Arrivederci!

Today is our final day at Sea. We’re currently sailing somewhere in the vicinity of British Columbia, or at least that’s what I believe we were told. It’s a full-day at sea. It’s been a day of final shopping for a few things. It’s been a day of packing and unloading and preparing for disembarking the Island Princess tomorrow morning in Vancouver and then fly out in the evening. Before I do all of that and get on the treadmill of travel to get home, some of this day has just been sitting on the deck of the ship and taking in the quietness of the waters. As a matter of fact, although I can see some land in the far-off distance, it’s pretty much all water and the lapping of the waves beyond us and up against the ship as we sail.

As I write, I’m up on the eleventh deck of the ship so there is much below me. Even as the birds fly by below, they seem so far away from where I sit. I was thinking, though, just how much life is below me here. I don’t necessarily mean the people that are below me on this Ship, although there are more than two thousand on board, but rather the thousands of feet of water that lies below and all that calls that home. We never get to see much of it at all. We were told we’d most likely see whales among other creatures living in these waters, but this time we’ve seen none of it here. We all certainly get credit for gazing toward the horizon, day in and day out, seeking to catch a sight of something, and yet, all I see is the lapping of the waves, both here and far. All I see are the land masses that pop up from time to time and the gulls that seek food below. As much as we can’t see below, I at least know that they can see into the depths as they search for food.

But that is the hard part of any journey and what we call life. It’s, at times, nearly impossible to see what lies below the surface of the waters. We tend to live in a world that seems better suited for what we can see and what lies on the surface rather than seeking something more, rather than taking flight like the gulls, and seeking what it is we are looking for. I even know, that, once I step outside my room here, I will enter another world, so often seeming superficial in trying to buy and sell and shop until you drop on the cruise ship. Now I’m fully aware that it is vacation and there is an element of that for all of us. We like to have a good time, celebrate, and be with friends. But in many ways, coming to my room here has been a sanctuary, sitting out looking over the waters before me calling me back home to myself and to the mystery that I am as well.

We will never completely know what lies before us, beyond us, and even beneath us. Why would we want to anyway. Without some unknown in our lives we no longer have a need for faith and hope. It’s when we stop taking flight out into the great blue yonder or allowing ourselves to enter into the deep waters of our own lives that we become content with what we see and what we know rather than seeking more. It’s the more that continues to enthrall us, invite us, even seduce us to a dissatisfaction with the flashing lights and the latest gadget rather than falling overboard into the depths of the ocean with the faith and hope we need that God too will swoop down and lead us to greater depths and take us to places we’ve never seen.

As this experience draws to a close and I continue to try to take in as much as I can, of all that I can see, I’m mindful of what lies beneath. There too the splashing of the waters lapping against the heart bringing about new life and new opportunities. Sure, the sea often feels the roughest at those moments, but it’s also what makes it exciting and and adventure. There is so much I can see and yet even more so that I cannot. All I can do is continue to accept the invitation as much as I can, without fighting it and allow the depths to take me away to new places, to new realities, to new experiences that are always within reach.

The Rumbles of the Ocean

I have now spent the better part of this week with the balcony door open in my room, despite the colder than normal temperatures in Ocean City, simply listening to the crashing of the waves on the shoreline. At times I have also sat and watched it, trying to take it all in, if that is at all possible. I was in some desperate need of time with the ocean, a faithful friend on the journey who has been most consistent. As I sat here the first night, exhausted from Easter and not much time off since Christmas, I was struck by just how worn down I was feeling, to the point that there was endless chatter of negativity that I would need to let go of or allow to pass, even if it meant it would pass as slowly as the waves were crashing. If not, I am aware how easy it is to feed those voices within, allowing them to grow into anxiety and fears, rather than trusting in the “slow work of God” and the quiet voice of the Spirit nudging along.

There’s so much you can miss by simply listening to the ocean. You miss seeing the waters’ foam that builds and crashes with the waves. You miss the erosion of the sands as it has been these days, battered against incessant waves, similar to that negative chatter and the tole it takes on my spirit and soul. You miss the unexpected, all the life that washes up on shore or pokes its head out of the waters, reminding me that there is life beyond what I see. Yet, this time I needed to listen more than observe. I needed to listen to the unknown and trust that “all will be well” and that it’s out of my hands, how they crash, the immensity of them, the erosion that takes place, none of which I can control; all I can do is listen to the known and yet unknown at the same time. It’s been so cold and rainy the past two days that I haven’t been out walking so much, to observe, rather, just listening and listening hard, and as time goes by this week, listening with a better ear, much freer of the negative chatter that was consuming me, controlling me, and endlessly needing and wanting to be fed. Yet, letting it go has allowed what should be fed to be open to hearing and listening to the waves crash, gently, yet with great force and power at the same time, washing away all that has died and opening up space for what is to come.

There’s something healing about the waters, even if just listening to them and their continuous cycle. I don’t know if I can explain it, even though I have tried to write about it, but I know deep down that words cannot even begin to suffice or explain something that is beyond head knowledge or understanding. Something was different today, though, as I ventured out and walked the shoreline for the first time in two days. I heard a noise that I had not heard before. Now there is a part of me that believes it was an illusion that the wind was playing on me as it battered the hood of my windbreaker, but as I walked along, hearing the waves crash and hit, it sounded as if there was a rumble deep within the earth as each one hit. It was similar to the way the house shakes when a heavy truck barrels down the road, shaking everything in its path, or what I’d imagine and earthquake to do to the earth, breaking a part and separating what was once one, making space for something new to break forth. That’s what I heard and experienced as I walked along today, the crashing of the waves and the deep rumblings of the ocean floor, groaning as it pushes forward the strength and the immensity of the waters, swallowing up everything in its path, including my feet which felt its bitter wrath of cold today.

Even as I wrap this up, I sit here listening. No, I don’t hear the rumbling of the earth from my room, but I know what I heard, experienced, and maybe what is happening within me since the two are but one. Somehow and in some way, the ocean has a great deal to teach, if anything, to heal us enough to break us open to begin to see just how connected we are, the larger story that doesn’t belong to us but rather we are a part of with the ocean. The negative chatter has mostly gone, thankfully, leaving me in gratitude that the ocean once again fed me in a way that was necessary, a healing balm that has enveloped me and anyone who takes the time to be one with this massive body of water. Maybe, just maybe, that rumbling wasn’t just the wind blowing through my windbreaker and not even just the groaning of the ocean floor, but the groaning within of a God who calls into the deepest part of the ocean blue, the depths of my being and soul, to a life of love, to the life which God desires.