The gentle sound of raindrops hitting the thirsty ground woke me the other morning. This is normally a welcomed sound in our parched corner of South Carolina., but we’ve had two drenching rains in the two weeks since my husband, David, and I moved into our dream bungalow, and all this rain has been a particular problem for us. I climbed from bed and stumbled through the unfamiliar hallway of our “new” old house to the front door and peered out the window. Sure enough, water was rapidly dripping from the bead-board ceiling and bouncing off the brass light fixture of the front porch. The door mat was drenched. Water covered the entire porch floor. On closer inspection, I now noticed buckled ceiling boards and bubbling paint. How long had that roof been leaking? What kind of rot was hiding below the surface? How difficult would this repair be, and what would it cost? It would help if this were the only difficulty we’ve encountered in the move, but it is just the latest in a lengthening list of rather alarming “inconveniences.” 

Mark 4:35-41 is coming home to roost for me right now. Such an academic little story when life is tooling comfortably along, but under my current circumstances, there are lessons I need to apply. While crossing the Sea of Galilee, Jesus is asleep in the boat as his disciples face a life-threatening storm. I picture them madly bailing water and, only after they realize the fruitlessness of their actions, waking the oddly sleeping Jesus with accusations that he does not care if they live or die. With a restraint that alone speaks volumes, Jesus ignores the ironic accusation and, with remarkable ease and authority, dismisses the wind and orders the waves to be silent. Then he turns to his followers and asks, “Why are you so afraid?” Why indeed. If those waves were not capable of drowning them all, the scene would be comical—twelve men furiously dishing handfuls of water overboard in the midst of a middle-eastern version of a nor’easter as the immensely powerful creator of those waves lies completely at rest nearby.

From the calm of a peaceful shore their actions seem ludicrous. From a post-resurrection perspective, they clearly are. Christ is Lord over all creation. But here, in the rain, I find myself bailing water with a vengeance. I want to point fingers, assign blame, demand restitution. I could drown in a sea of frustration, anger and disappointment. But I hear Jesus asking me the second question of Mark 4:40, “Do you still have no faith? (my emphasis)” It isn’t so much a question of the roof. We could find a way to get it repaired, even if it means forgoing fun upgrades we’d planned to make on our home. I think the question He’s asking me is, “Do you trust me to interfere with the things you are attached to in order to bring you into deeper relationship with me, in order to refine you, in order for my light in you to burn brighter?” I want to answer, “Yes (drip, drip, drip) absolutely yes!” Let it rain.

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