I walk into the sanctuary today, and, like a wave coming over me, I’m hit with the reality of my own frail self. I’m not good, I’m not peaceful, and I’m not close to God. He’s somewhere over there, and I’m struggling against the current to reach Him. I’m flailing my arms and legs. I’m taking in water. I’m choking.
But then I remember what it was like to teach my daughter to float on her back. “Just rest your head on the water, like it’s a great pillow, and relax.” She couldn’t do it. Her little neck strained, and her arms and legs thrashed about. I need to train her, day by day, to relax into the water. Her instinct is to somehow contribute to this process, but really, she just needs to be still.
So I’m standing there, listening to the worship music, and I’m frantic with what to do.
I’m my daughter, flailing when I need to be still. For once I lay my head back and relax into what I know. God is with me; God sees me; God knows and loves me. And then, I’m just worshiping, pure and simple.
Later, I’m with friends at a state park, and I’m invited to ride on a waverunner. I put on my life jacket, hold on to the handles, and I’m off to see the most amazing sights: the expanse of water bordered by mountains and sky and banks with baby geese just testing the water. I’m nearly crying I’m so happy to ride these waves in this sun and with this wind on my face.
I tilt my head back against the sky, like it’s a great pillow. God’s training me to relax.
He’s right here, and I pause, floating on the waves with flair.