Finding the Sacred in the Ordinary: Ships in a Gale
Being from Minnesota, I’ve always felt a proud connection to the Great Lakes. The North Shore along Lake Superior is one of the most beautiful places in the state. You can stand there for hours, staring at the water that seems to stretch into forever. Because the lake is so deep, only the edges have the chance to freeze. Most of its surface stays open even in the bitter cold. But that doesn’t mean it’s untouched by winter. November brings the gales—huge waves and storms plague the Great Lakes during this time, putting ships who cross those waters at extraordinary risk.
When the lake is calm, sailors feel confident—steady, hopeful, in control. Their path is clear, and the journey feels secure. But when the winds rise? Panic. Sudden fear. Sharp awareness of every danger: hidden rocks, violent waves, other ships too close to avoid. How often is that us? When life is smooth, we rest easy. We assume it will stay that way. But when a storm comes—news we didn’t expect, stress we didn’t plan for, a burden that feels too heavy—suddenly anxiety swells, and our confidence dissolves.
I am reminded of the moment in the Gospel when Jesus slept through the storm:
And a great storm of wind arose, and the waves beat into the boat, so that the boat was already filling. But he was in the stern, asleep on the cushion; and they woke him and said to him, “Teacher, do you not care if we perish?” And he awoke and rebuked the wind, and said to the sea, “Peace! Be still!” And the wind ceased, and there was a great calm. He said to them, “Why are you afraid? Have you no faith?” And they were filled with awe, and said to one another, “Who then is this, that even wind and sea obey him?”
—Mark 4:37-41
It is easy to forget the preparation we have already done and the protection Jesus brings. The disciples were seasoned sailors who knew how to handle storms. Yet their panic and worry, though real, revealed their sudden uncertainty—they forgot their training, their experience, and the promise of Christ’s care. I have felt that way too: wondering why Jesus appears to be asleep in the middle of my storm, questioning where He is and why it feels like I am facing the waves alone.
But when I cry out to Him? He answers. He calms the storm. Peace returns. And I remember:
He prepared me for this.
He has never left my side.
His quiet presence is greater than any gale.
The danger is never greater than His power.
May our faith stand firm when the winds rise.
May we trust Him — even when He seems to sleep —
knowing He prepares, protects, and persists.
