Untethered

I recently read an essay written by a woman who traveled around the world on a ship. She, her husband and her son joined a handful of other professors and a slew of college students for a semester spent on a cruise ship, with a dozen stops at ports along the coasts of North America, South America, Africa, and Asia. She tells about riding in a taxi through the city of Accra, in Ghana, holding a map in her lap and realizing her prized navigational skills were no match for the discrepancy between the map and the reality of the city. She writes, "I had a feeling of being completely untethered from the familiar, propelled into a place that was not logical. It was a profoundly uncomfortable sensation, but I thought, If you're not willing to give up some small measure of control, you might as well not go anywhere." (Jean Hanff Korelitz, 100 Days at Sea)

I too have felt "untethered" the past two weeks. Soon after returning to Tanzania from Zambia, the children and I were all hit by several illnesses, which left us lonely and adrift, uncomfortably bound to the cold of the tile floor and the darkness of days without electricity. In my misery, I felt homesick for familiar things—for food, for places, for people comfortable and known. I felt unraveled, uneasy, longing to find a way to secure my aching body and soul to a harbor of healing.

But life goes on, both relentless and merciful. As the primary caretaker of three young children, I must work even on sick days, so we pushed the couch and chairs together, covered them in blankets and pillows and cups of ginger ale, and let our small ship of sickness sail where the wind would blow her. And as we drifted through our week, I thought of one of my most favorite stories from the gospels, from John 21. One night not long after Jesus' resurrection, seven of the disciples decide to hop into a boat and return to their old pastime, fishing. I imagine them drifting through the darkness, dipping their nets into the water again and again, each time hoping to bring them up full and each time hauling in a heap of disappointment. And I thought about how I also go fishing in a week of misery; I feebly look to catch some sustenance, some morsels of hope to feed upon, and too often I come up empty.

The gospel story doesn't end there, and thankfully neither does my story. Because the same person shows up in both stories, the same Savior standing by the seaside, calling to the disciples and to me. "Friends," he says, "How's the fishing? Have you caught anything yet?" And we yell out, "No! Nothing! We've been fishing all night and all we've caught are nasty colds and seaweed!" And he smiles and shouts, "Lower your net down on the right-hand side." And we think, "What good is that gonna do?" but we do it, because we are so desperate and so hungry. And then, oh then, we haul in a catch of fish, a heap of blessings so big and beautiful that the net threatens to break. Suddenly we realize, "It's Jesus!" and by the time we get to shore, he's already waiting with a fire blazing, already cooking breakfast to fill our emptiness, already providing fish both for today and for tomorrow.

I wish I could tell you that I am strong enough to count my blessings in the middle of weeks of sickness and nights of disappointment. I wish I could tell you that I am wise enough to see through the present trials and count it all joy, knowing that I am building patience and perseverance. But sometimes, friends, it seems that I'm just struggling to survive the night, hunkering down in the boat, murmuring words of complaint to my companions. And sometimes it takes the dawning of day for me to see Jesus standing there, as he has been the whole time, waiting, just waiting for me to lower my net of faith and haul in that pile of blessings. Because the fish were there all night. The gifts can be counted in the darkness as well as in the light, because we serve a God who, as 1 John 1 reminds us, "is light; in him there is no darkness at all."

In the light of dawn, and with Jesus standing on the seashore, the disciples begin to count the fish, and there are a whopping 153 of them. In the light of dawn, and with Jesus standing on the seashore, I begin to count my blessings, and they, too, are plentiful... The cheerful marigolds blooming outside my kitchen window. Reading Charlotte's Web aloud to my children. Endless rounds of card games. Strawberry-rhubarb birthday crumble. A backyard tent for playing and sleeping. New friends around our table. Old friends on the telephone. A small hedgehog who sleeps in our bathroom and eats table scraps and cockroaches. My faithful farmer husband tending 10,000 tomato plants. Bedtime songs with small voices soaring high and loud.

In a season when I have little control, when I lose what is familiar and become "untethered," I must bind my fraying soul to the anchor that is Jesus. I must choose to lift my head and count my blessings, naming what is precious and beautiful about what I can see, however feeble my sight. I must trust that Jesus can and will fill me with good things, and that in his presence, I will be 

sustained.