Walking (on) Water

Somehow I made my way to the lake.

It was that kind of dark that makes you wonder who's creepin' on ya; it isn't foggy, but it feels foggy. My feet carried me this way, then that, and ended at the place where I stood weeks ago, peering over the water. Only now, the place where I stood stands under a few feet of water. It's amazing what a month of rain can do.

I cast my eyes skyward to meet the greys and purples herding themselves along. Maybe they'd catch the storm that preceded them hours before. My head sank again to the lake. The ripples synced with the clouds, but halted at my feet, the edge of the concrete path-turned-shore the new beach.

I set my foot out, on top of the water. It sank an inch to the bottom.

I tried again; it sank again.

I stepped out with both feet, one at a time. This time, my socks dampened, and my eyes dampened as I lamented the lack of faith or grace that kept me from walking on the water.

But stepping out in faith isn't really faith. Inches are not a risk.

I needed to jump.

I laughed at the idea. I said I was crazy. I reasoned, though, that craziness would be not believing what happened to Peter could possibly happen today, and could not happen to me. Surely, rationale says that if a thing is possible once, it is possible again.

With all the reason I could muster, I backed up the flat black path, let out a boyish chuckle, turned, ran and jumped.

I couldn't help but think of Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego who, before being thrown into the furnace, affirmed that their God could do the impossible, saving each one.

"But even if he does not, we want you to know, O king, that we will not serve your gods or worship the image of gold you have set up." (Daniel 3:18)

For them, God not providing a miracle or doing the impossible is not a sign that God is not present. God does what God wills. Man is made to serve God, not the other way around. And I resolved that I would rather put my faith in God and sink than put my faith in myself and stand.

I turned. I ran. I jumped.

And I landed firmly on the same flat black path, six inches deep.

I let the water soak my shoes as I smiled up to the sky, laughing aloud, by myself, in the dark.

Sloshing back to my apartment, I felt faithful; this same God who lets me sink is the same God who makes me to stand.