For weeks, I’ve been praying for more of Jesus’ love—to experience it, to be filled with it, to overflow with it toward others. For weeks, we’ve been studying Jesus in the Gospel of Mark and I’m amazed that the crucifixion was only part of Jesus’ suffering. The flesh of Jesus endured constant jostling by the smelliest, dirtiest, nastiest people in the land (so much so that he didn’t know he was touched by a woman who had been vaginally bleeding for 12 years); suddenly, I realize how much I hate to be touched! I don’t even like to be bumped around by people I married and gave birth to and who have showered every day! And I’m claustrophobic!

It seems the world is burning. God silenced the world through Covid-19. He insisted we all take a break for a bit. And then the ground began to shake. Locust swarms and dust clouds from Africa, famines, racial tensions peaking and spreading across the globe, and it feels like our nation is irreparably fractured and our world collapsing. 

For me, whenever major life events take place, I can always trace a supernatural draw to Scripture occurring for a long season before the crises; so I know it’s no mistake that I am immersed in the Word of God more than I’ve ever been before. In fact, I have found it to be consistent with God’s rhythm in my life. 

Evidence surfaces as I observe the discourse surrounding monuments coming down and flags being changed. Four years ago, the arguments I made, the feelings I had were so different, so predictable. But my feelings and thoughts are changing quickly and drastically; it’s all been strangely unsettling. But…

I’ve been more immersed in Scripture than ever and I’m being changed by words—His Word—the way only a book that is alive can do. Almost every line on every page has been filled with reassurances that He’s doing a work in me. He’s re-centering me and my identity.

These final lines in Paul’s letter to his beloved believers have been resonating in me since our Dive group met last week. His words call to those of us in the midst of the cultural and political turmoil, because it’s an offering of peace.

What is a story? We’re all capable of defining story, but just so we’re all on the same page here, a story, specifically a narrative, is a spoken or written account of connected events. We’ve all heard stories—in books, in movies, or told to us at the end of a school day in excessive, overlapping detail by nine-year-old little girls. But what defines a good story—what elements are necessary to make it interesting, readable, relatable? Well, it needs to consist of a few things: good characters—strong protagonists, complex antagonists, major characters, minor characters. They need to be connected to one another, or at least the story, in some way. There needs to be an overarching theme, a goal, a message that’s being conveyed. And absolutely, there must be a good Storyteller.

There is one Story that outshines all others. It’s actually the Story in which every other story finds its base, its root. It is the Story that defines all stories, because it’s written by the Creator of the universe, and all the other stories are able to be because of this one Story. This Story is made up of more characters than we could count, connected over thousands of years. It contains main plots and subplots. It includes histories of nations, one nation in particular. It’s full of heroic adventures and legendary figures. This Story, an Epic, starts out, “In the beginning, God created…”

When I was twenty-four years old and knee-deep in my doctoral degree in nineteenth-century literature, I thought that the desire of my heart was accomplishing my Ten Year Plan. Academics had been my comfort zone and, up until that point, I had successfully hit all the professional wickets with scholarships and fellowships paving the way. However, in the middle of completing my doctoral coursework, I felt utterly unmoored, unsatisfied and disillusioned by the cut-throat academic environment and struggling with the darkest depression of my life. I kept wondering why God wasn’t strengthening me to withstand this environment. I was supposed to be the light-bearer in this relatively godless world of academia—why was I failing?

One of my favorite moments in Peter’s story occurs right after Peter and his eleven friends hand out food to five thousand of their closest friends because Jesus took what they had and blessed it. After doing this tremendous miracle, Jesus tells the disciples to go on without Him while He stays back and spends time with His Father in prayer. Peter and the others are crossing the Sea of Galilee when a great storm arises. It’s early in the morning and still dark; the waves begin pushing them back so that they’re not going anywhere. The more they push forward, the more they stay put. I imagine them working so hard to paddle, getting soaking wet and more anxious as the waves continue to crash around them. Then suddenly in the darkness, a man strolls toward them on the beating, crashing, treacherous waves. They’re terrified and cry out, “Ghost!” Immediately after they cry out, Jesus responds, “Take courage, it is I. Don’t be afraid.” This is the moment in the story I want to freeze and study.

Have you ever had this humungous vision so far beyond yourself it seemed silly to take even the first step toward it? Have you gotten as far as dipping your toes in the water and they began to part, so you knew you must keep walking because “this just might be God?” I’m there. Right now. In the midst of the sea.