Choppy Water

The summer after my father died, my mother rented a house on a New Hampshire lake. When I arrived, it was windy, the water choppy and grey. Only after the winds calmed did the lake settle, revealing clear water through which I could see rocks, sunken logs and fish below. Looking back, I can see a valuable lesson the 20-year-old could not.

Long before that summer, I had formed habits of emotional protection which I can only describe as perpetual motion. I reasoned that if I kept moving, rushing around like the wind, I could keep the waters of my life choppy and would never have to look beneath the surface.  I also thought such frenetic activity made me seem confident and interesting, but what I was, was frightened beyond words. I didn’t want to look at the hurts and insecurities lying submerged like rocks, so I kept the winds blowing. 

I’d like to say that 40 years later I’m a placid contemplative wonderment, but the fact is I still revert to old habits from time to time. Looking around me, I can see I’m not alone. The ways to stir the waters are countless: we spend our days glued to our phones, attended every game our childen play, and accept every invitation. We devote ourselves to our work, our church, or some political cause, so we won’t have time to look beneath the surface of our lives.

Keeping the water choppy can make us feel better, more secure, or more interesting, but it’s also exhausting. 

When I feel the breezes blowing, and the whitecaps remind me of my fear of looking below, I try to remember the lake in New Hampshire. Then, maybe, I’ll step back, breathe, and let the waters settle. Perhaps then I’ll know what the psalmist meant when he spoke of sitting beside still waters.

It doesn’t come naturally, but new life rarely does.