“Give your worries to the LORD and He will never let you down." ~ Psalm 55:22
Abby lived on a fishing boat. Unable to afford a home, her father raised her aboard a rickety vessel on which he’d made a paltry living since Abby’s mother died.
As she sliced open the belly of yet another salmon, she dreamed of a better life; one absent the stares from villagers and taunts from classmates. But this was her fate – flouting the restless sea, greedy seagulls, and the stench of fish guts and diesel fuel. She soaked in the quiet.
Her calm was broken suddenly by the telling signs of an impending storm. Recalling the ‘red’ sunrise earlier today, Abby watched a mountain of dark clouds approach from the south; their undersides black with rage.
She rushed below deck. "Dad! Dad, wake up!"
He lay motionless from an alcohol stupor that would normally keep him mentally vacant ‘til dawn’s first light. She grabbed his shoulders and shook him. His head bounced off the headboard. He cursed, "What the hell’s going on?”
"Dad, we’ve got to leave the boat now. Storm’s coming – big one!"
He staggered to the deck, saw the clouds and fired the engines.
"Dad! Where’re we going?
"Can’t stay here,” he cautioned. “If we do, this old boat will be crushed to kindling. We’ll take our chances out to sea."
They headed into the storm. Fuming clouds churned; waves crashed over the bow. The dark day turned into a blacker night. He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat against the stinging salt mist. He wrapped himself in his own miserable reflections.
The boiling sea, he thought, was like a drunken sailor raging through a barroom looking for a fight. Could this be God’s wrath – final payment for a life lived poorly? He dropped to the deck and offered a simple prayer, “Father forgive me; help me do better.”
Soon the wind dimmed; the waves subsided; and the sky brightened. They sailed back into utter ruin. The wharf was gone. The boats that had been tied to it sat damaged on rocks that guarded the coastline like sharp, jagged teeth. Theirs was the only boat that survived the storm.
Abby hugged her father, "You're my hero, Dad!"
He shook his head. "I'm no hero, I'm a drunken bum! If not for you, our boat would be on the shore like the rest of them." He stared at the wreckage. "God protected us for a reason . . . to give me a second chance."
“I love you Dad,” her tears washing the salt from her cheeks.
He stopped drinking. As the only remaining fishing business in the village, they prospered and soon had a nice home and a new boat. He stayed sober.
As she sliced open the belly of yet another salmon, she dreamed of a better life; one absent the stares from villagers and taunts from classmates. But this was her fate – flouting the restless sea, greedy seagulls, and the stench of fish guts and diesel fuel. She soaked in the quiet.
She rushed below deck. "Dad! Dad, wake up!"
He lay motionless from an alcohol stupor that would normally keep him mentally vacant ‘til dawn’s first light. She grabbed his shoulders and shook him. His head bounced off the headboard. He cursed, "What the hell’s going on?”
"Dad, we’ve got to leave the boat now. Storm’s coming – big one!"
He staggered to the deck, saw the clouds and fired the engines.
"Dad! Where’re we going?
"Can’t stay here,” he cautioned. “If we do, this old boat will be crushed to kindling. We’ll take our chances out to sea."
They headed into the storm. Fuming clouds churned; waves crashed over the bow. The dark day turned into a blacker night. He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat against the stinging salt mist. He wrapped himself in his own miserable reflections.
The boiling sea, he thought, was like a drunken sailor raging through a barroom looking for a fight. Could this be God’s wrath – final payment for a life lived poorly? He dropped to the deck and offered a simple prayer, “Father forgive me; help me do better.”
Soon the wind dimmed; the waves subsided; and the sky brightened. They sailed back into utter ruin. The wharf was gone. The boats that had been tied to it sat damaged on rocks that guarded the coastline like sharp, jagged teeth. Theirs was the only boat that survived the storm.
Abby hugged her father, "You're my hero, Dad!"
He shook his head. "I'm no hero, I'm a drunken bum! If not for you, our boat would be on the shore like the rest of them." He stared at the wreckage. "God protected us for a reason . . . to give me a second chance."
“I love you Dad,” her tears washing the salt from her cheeks.
He stopped drinking. As the only remaining fishing business in the village, they prospered and soon had a nice home and a new boat. He stayed sober.
Lord, we’re like ships on an angry sea - suffering, lonely, hungry, unemployed, emotionally bankrupt, medically challenged. Let no heart be troubled. Though our ships may be tossed by the terrors of this day, thank You for always being with us. Amen
