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In my childhood and teenage years, I spent much of my time with family, enjoying state parks, almost always centered around a lake. We would ski, tube, and simply enjoy riding across the wakes farther into the lake, away from the crowds. We would drape our hands over the side of the bow, grasping at the spray as it splashed against us, turn our faces forward to embrace the rushing wind, and leave with tangled lake hair after bouncing across the water as if we had just ridden a water roller coaster. Even the smell of the gas-tinged water was soothing. Often, our group was too large for everyone to ride in the boat at once. During breaks, we would gather around a picnic table to eat or spend time swimming in the designated swimming area.
There are almost always markers that designate the perimeter of the safe swimming zone—safe from incoming and outgoing boats and shallow enough for most swimmers. The boundary is usually lined with buoys connected by the same type of rope used for skiing.
I always loved going beyond the boundary.
I am—and always have been—on the shorter side. I’m not a terrible swimmer, but venturing beyond the swimming buoys always brought a little excitement. I couldn’t safely remain where my feet couldn’t touch the sandy, silt-like lake floor without returning to the safe area…unless my dad, my uncle, or anyone over five feet tall was willing to venture out with me and let me hang onto their backs.
As I have experienced the ups and downs of ongoing medical struggles over the last four years, things have become more difficult during the past year.
In hopes of getting my seizures under control, my neurologist has been working with me to find the right combination of anti-epileptic medications and dosages. Each time we make an adjustment, it takes a while for my body to adapt before we can determine whether the changes are helping. In the meantime, I am usually much more fatigued until my body has fully adjusted.
As I struggle to carry out everyday tasks during those first few weeks, I sometimes feel overwhelmed. During those times, normal life can feel almost impossible.
During one of those weeks of medication adjustments, I attempted some everyday chores. As I folded laundry, I listened to a sung devotional from The Worship Initiative. The song for that day was Oceans. I tend to avoid singing those words casually without first praying through them. The lyrics ask God to take my faith beyond borders and keep my eyes above the waters. That is not something I want to ask without careful thought.
The song continues by declaring that my soul will rest in God’s embrace—that I will be held in the embrace of my Father.
It reminded me of those moments when I ventured beyond the swimming area and how deeply I now feel that I am living beyond my own borders during these seasons of medication adjustments. My borders may look different than I once imagined when singing this song. Right now, they are not distant places around the world. Instead, they are found in faithfully living for Christ within my family and in the place where God has me today.
God is with us during the easy moments—when we’re standing at the bow of the boat with the wind in our hair and water spraying across our faces—just as surely as He is when we struggle to stay above the waves of life. And when the water is too deep for us to stand, we can hold tightly to our Father’s shoulders, trusting that He is more than able to carry us safely through.
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