When our family went to the beach this past month, my mom took three-year-old Abbey—my niece, her granddaughter— out into the ocean with her. The waves were particularly intense that day, and my brother, Abbey’s father, kept shouting at my mom, "Hold on to Abbey!" Hold on to her!" My mom later reflected that Abbey, though concerned for her own safety, was too little to keep a firm grasp on my mom when the waves hit. She wanted to hold on, but the ocean was too powerful for her. So it was my mom’s responsibility to hold on to her.
In the past few months, I have felt a bit like Abbey. The waves have been particularly intense, and successive in their coming. I have been wanting—desperately wanting—to cling to my Jesus in the midst of the upheaval, but find myself too small. My grasp is too weak, the force of life’s breakers too powerful for me. But the picture of my mom and little Abbey remind me that in the end, it’s not about my grasp anyway. I am too small, yes, but He is not. I am weak, but He is strong.
And maybe this season, more than anything, is an opportunity for me to realize that that’s OK.