Why is this so hard?

I can barely remember a period on the ship where I wasn't struggling. When I look back on the last six months in particular, I can remember so many difficult things. (Though come to think of it, the first months were hardly a pleasure trip either!)

I have seen two friendships - both meaningful to me - end. One has been partially restored; the other may never be. They are very painful issues for me.

I have seen two marriages approach disaster, which is particularly discouraging. I have seen countless people leave the ship because it was just too much for them to handle, and I have resolved firmly in my mind that I would never be that sort of person - I may be a lot of bad things, I tell myself, but I'm not a quitter!

I have failed repeatedly (and publicly) and really felt humiliated in my job. I have questioned the sincerity of my relationship with God as I have been unable to engage in different worship or ministry opportunities. For one horribly memorable night in Africa, I very seriously considered whether I could be mentally unstable. Maybe it sounds humorous now, but I assure you at the time that it was really not a joke.

You could call these things "spiritual warfare" (and actually under the circumstances of my life, I am inclined to do just that), but sometimes that label doesn't carry the connotations it deserves. I've heard that term for years, but I never imagined lying wide-eyed in bed in the middle of the night squirming in terror at the chaos in my head.

The most recent has been the worst. Strangely, numbly, I found myself smiling and laughing on the surface while living the most miserable days of my life. Hopelessness and crushing guilt . . . no chance of conquering the sin that is so much more powerful than I am; no possibility of having the strength to survive underneath such an impossibly heavy load. Grasping at straws, everywhere, anywhere, for some kind of solution. No future. Only heavy darkness in my head. Only paralysis and a desperation that I've never known before.

It's better now - and when it is better it is easy to forget how real and how awful it was. Will it come back? Probably at some point . . . I dread it. The hope we talk about sometimes on this ship is so relevant; it is critically important that in those dark times I can still trust in God's goodness and His commitment to work ALL things for my good.

This entire post probably makes me sounds like a total psycho, because my last several posts here have been downright chipper. And they, of course, have been truthful; although this is opposite from those, I don't think they contradict. Real life has great joys and great pains . . . and real life is what I said I wanted, back before I knew how dangerous a claim it was.


It's still what I want.

As long as I can survive both the joy and the pain, it's what I want.

How deep . . .

The other day, I sat outside at the front of the ship for a while. We had been sailing quite close to India, clear of pirate hot spots, and holding a speed of about 7 knots. We usually sail at 10 knots and whenever you step outside you get a good blast of wind, but at 7 knots, that wind was just a lovely breeze. So I sat outside in the sun, leaning on the ship, with the lovely breeze in my face, and it was wonderful.

And I looked to my left and right. We were close to India, but not so close you can see it. Nothing but water and water and water, as far as I could see in both directions.

And I looked straight ahead. I saw a buoy with a Pakistani flag on it, okay . . . but nothing else. :-) Endless water. We move forward for hours, days at a time, and still it stretches endlessly in front of us.

And I looked up to the sky – light blue, streaked with greyish clouds. If my eyes could see past the clouds, the view would go on forever. It has no end, or so I'm told. (I can't prove it, but I still believe it is true.) It's the only thing I can think of that has no boundaries.

And I looked down at the sea. What I see there is very different. It too is vast, but I can't see very far down. I know – at least, I believe – that it goes down for many, many, many feet – too many for me to comprehend – but all I see is the very surface of it. It is fortunate, isn't it, that the limitations of my perception are not the limitations of the ocean!

And I looked down into my Bible, sitting open on my lap, and my reading for the day - "coincidentally" - was in Ephesians 3:

And I pray that you, being rooted and established in love, may have power, together with all the saints, to grasp how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ, and to know this love that surpasses knowledge . . .

I think I understand that a little bit better now.