in the boat
Picture this: Friday, January 23, 2026. Incoming snowstorm of the century is about to hit half of the country (per reliably hyperbolic meteorologists), husband is away at a work conference in Las Vegas, one teenage son comes home early from school, falling victim to man-flu, followed 24 hours later by the other son. The snow finally stops falling as dusk descends on Saturday, so I manage to shovel and wield the thousand-pound snow thrower all alone. Feeling quite proud of my self-sufficiency in the face of these obstacles, I actually enjoy my evening. I spend most of it tending to my miserable boys, but I think, God is good. I’ve got this. I even have a chance to cozy up under a blanket with a glass of wine and a good book once the boys quarantine themselves, resigned to the fact that the best thing they can do for their colossal headaches is to cocoon themselves in the pitch blackness of their rooms.
Then comes Sunday morning. A tickle in the throat. Oh, this is no man-flu; it’s the real deal! I cannot dwell on my misfortune, however, because as I descend the stairs, I encounter a deadly smell and turn the corner to find my 45-pound puppy in a wretched mess of his own unintentional doing. Adrenaline surges and I spend the next hour and a half cleaning that crate, that dog and all the collateral damage that flung itself around my house!
A headache is beginning to throb behind my eyes. My throat is becoming scratchier by the second. The men-children soon arise, feverish and whiny, needing their now sick mama to be at their beck and call. I look outside to see my other sweet pooch dripping blood as she pees. UTI. 100% of the residing household is now ill. Meanwhile, across the country, Brian is upset he is stuck in Vegas since all flights are cancelled, and I tell him to count his blessings that he is not with us! I somehow manage to keep my wits and survive the day.
When the next sunrise brings me a house without running water, I pause and know that I can either laugh or cry. I choose to laugh outwardly while crying inside. Calling my neighbor, I discover I am the only one without water, so I set off trying to find the source. It turns out my main line is frozen, but an hour and a half with a hairdryer to the pipe yields a return on my investment, and we have water restored! Even though I have rectified the problem, the ordeal reminds me of the slowly growing water spot on the kitchen ceiling, so I begin to make phone calls to find a new plumber after discovering ours just retired. The upcoming week will be marked by patchwork ceiling removal to reveal the leak, pipe repair, toilet resetting, and replacement and painting of the new drywall.
Ironically, it’s not until Brian is back home that I feel utterly overwhelmed. Just a few days earlier I was basking in the peace of God (or was it my own self-reliance?), and I suddenly find myself asking, Where are you Lord? I don’t think I can take anymore.
In the midst of this, my women’s group is studying Luke 8:22-25, the story of Jesus sleeping in the boat as a terrible storm threatens to capsize the vessel. And I dare ask where He is?! Coincidence? I don’t think so. My friend likes to call moments like these “Godwinks.” He sees. He knows. He is in the boat. In the midst of my loneliness and self-pity, which admittedly is quite minor in comparison to the trials of others, God graciously reminds me that He is with me.
As I studied, I learned about the squalls that can suddenly sweep over the Sea of Galilee, so ferocious they sometimes hit with the force of a hurricane. Given just the right conditions, cold air descending from Mount Hermon, which peaks at 9200 feet above sea level, collides with warm air rising from the lake that sits 700 feet below sea level to produce these terrifying windstorms. The disciples were literally afraid for their lives, convinced they were about to capsize and drown.
And yet Jesus was there the entire time. He was even asleep. Who could sleep through such a storm except the one who created it all? We don’t read of him chiding or belittling the disciples. Instead, it is the wind and waves that he rebukes. In Mark 4:39, Jesus said, “Peace! Be still!”
I studied this account as it was recorded in three of the four Gospels and found it interesting how each writer chronicled Jesus’ words to the disciples after he calmed the storm. Luke records Jesus saying, “Where is your faith?” (8:25), Matthew tells us he asked, “Why are you afraid, O you of little faith” (8:26) and according to Mark he asked, “Why are you so afraid? Have you still no faith?” (4:40).
Jesus knows that they do, in fact, have faith in him, but in the terror of their circumstances they are stripped of reason. Jesus is gently reminding them that he is there and always was. He points them back to what they have seen, heard and experienced in his presence.
By this point in Jesus’ ministry, the disciples have witnessed unparalleled miracles at his hand—all manner of diseases healed, paralysis reversed and physical malformations made whole, exorcisms accomplished, and even a man raised from the dead (Lk. 7:14). The disciples were eye-witnesses to countless wonders we only dream to see, but even they faltered when a storm hit. Even though their faith was “little” he was able and willing to save them.
Doesn’t this give you hope and assurance?! God knows the human condition—how prone we are to forget, to let fear take the upper hand, to lose our compass and despair that all is lost. Yet when we feel most alone, Jesus is there and he is in control. He is the one who has the power to say, “Peace! Be still!” and the crashing waves will settle into a gentle lapping.
The storm likely won’t halt precisely when we desire peace, but God will provide reprieve in His perfect timing. My bout with the flu certainly did not end when I would have liked, but God so kindly reminded me through the story of Jesus in the boat that He is always near. We need not fear or feel overwhelmed or blindly grasp for control, but even when our faith falls short and we maniacally do all of the above, the Lord does not abandon us. He is present. Always. Merciful and gracious. Slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love.
The Lord is merciful and gracious,
slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love.
He will not always chide,
nor will he keep his anger forever.
He does not deal with us according to our sins,
nor repay us according to our iniquities.
For as high as the heavens are above the earth,
so great is his steadfast love toward those who fear him;
as far as the east is from the west,
so far does he remove our transgressions from us.
As a father shows compassion to his children,
so the Lord shows compassion to those who fear him.
For he knows our frame;
he remembers that we are dust.
Psalm 103: 8-14