This Thing Called Change

I am thinking about waves, waves crashing relentlessly onto the shore.

The last day I spent in the Cooks, the two week on-again, off-again storm, fully lifted, and it was beautiful. We packed up and drove to the other side of the island, found a nice, sandy spot, somewhat in the shade, and made camp for the afternoon. 

Foam flecks sprayed in the air, the sun hot on our salty up-turned faces. The waves were huge, continual, the storm surge of a massive cyclone, and as we played in the waves there was a constant pulling at our feet, the current strong, silently urging us to come out to sea. 

So maybe I am not thinking about waves, so much as I am thinking about change. 

I love change. I love it when I make new friends and see new places. I love expanding my home to more people. I love new books, new clothes, new things. I love mastering new skills and setting new records. 

I hate change. I hate it when friends leave or I am pulled away from one home in exchange for another. I hate learning new languages and not being able to communicate in the culturally acceptable way. I hate the ripping, that gut-wrenching tug of tears that threatens to drop at inopportune times, when a certain smell wafts through the air or a certain song is played on the radio, reminders of all those left behind, life-changing, people, places, events.

But change is constant. Our environments are in a constant altercation of death and renewal, surrender and victory, hello and good-bye. 

Today is a good day and a bad day. I made a lovely new friend this morning. I did all I could to avoid saying good-bye to a dear friend this evening. She left anyway.

Last night all the beautiful well-laid plans I'd made for the rest of the year kinda got turned upside down. (I don't normally plan a whole lot, so this kinda just convinced me that planning was quite possibly over-rated).

Change is constant. 

So often I feel like I've just sorted things. One suitcase fully unpacked, one closet fully sorted, and then the whirlwind of life comes through and with one little puff knocks everything out of order again. And I end up questioning, not understanding, probably loving the change, but completely disoriented by it, and what it means for my life. 

Change is constant. 

But God is also constant. Sure. Steadfast. Strong. How does the Scripture put it? A refuge in the time of storm. 

You know what the best part of that day in the waves was? It was not when our feet touched the ground, rather when we let go, lifted our feet, floated on top of and in the midst of the storm surge. It was scary, it was adrenaline rushing, and it was freeing, the relinquish of control.

Kind of like life. The surrender in the midst of the storm is kinda the sweetest and wildest freedom. It is leaning on the strength of the Father, knowing you're in for the craziest ride of your life. 

Or that's how I like to see it anyway.