The days by the warm Caribbean sea have renewed me.
Family, friendship, laughter and rest
have refreshed the waters within me
and restored breath to my tired spirit.
What silence began on retreat,
the seashore continued.
The gentle waves washed my wounds;
loving hands helped clothe me again.
But now the hour of departure approaches.
I must say goodbye to the familiar shore,
lift my feet from the comforting sand
and turn towards the missionary boat.
Anticipation rises within me,
and joy catches the morning light;
yet anxiety and fear linger like the Saharan dust
over the Caribbean waters I must cross.
I do not condemn these feelings.
I acknowledge them, listen to them
and bring them with me
but I will not allow them to steer the boat.
I must enter the boat.
Yet I do not embark alone.
Mission is not a solitary journey,
nor is the boat mine to command.
I enter with companions
each carrying gifts and wounds,
hopes and fears,
visions of the destination
and different understandings of the sea.
Together, we must leave the calm waters of the cove,
pass beyond the protective boundaries of the coral reef
and sail into the rough and stormy seas
where ministry becomes real.
There, waves of relational conflict will rise.
The winds of resistance will test us.
Personal agendas will crash against the boat,
and siloed minds will retreat into separate cabins.
The demanding work of synodality,
communion, participation and mission
will require more than charts, plans and meetings;
it will require hearts willing to be converted.
I must help navigate this boat
without pretending to control the sea.
I must learn when to adjust the sails,
when to speak, when to listen,
when to hold the rudder firmly,
when to entrust it to another,
and when to lower the anchor
and wait for the storm to pass.
I offer no promise of an easy voyage.
I carry the memory of an intimate retreat encounter:
the God who found me exhausted,
who received my unclothed and wounded self,
who held me closely without condemnation,
called me beloved,
and asked me to care tenderly
for the life entrusted to me.
That embrace must become my inner compass.
If I forget that I am beloved,
I may begin to seek my worth
in achievement, recognition, control,
or the applause of those on shore.
Across the deep, other vessels will approach,
the tempting ships of the conquistadors,
brightly decorated with narcissism,
self-gratification and hedonism.
They will promise easier waters,
private kingdoms and instant treasures;
they will invite me to abandon communion and participation
and make the mission serve my ego.
But I must not follow their flags.
I must keep my eyes fixed on Jesus Christ,
the One who stands within the restless waves
and calls me again into the deep.
When fear rises,
I must remember Ezekiel’s dry bones:
Can these bones live?
Yes, Lord—you know that they can.
I must remember the dry, crooked, dirty log
lying helplessly at the foot of the Dunsinane altar:
weathered, discarded, and apparently lifeless,
yet still held within God’s gaze.
Can this log live?
Yes.
