By Greg Jones
I am basically a first-class coward when it comes to boats on open water in bad weather. My grandparents sent me to sailing camp in Maine for years as a boy, and most of the time I dreaded it. On the Maine coast, where we sailed, we were on a large bay at the foot of the Appalachian Mountains, and the winds would just come whipping down and cause all sorts of trouble. Seems like we capsized our sail boats all the time.
We used to have drills where you’d have to jump in the freezing Maine water, fully dressed, and swim under a boat and come up on the other side, or swim under a capsized-sail, or take your pants off and tie the legs closed, and wave ’em in the air to create a make-shift life preserver. We had to get up early at one camp and swim ‘Polar Bears’ — from dock to dock in freezing water.
All of this was sort of cool in retrospect, but at the time I was pretty scared most through most of it.
I remember at one camp, in addition to ragged long hikes through the mountains — which I liked a lot more — we also went on very long canoe trips in the Maine wilderness. When I was 12 or 13, we took a hundred-mile plus trip across river and lake, up near Canada — and I almost died of hypothermia.
Yes, I was in my canoe with another kid in the scariest thunder storm ever, with giant waves, and literally miles to go, and I thought I was done. The boy supposedly steering our canoe had pretty much become catatonic from fear behind me, and there I was just paddling for dear life trying to drag us both to the other side of the shore. Our little flotilla of other canoes had become scattered, and the lead canoe was WAY ahead.
I recall looking overboard and contemplating jumping in — somehow thinking that this would be preferable. I recall vividly staring at the water next to my gunnel, and considering how relaxing it would feel to just jump in. I was on the edge of hysteria, for sure.
What brought me back, was a song; a little song I learned at St. Columba’s in Washington, D.C. when I was about 8 or 9 years old. Written in 1977 by Carey Landry, “Abba Father,” saved my life. I sang it over and over until we made it, to the shore on the other side.
I say that little song got me through…but really, what happened was, God did. Yes, God got me to shore on the other side. Sure, I still had to paddle, but it was God that got me through. That’s what I believe.
And aren’t we all in situations like this — one way or another? Aren’t we all on the edge of hysteria sometimes, with fear of — well — death? Ours, or somebody we love’s? Like the disciples on that lake that day — aren’t we all afraid of death? And isn’t our response so often to go through life like that kid at the back of my canoe — in a trance-like state, dragging our paddles, largely unresponsive?
Rings true for me anyway, even still. That is — that is — until remember that the Son of God is on this boat with us.
Until we remember that he is on this boat with us, our fear of the deep cannot be quelled. Sure, there are times when it looks like God is sleeping. After all, Genesis says pretty clearly that the Lord rested on the seventh day, and who knows, maybe that should be understood quite literally. But I don’t believe that. No, I believe that God will get us through to the other side.
And that though we will be rocked by wind and wave, and we will have lots to fear, and that death is sure, God will guide us through. We need to keep on paddling, but the Son of God will get us to his eternal shore.
The Rev. Samuel Gregory Jones (‘Greg’) is rector of St. Michael’s in Raleigh, N.C. and the bass player in indie-rock band The Balsa Gliders — whose fourth studio release is available on iTunes. He blogs at Anglican Centrist.