Dropping Anchor

Sometimes we find ourselves in storms so fierce that we loose all sense of perspective. The waves tower over the sides of our small boat, crashing onto the deck, threatening to overwhelm us. We fight to steer the boat to keep facing the waves but the helm is torn out of our grasp with ever increasing regularity. The wind whips against our faces, carrying the voices of all our deepest fears. The foreboding clouds block out the moon, making those long watches of the night desperately dark. It feels as though the whole world is churning, the horizon lost amongst the boiling seething mass of water.

You’re alone in your boat, soaked to the skin and terrified. None of the sailing lessons have prepared you for navigating this storm. You try and meld together seemingly contradictory advice, unsure what to do next. You long for the safety of shore, looking for the promise of a break in the clouds. You are ill equipped, overwhelmed and utterly isolated.

There will be times when some of us find ourselves in these metaphorical storms. It’s a place I find myself in at the moment. Eating disorder recovery is not for the faint hearted and the gruelling daily battles have worn me down to a point of complete exhaustion. And if that weren’t enough depression rears its ugly head leeching all the light, colour and hope from the world. Throw into the mix the prolonged isolation of the pandemic and it’s unsurprising I feel overwhelmed.

I have been valiantly attempting to keep pushing forward but the storm is so loud and disorientating that I struggle to know which direction I’m heading. The battle to make progress pits me against the waves threatening to capsize the boat altogether. I can’t keep going like this.

And I wonder how many people are, if not in the same boat, in their own little boat, being battered by the waves. People who have lost sight of land and are unsure how to navigate the storm clouds. For whom the task at hand feels far bigger than their capabilities and are at the mercy of wind and currents pulling them in the wrong direction.

So what do we do when the storms are too big for us? When we find ourselves unequipped for the size of the waves we’re facing? When we can make no progress forwards and are unable to turn back?

We drop anchor.

Sometimes the safest thing to do in a storm is to stay put, to stop fighting to make progress or defeat the waves. But to batten down the hatches and focus instead on weathering the storm, on waiting for it to pass. In doing so you reduce the risk of being blown off course and loosing any gains you had made before the weather turned. You hope you will also avoid the disaster of capsizing.

Dropping anchor in my mind means consolidating what I’ve got, in the hope of avoiding the tempting slide to go off in the wrong direction. It means whilst I cannot control the storm, I can control the grace I extend to myself whilst battling it. It’s acknowledging that as I am in the grip of these waves I have to make wise choices, about what to hold onto and what to drop overboard, to give me the best chance of making it through to blue skies again.

But it’s not just the act of dropping anchor that matters. What’s just as important is what the anchor digs into. We can choose to anchor ourselves in the shifting sands of our own capabilities and strengths, to look within ourselves for rescue. We can pin our hopes on material possessions or technology making us more equipped for the battles we’re facing.

Instead we’re better to look outside ourselves. We can choose to anchor ourselves in the promises of God, in the one who can calm the storm with only one word. We can fight to remember that no matter how alone we feel we are never abandoned or forsaken. That we are still held by the one who is bigger than any storm that could come our way. We can anchor ourselves in the love of our friends and family, to remember that we are a part of a community that cares. We can try to hold onto the stories of the great storms we’ve weathered before.

I don’t know where you find yourself today, the size of the waves you are facing. But if I could say one thing to myself and to you today it would be: it’s okay to drop anchor. To ask for help and acknowledge the storms you’re facing. It may seem impossible today but they will pass. One day soon they will be stories you tell from a cosy seat by the fire. You will find your way to the shore again.

God of the Storm

This week felt like it would defeat me. It is the first week in a long time that I have felt completely ill equipped to cope with life. It has left me with no choice but to acknowledge how high my stress levels have become. For months I have been keeping my head down and determinedly pushing through, in the hope that if I can just keep going then something will change. But it hasn’t changed. Instead of getting easier it is getting progressively harder. The weight of the fatigue is becoming more than my mind and body can cope with.

I feel like a tiny boat within a fierce storm. I am being buffeted and battered by wind and waves that are stealing my strength. I’ve been torn between trying to calm the storms on my own, and waiting for the moment that they completely defeat me.

As I tried to find the words to describe these feelings I was struck by the story of Jesus calming the storm. Jesus was sleeping in a boat, crossing the lake with his disciples. Whilst they sailed a storm broke out and was threatening to sink the boat. The disciples panicked and woke Jesus, asking “Teacher, don’t you care if we drown?” (Mark 4:38). Jesus calmed the storm with three words and then turned to his disciples and said:

“Why are you still afraid? Do you still have no faith?”

Mark 4:40

As I read the passage, probably for the hundredth time, I felt those questions directed at me. I am no stranger to storms. I have been here before, in this little boat tossed by the waves, countless times. The very fact that I am writing this today is testament to how God has faithfully delivered me from storm after storm. Why should this storm be any different? And yet I find I am afraid. I want to shout and plead with God to make the waves die down.

I’ve often wondered how Jesus wanted the disciples to react to the storm. If they had come to him with different words, and higher expectations, would that have been better? Was he looking for them to come and ask him to calm the waves? But the more I think about it, the more I wonder whether they were meant to leave him sleeping. I think perhaps Jesus wanted them to understand what it really means for him to be with them. To realise that they will be safe purely because he was in the boat, whether the storm was calmed or not.

Some of the storms in my life I have no control over. They are made up of people and situations and circumstances that are beyond me. I cannot change the weather around me or wish away the sickness in my body. All the grit and determination I can muster will not stop the wind and the rain.

But there is something I can control. I can control how I react to the waves crashing around me. I can hide, trembling with fear and panic, declaring the situation hopeless. Or I can stand tall and trust in the one who can calm all storms with just the sound of his voice. I can trust that he is in the boat, and he knows where we are heading. He will bring me through in one piece.

We were never promised a storm free life. No sailor can navigate any great distance without encountering some choppy waters. The only way to guarantee calm seas is to stay in the harbour. But to go anywhere on this adventure of life we have to be prepared to loose sight of the shore and the safety it brings.

Whilst God can calm the storms in my life, I have to make peace with the fact that he may not, or at least not as quickly as I would choose. Sometimes he is asking us to trust him in spite of the circumstances pitted against us. Whether he calms the storm or not, we can trust that as long as he is in the boat, we are safe. We may feel battered and bruised but we will not be overwhelmed. The wind and the waves will never be too much for our little boat.