Rising Up

I stood at the edge of the Pacific Ocean, saltwater burning my throat, sand between my teeth, my wild curls wet and windswept. I was squinting because I had just lost my favorite pair of sunglasses among the waves. This was my first real encounter with the ocean, and I didn’t know it had so much to teach me. I didn’t yet realize the strength of its crests and the pull of its undercurrent.

We were boogie boarding, and it was my first time. I learned the sting of the wipeout within the first ten minutes. I floundered in three feet of water, not sure which way was up, not sure where to put my feet. I’m a strong swimmer, and yet I had nothing on these crashing waves.

The water calmed, and I stood up, a bit distressed and surprised at what had just happened. The ocean had tossed me around like a child’s plaything, and I wasn’t sure I liked that. As an inland girl, I had always fantasized about the ocean. It wasn’t supposed to be this rough! It was supposed to be like the lakes I’d grown up on, but with a . . . you know, tide. To keep things pretty. Oh, how mistaken I was.

The ocean had a lot more to teach me than just about the right moment to hop on the boogie board. It taught me

• how to never give up,
• how to fight for something when I really want it,
• how to stand up when I fall,
• how, when the world knocks me down, to stand up—bruised, stung, and a little bleary-eyed—and keep going.

In retrospect, though, the ocean didn’t teach me these things; God did. He was using his big, beautiful Pacific to show me that with him by my side, I could withstand any wipeout. He taught me that the burn of the saltwater was not a gift, but the opportunity to stand up again was. The tumble was only the moment that led to the rising up, the beginning again, the determination not to let the fear of the past determine the future.

I didn’t realize the strength of the Pacific Ocean. I didn’t realize it wasn’t just vast and deep but strong—stronger than I could have ever imagined. With the exception of the Great Lakes, which produce waves on their own, the waves in lakes are slow and rare, only arriving when a speedboat passes the swimming area with enough speed that those of us on tubes get a little hop. The waves in the ocean? They’re brilliantly wild. Untamable. Beautiful.

The fierce nature of the ocean made me fall in love with it even more. It became an awe-inspired love. I find myself now in awe of its power, its strength, and its endless greatness.

After that first nasty wipeout, I took a break. I drank some water, I ate a snack, I texted a friend. And then I grabbed the board and went out afresh. Of course, I wiped out again, but I rode the waves more effectively, and I kept standing up.

You know what this reminds me of? That we aren’t called to perfection, to always get it right. We’re called to show up. Most of the time, we aren’t summoned to greatness. Rather, we’re called to faithfulness. We’re called to continually show up for the little things, to practice perpetual patience when life doesn’t go as planned, to live with persistent trust when we must learn the hard way.

I’m not here to say you must learn to love the wipeout. In those waves, I hardly loved it. Rather, I want you to know that it’s possible to be grateful for the opportunity to stand up again. Our God is not only a God of redemption; He is the redemption. He died for us to begin again. And again.

It’s never too late to rise up, clear your eyes, run a hand through your wild curls, eat a snack, text a friend, and begin again.

We were buried therefore with him by baptism into death, in order that, just as Christ was raised from the dead by the glory of the Father, we too might walk in newness of life. (Romans 6:4 ESV)

Audrey Menck is the 17-year=old daughter of Sarah Mackenzie, author of The Read Aloud Family. She’s a writer, dreamer, and lover of all things travel. You can usually find her baking something sweet in the kitchen, reading an Emily Dickinson poem, or playing the piano. She lives in the Pacific Northwest with her five younger brothers and sisters, always hoping for a moment of peace, which she usually finds in a hot cup of tea.

Photograph © Jeremy Bishop, used with permission