Storms Outside. Sentences within.

Take a beautiful day.
The sun high.
No clouds.
Seventy-five degrees.

The Sea of Galilee looks harmless.
Families on the beach.
Boats pulling nets in.
The surface? Glass.
Ordinary.

But it’s a wind trap.
Cold air drops from the mountains.
Warm air lifts from the water.
Merciless collision.

And a twenty-seven foot boat. Barely three feet deep.  

No warning flags.
No buildup.
No sirens.

The sun vanishes.
Wind slams from every direction.
Waves climb the side.
Water fills the hull.

Wood creaks.
Ropes snap tight.

Men who grew up on the sea. They know her moods.
Pale.
Shaking.
Cursing.
Retching.

This wasn’t nerves.
This was survival.

Lailaps.
Not a storm—a hurricane - force tempest.
Boats splinter.
Men disappear. 

And in the stern?
On a cushion.
Jesus of Nazareth.
Savior.

Sleeping.

The fear wasn’t drowning.
They were afraid He had forgotten them.

“Teacher, don’t you care if we drown?”

That’s wordload.
You’ve prayed it.
Just with different nouns.

The bank account is almost dry.
The contract fell through.
The diagnosis came back.
The call came—they didn’t make it.

No warning.
Wreckage floating.

Not on sunny days.
Not on a sea of glass.

At 2:17 AM.

“I can’t…”
He said, “I will…”

“How do I…”
He said, “I am…”

“They will think…”
He said, “Follow me…”

Not in smooth seas.
When the boat is taking on water.

Which words do you believe?