave, slowly climbing to the crest and then gliding smoothly back to the trough. And when you realize that holding on to something solid, looking at God instead of the storm, will keep you safe, you really enjoy it.

And I've been to the ocean several times. I can't say that I enjoyed all of them, but I've been. 

I just hate sand. It multiplies. You wash it off your feet and out of your clothes and then suddenly it's everywhere again. 

Anyway, the things I actually enjoy about the beach are the waves. The way they come and go. Again kind of like life's troubles. 

But if you focus on a particular spot in the ocean, a particular distance away in the future, you see the water rise and fall over and over in a weird way so that the water never looks like it's getting any closer, which makes you not only feel tiny and insignificant, but also a little sea sick. We can't spend all our time worrying about a point in the future when there's so many little ripples tickling our feet, bringing in little seashells and sea glass bits of happiness.

That conversation that night still makes me cry every time I think about it, partly because that particular pain is still somewhat of a fresh hurt, and partly because Momma's advice was so true. 

I've spent many long nights thinking about it since then, giving me plenty of time to come up with strange, vaguely-connected metaphors in order to (psychology alert) make me feel like I understand something about the squall of life so that I can be better prepared to batten down the hatches. 

Ahoy maties...