The boat ride after dark felt like a good idea when the guys first mentioned it. Now I wish I had stayed home.
Harsh winds whip up lake water and slosh it over the sides of the vessel and onto my feet. This jacket isn’t nearly enough for the adventure. What was I thinking? At least the rowing keeps me warm.
My friends—the guys in the boat with me—seem like they know what they’re doing. Of course they do. They fish on the regular and even sell their catches to local grocery stores. But right now? We’re miles out, and they’re exchanging looks. What I see on their faces makes me queasy, and I don’t think these conditions are normal anymore.
We rock and jerk and thump, hitting wave after wave. And it goes on longer than I feel is right. I’m pretty sure my blood pressure is rising because I know my anxiety is. And now it’s raining.
This squall doesn’t surprise me. Everything that can be shaken will be shaken, they say. Housing, jobs, relationships—all battered by circumstances. These days, if life were a game, it’d be called Truth or Lies? If it were a Netflix show, Snag Upon Snag. A book? The Interminable Wait. And now nature pummels us when all we wanted was a nice evening paddle across the lake.
I blink through the lashing rain. Too much rowing still ahead. We can't turn back—we’re too far out—and it’s only getting darker and harder.
He dwells in thick darkness.
My legs are soaked. Our ride teeters. Will I have to put that nearby bucket to good use? I almost laugh at the torrent. Wouldn’t it be ironic to drown along with these guys who usually know what they’re doing?
One of them yells something and points. I follow his finger and squint into the night. A shape hovers over the water. A buoy maybe? But no, it’s moving. Even in the storm I see it’s coming toward us like it’s walking—from out there.
Panic shoots a jolt up my spine. There’s a reason I don’t watch scary movies; my stomach can’t handle it.
“It’s me!” the figure hollers to us, and I see Who it is. “Don't be afraid.”
Our Friend climbs into the boat like it’s nothing. The guys clap him on the back, and He smiles and sits by me. No ghost after all, but my heart is still trying to escape its cage.
But wait. Did the storm fizzle out, or am I only distracted because He’s here? I gaze out at the water. No, the storm definitely stopped. And we must look ridiculous, the guys and me—our hair snarled from the frenzy—because our Friend chuckles at us.
I look harder, and there’s land. But weren’t we still miles out? If I know the distance across this lake—and I do—this is impossible. Yet here we are, on the other side of the storm and already to shore.
The guys are whooping, celebrating our success, “our miracle,” they're calling it. I sit in the calm with endless questions about how and why and when flipping through my mind. But it turns out only one question matters—and it starts with Who.
It always starts with Who.
*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family, neighbors, and friends in the neighborhood, and in a nod of appreciation to the beloved Swedish author Maj Lindman, I’ve renamed my three blondies Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka.