But everyone who hears these words of mine and does not put them into practice is like a foolish man who built his house on sand. The rain came down, the streams rose, and the winds blew and beat against that house yet it did not fall, because it had its foundation on the rock. Therefore everyone who hears these words of mine and puts them into practice is like a wise man who built his house on the rock. But when the storm comes, we will regret not building our lives on something more solid. Since childhood we have all struggled to fit in with the group holding power, whether that be the popular girls at the lunch table or the consensus at the board meeting. To build our house there, on the soft sands of acceptance. It is tempting to shift our weight a little in an attempt to be more comfortable in the dominant culture. We have watched some of our number be swept out to sea in their desire to fit in and follow the madding crowd as it gobbles up ever more land in its quest to claim the high ground – a place that moves daily, if not hourly. Worse, we often bring on those accusations ourselves. It is a power never fully quieted to engage it always brings risk.įor those of us who take our Christian faith seriously, it feels like an ocean of change is sweeping over us, undermining the ground we stand on, leaving us uncomfortably balancing on the hard knobs of truths that look naive at best, and bigoted at worst, surrounded as we are by the powerful cultural tide.Īll too frequently we are seen as an anachronism – and a hateful one, at that. But where the lake invites us, the ocean dares us. We know the depth, the underwater ridges, the beaver lodges and loon nests. The lakes around me have been thoroughly mapped and explored. I love the gentle lake life, but sometimes I miss the wildness, the danger of a force that can steal my breath with its thunder. I live in lake country now, where the water is docile and to venture in doesn’t require judging the power of the tidal forces threatening to pull you forever from shore. As children we raced the watery fingers over the sand or stood quiet as they swept over our feet, leaving us unbalanced on the hard knobs left beneath us in the undertow.
I love the sharp, salty scent as it flows in and back, the soft hiss of waves leaving, depleted after their rush to conquer the shore. I love its vast, glittering expanse the knowing that I stand on the edge of a continent, on the brink of a wilderness covered by the pulling, surging tide.
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