When participating in any type of aquatic recreational activity, I have one rule—the bottom of said body of water must be visible from the surface. If I can’t see my toes, I’m out. Even if I can count the toes on my feet, I’m leery of anything that moves in the water that is not of the human kind. There was a viral video several years ago in which a woman proclaimed most definitively that the ocean is the shark’s home, and we don’t need to go in the shark’s home. I’m wholeheartedly on board with this line of thinking. I used to love the lake until I saw the news story of the 13-foot gator that called our cove his home. Absolutely not. I’m done. You can have the whole lake, sir. Even when my husband and I are in the crystal-clear waters off the southern coast of the Florida Keys, the salty viscosity of the ocean mixed with sand and plant life still clouds visibility and evokes sheer panic in my mind. The thoughts of imminent demise overshadow any chance of relaxation or enjoyment in that situation, and so I leave my husband to blissfully float in the cool, crystal-blue water all by himself as I retreat back to the beach chair in the blazing hot sun.
Lately, life in general has me feeling like I’m floating around in murky waters, existing in a sweeping state of panic because I cannot clearly see what’s happening in front of me. How much longer are my husband and I going to work before retirement? Is my son going to fall in love, get married, and raise a family in England (his current residence)? Where is my daughter going to go to college in nine months? Will I live in Southeast Texas for the rest of my life? What if my grandchildren live in another state…or country?! Will we have enough money to take care of ourselves as we age so we don’t burden our children? I need answers, God!
It’s easy for us to get wrapped up in the “what if” or the “what will be” of this life because we have plans, but no crystal ball. I have to remind myself that it’s a normal human trait to want to know what the future holds…especially when that future involves the ones I love the most in this world. And God, in His perfect love for us, meets us where we are in this struggle. I tell Him all the time that I’m stressed out about the future, but He already knows. He can handle it. He planned for it. That’s why His love letter to us, the Bible, is full of reminders to cast our cares on Him. David tells us in Psalm 55:22 to “cast your burden on the Lord,” and Peter echoes that same instruction in 1 Peter 5:7, telling us to cast all our anxieties on Him because He cares for us.
The word cast is what gets me. We’re not being told to carefully hold on to our worries while politely asking God to help us manage them. We’re being told to throw them His way. All of them. The questions about our children, our finances, our future, and all the things we can’t possibly know or control. He doesn’t ask us to figure everything out before we hand it over. He simply asks us to trust Him with what we cannot see. And that’s where I struggle.
Much like my adventures in the ocean, I want to see what’s out there in front of me before I commit to staying in the water. I want to know what’s coming, what’s lurking around the corner, and exactly where my feet are going to land. I want reassurance that everything is going to work out the way I’ve imagined it should. But faith doesn’t come with crystal-clear water and an unobstructed view of the bottom. Sometimes faith means floating in the deep, murky water with absolutely no idea what’s beneath you or what’s ahead. It means trusting that the One who created the water knows every inch of it, even when you can’t see a thing. And maybe that’s what God is trying to teach me in this season of life. I don’t have to know where my children will end up, what retirement will look like, or where the next chapter will take us. I can find joy in the life that God has given me today and rest in the fact that I don’t have to see the the future to know whose hands it’s in.
So, the next time my husband is floating peacefully in the ocean while I’m sitting on the beach worrying about everything that might be swimming out in front of him, perhaps I’ll remember that there’s a reason he’s enjoying the water and I’m not. He’s willing to float without knowing what’s coming towards him. And I’m so busy trying to see what’s in the distance that I’m missing the beauty of the water all around me. Maybe it’s time I learned to float, too.
