Help Me

Our family has spent a week at the beach every year since I was an elementary-school kid. Squeaky, white sand. Sunrises over the water. And often in late July a water temperature in the low 80s. I could stay in that all day long—bobbing on the swells, body surfing the breakers again and again for as long as my skin can handle the sun.

New Smyrna Beach—our spot—gets some press as the shark attack capital of the world. Thankfully the beasties have coexisted peacefully with us.

When I’m in the water, it’s a different clear and present danger that stays on the alert panel of my mind: the undercurrent.

Hopefully you will never be pulled straight out to sea and need a lifeguard’s assistance. But if you enter the water at all, you will at least feel pulled north, parallel to the shore. Every few minutes you have to trudge back south with all your might, or else you will find yourself quite far down the beach from the chair you left in the sand.

It’s not a dealbreaker for playing in the water, just something to be mindful of—especially when you have brought small children in.

The current during our vacation this summer was so strong that all of us adults were complaining of the workout we got just trying to stay in place.

So when I noticed a little boy, about 9 or 10 years old, not far from me, I just kept my eye on him. Maybe he was fine. On the other hand, I knew how hard I was working to keep a grip on the bottom in between swells.

His dad and older brother were in the water as well, a fair distance to my right. But he was drifting farther from them. The space between him and me was decreasing.

Then he passed me.

I kept my focus on him, reluctant to intervene with a stranger’s child, but ready.

When he got just beyond my arm’s length, he turned his body and tried to move back in my direction, against the current. The water was now over his head even in the troughs. Nothing to grip.

For the first time, he met my waiting eye contact. And said, “Help me.”

He showed no panic, but he was right. I was the last person nearby for a good stretch, and this water was too deep and powerful for a little guy his size.

I took two steps toward him. They felt more like lunar leaps, aided by that current. I just hoped my toes could still find bottom when I reached him. In a deliberately casual voice meant to keep him calm, I said, “Here, just grab my hand, and I’ll pull you back to your dad.”

And all was well.

As God would orchestrate it, two days later I turned the page in my own Peace journal to meditate on the next verse. It was Mark 4:39, “Then He arose and rebuked the wind, and said to the sea, ‘Peace, be still!’ And the wind ceased and there was a great calm.” I was imagining what the disciples looked like in the moments leading up to that mind-blowing freeze frame of still water.

I thought also of Peter’s other epic wave moment, gargling sea water and crying, “Lord, save me!”

Sea Calmer. Wave Walker. Storm Stiller. He saves us.

I could still see that little boy’s face. And it was a contrast that struck me. The disciples in both instances of Mark 4 and Matthew 14 panicked. I don’t blame them a bit. Extensive awareness of the danger at hand; limited understanding of the One present with them. They were scared. “The disciples woke him up, shouting, “Teacher, don’t you care that we’re going to drown?” (Mark 4:38)

I’m just like the disciples. Maybe my seas of circumstances don’t even look choppy. But an undercurrent that no one sees threatens to destabilize me. If I give into it, I will be a hundred yards down shore in no time and possibly fed into a riptide that yanks me powerless out to sea.

So I struggle to hold my ground. Exhausted, exasperated, I finally shake Jesus like the disciples did and accuse Him of not caring about me. Yikes, how upside down.

A better response would be the profound and well-timed words of the little boy in the ocean. “Help me.”

He said it in two words. Without accusation or panic. A simple, direct request. “I’m losing my grip and am almost over my head. This thing I’m in is bigger than me. I see you, and I know you can hear me. You are right here, and I’m willing to risk it all on you. I pick you. Help me.”

Of course I would help him. How much more does Jesus say to us, “Here, just take My hand, and I’ll pull you back to the Father.”

If He’s as ready to help me as I was eager to help that little boy, I don’t have to whine. I don’t have to swirl without hope. I don’t have to gargle and spit and panic. And I don’t have to reach the point of impugning His motives before I take His hand. He’s right here. And I am never out of His reach.

But He’s not here only in my need.

Another little boy in the ocean taught me about that.

This year’s Thanksgiving weekend was pleasantly warm. My out-of-state girls suggested we take a day trip over to the beach so they could max out their sunshine quota. In November, the Atlantic is a bit more, uh, refreshing, than the bath water of summer. But still not Pacific cold.

Bryn and I were holding hands and jumping the waves together. Two boys from different families played nearby. Since their moms weren’t close, I kept my eye on them too. You know, you learn things in the ocean from one time to the next!

Suddenly a little voice said, “Can I hold your hand too?”

That’s how I met Alex. He told me that a lot of people must like his name because they call it out all the time. His mom was wrangling a younger sister and a wandering toddler in the sand. Alex was wanting to explore the surf and make friends.

For fifteen minutes or so, the three of us stood like a red-rover line, stretched across the breaking waves, jumping, splashing, and keeping one another from tumbling. Joy.

When some salt water doused his face rather soundly on a big wave, he decided to head back to mom, who was grateful for our romp in the water. I thought she was braver than I ever was to bring three little-bitties by herself to the beach.

And another line of child-like faith had been gifted to me through Alex to add to the language of my prayer. “Can I hold Your hand?”

Jesus saves us, rescues us from danger. Just as eagerly, He welcomes us into His joy. I can take His hand, not only in need but also in delight. He is a God who would jump the waves with me and laugh and steady me so I can feel the thrill of bigger ones that would otherwise knock me over.

Wave Jumper. Joy Chaser. Hand Holder.

My God is right here, in my need and in my joy, inviting me to grasp His hand, feel His peace and His power, know His strength and His delight.