Mark 6:47 - 48
It was night and overcast. The crowds were dispersed; the disciples had taken their only boat and were somewhere out in the middle of the sea; and Jesus, high up on the mountain, reclined between two boulders, knees to chest. It was moments like these that he savored. "Papa, it's so good to just be with You."
Apart from a soft wind brought in from the east, all was quiet. "I'm exhausted," he said. "And so thankful for what You are about to do." Despite his folded position, he felt like singing. Psalm 116 came to mind and he belted out: "Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of His Saints." He knew this night was not going to be the night -- not that night -- not for awhile. The words were equal part sobering and comforting as their echo died amongst the rocks.
He turned his attention to the sea. The wind was more forceful now and by the muted light of the moon, he could see the small boat rising on swollen crests. It then disappeared behind troughs. Up for a moment, then down, then again. "Father, keep my friends safe even as I know you already are. Strengthen them."
Was it time to go to them yet? He waited patiently for the answer until: No, not yet.
Another hymn, another prayer, another hour -- then another. It passed slowly. Jesus tucked his hands below his body and braced against the wind. He never took his eyes off the boat, not once.
What started as a nuisance wind had turned dead against the disciples. "We're getting blown off course," Peter said. Master of the obvious, thought Andrew. All 12 men dug oars deep into the water. Even without the constant spray of sea water spouting above the bow, they were drenched completely from sweat. John's eyes clenched against the sting of water and wind as he sputtered: "Best we can do is land at Capernaum at this pace." No one heard or cared, the now gale force wind ripping over the boat.
Peter lost grip on his oar and the wind shot it away like an arrow. He cursed. "We're going to die out here." He strained his eyes rearward to see if there was any sign of Jesus back on the land. Only darkness. He was on dry land somewhere for sure. But they were stuck out here in hell, in the only boat available. At least the little hull was keeping. For now.
Without an oar to keep himself busy, Peter shouted at the top of his lungs at no one in particular, "I've never seen it this bad -- if only the Master was here -- I hate this -- are you sure he said Bethsaida? -- how are we going to help him rule the Kingdom if we're at the bottom of the sea?"
Jesus felt the sudden urge to go to them. This time he felt the Father's approval. He rose from his sitting position, stretched his legs and descended the mountain. It was around four in the morning when his toes touched the shoreline. With barely more than a nodding prayer, he stepped on to the water and began the four mile walk to the center of the sea.
Apart from a soft wind brought in from the east, all was quiet. "I'm exhausted," he said. "And so thankful for what You are about to do." Despite his folded position, he felt like singing. Psalm 116 came to mind and he belted out: "Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of His Saints." He knew this night was not going to be the night -- not that night -- not for awhile. The words were equal part sobering and comforting as their echo died amongst the rocks.
He turned his attention to the sea. The wind was more forceful now and by the muted light of the moon, he could see the small boat rising on swollen crests. It then disappeared behind troughs. Up for a moment, then down, then again. "Father, keep my friends safe even as I know you already are. Strengthen them."
Was it time to go to them yet? He waited patiently for the answer until: No, not yet.
Another hymn, another prayer, another hour -- then another. It passed slowly. Jesus tucked his hands below his body and braced against the wind. He never took his eyes off the boat, not once.
What started as a nuisance wind had turned dead against the disciples. "We're getting blown off course," Peter said. Master of the obvious, thought Andrew. All 12 men dug oars deep into the water. Even without the constant spray of sea water spouting above the bow, they were drenched completely from sweat. John's eyes clenched against the sting of water and wind as he sputtered: "Best we can do is land at Capernaum at this pace." No one heard or cared, the now gale force wind ripping over the boat.
Peter lost grip on his oar and the wind shot it away like an arrow. He cursed. "We're going to die out here." He strained his eyes rearward to see if there was any sign of Jesus back on the land. Only darkness. He was on dry land somewhere for sure. But they were stuck out here in hell, in the only boat available. At least the little hull was keeping. For now.
Without an oar to keep himself busy, Peter shouted at the top of his lungs at no one in particular, "I've never seen it this bad -- if only the Master was here -- I hate this -- are you sure he said Bethsaida? -- how are we going to help him rule the Kingdom if we're at the bottom of the sea?"
Jesus felt the sudden urge to go to them. This time he felt the Father's approval. He rose from his sitting position, stretched his legs and descended the mountain. It was around four in the morning when his toes touched the shoreline. With barely more than a nodding prayer, he stepped on to the water and began the four mile walk to the center of the sea.
Labels: bible fiction
posted by ToddO at 8:02 PM
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