“Stupid wind,” I said, trying hard not to cuss out loud, which is real difficult when you are only 12 years old.
“Aaarrrggg,” said Bruno, sitting beside me as he put his Catholic back into his oar. Bruno was my best friend and a holy influence on me. He wouldn’t say poop even if his mouth were full of it.
“Boys, are you sure you don’t want me to row?” said Mrs. Andrews, from her perch in the back of the boat.
“Stupid wind,” I said, losing the temperance battle inch by inch with each cold wave that crashed over the front of the punt and washed my T – shirt clad back.
Mrs. Andrews was our teacher. She was generous in every way; as a mom, a friend, a community member, an educator and in physical stature. As a teacher in a one – room country school with a dozen country hellions with overactive imaginations dispersed through seven grades, somehow she managed to control us, teach us and at the same time be a generous friend to each one of us. It was as a generous friend that she was sitting in the back of the boat two – manning the tiller of our eight – foot plywood sailing punt. It was her generous stature that was resulting in about two inches of freeboard at the stern while at the same time making it difficult for Bruno and I to reach the water with our oars as we sat side by side rowing our fool heads off closer to the bow.
Bruno and I tended to go on about our sailing punt and the fun we had sailing her on the two – mile long slough back of the Wasa lumber camp. Mrs. Andrews told us she used to sail too and loved it. The next thing we knew we were all crammed in the little eight – foot punt, whizzing down the length of the slough at the pleasure of a pleasant zephyr. We got to the end of the slough, dropped the sail, unstepped the mast, dug out the oars and proceeded to row back the length of the slough to do it all over again. That’s when the Rocky Mountain Trench provided us with one of her usual weather tricks and the beautiful zephyr suddenly became an ugly gale.
Mrs. Andrews said, “Boys, I really think you should let me man the oars.”
It’s not that we were too proud, but I don’t think we could quite get our minds around how the punt would be able to manage the huge waves if Mrs. Andrews sat in the front rowing seat and the two of us sat in the stern. And so, we rowed all the harder right into the teeth of the gale. All that we were able to accomplish was to lose what little ground we had gained and get semi – swamped by the waves rolling over the bow. Suddenly we were sideways to the wind and in real danger of being seriously swamped by the slough. That’s when Mrs. Andrews suddenly showed up as teacher, exercised her authority, sat the two of us in the stern and grabbed the oars. In a few moments we were surging ahead, quartering the waves, driving hard like a determined destroyer albeit at very awkward stern to bow rake. Man, could that woman row.
I will never forget that experience, nor will I ever forget Mrs. Andrews. Much later, when I came to read the Bible, it was that image of Mrs. Andrews that came to my mind when I read the story of Jesus in the back of the disciples’ boat in Mark 4:35 – 41. Jesus didn’t row the boat in that story, but man, could he ever rebuke a nor’easter.
Boats seem to show up frequently in the gospel story. Lake Gennesaret or Galilee was the centre of life for the triangle of little towns that Jesus performed 95 per cent of his ministry in. Whether one lived in Chorazin, Bethsaida or Capernaum, one related to the lake and to boats and to wind on the water. And so, in the gospels Jesus frequently seems to be dealing with his disciples in boats.
I have spent a fair bit of my life in boats on the water, enough that the metaphor for a Christian life is certainly not lost on me. The formal idea seems to be as old as Tertullian and then Clement of Alexandria who said, “Let the dove or the fish or the vessel flying before the wind, or the marine anchor be our signets.”
‘A vessel flying before the wind.’ That can be kind of a warm fuzzy metaphor, until the wind blows a gale and suddenly, “Now luh, da arse is gone right out of er.” That’s when I need to know that Jesus is in the back of my boat. It’s not that he rows real good, it’s that he commands the storm.
He commands the storm? That’s what my Bible says; and it says it caused his disciples to be terrified, too. I’ve often wondered why. He just saved them, didn’t he? Well, I think that’s kind of the point. He didn’t just save them. If he had just saved them he would have pulled a Mrs. Andrews and grabbed an oar. Instead, he commanded the storm. The significance for me in all this is that Jesus, who travels with me in the back of my boat, is in command and control of the very thing that plummets my life. At first blush, that can be a bit of a scary revelation, for sure. No wind blows that he does not command. No seas roll that do not obey him.
But upon further reflection, if this revelation is true, and the Bible seems to insist that it is, what ever else it means, it means that in even the toughest sailing that I face in my life, the one who loves me enough to die to save me has complete control of it all. Who is this in the back of my boat? He is certainly my Saviour, and apparently much, much more.
For me this summer, this biblical truth has been instilling in me a new curiosity as to the storms in my life and divine providence. Perhaps more significantly, it is compelling me to risk praising the Lord in all things. The psalmist put it well:
Some of you set sail in big ships; you put to sea to do business in faraway ports.
Out at sea you saw God in action, saw His breathtaking ways with the ocean:
With a word He called up the wind—
an ocean storm, towering waves!
You shot high in the sky, then the bottom dropped out; your hearts
were stuck in your throats.
You were spun like a top,
you reeled like a drunk,
you didn’t know which end was up.
Then you called out to God in your desperate condition;
He got you out in the nick of time.
He quieted the wind down to a whisper,
put a muzzle on all the big waves.
And you were so glad when
the storm died down,
and He led you safely back to harbour.
So thank God for His marvelous love, for His miracle mercy to
the children He loves.
Lift high your praises when
the people assemble,
shout Hallelujah when the elders meet!
(Psalm 107:23 – 32, The Message)
