Anchor

My boat sits atop the ocean, the sky, and waves indistinguishable in the dead of night. I sense the wave coming and brace for the incalculable impact.

Knuckles white with dread, I try to recall the glass-like sea, crystal-clear water and boat in motionless synchronicity, the air still and silent.

Fear slicks across my skin as I realise, I have not dropped the anchor and, blinded in the darkness, I have no gauge of position for myself or the one thing that would keep me from complete destruction.

I try to soothe myself, remembering the times resting peacefully on the motionless sea as the swell of the wave lifts the hull, setting it in irons unable to manoeuvre, the head sea forcing my vessel to toss and turn at its whim.

I scurry around the deck, my senses overly heightened. Panic begins to set in as my eyes dart back and forth in the dark blindly searching for refuge.

Suddenly a moment of quiet pulls itself around the hull and the rain-sodden clouds reveal a slither of moonlight. The soft whoosh of wings alights ever so gently on the wheel. I recognise the Spirit of God in the dove’s eyes and my scattered thoughts and emotions pull inward, drawing me into His quietness and calm.

I pause, still as can be. Me at the bow, He at the wheel. I look down and see the anchor. It was right there at my side, all along.

I retrieve the weighted iron and drop it carefully into the darkened swirling water. I expect the dove to alight and find safety; instead, it flutters toward the companionway, and I sense it calling to me to follow.

Nestled beside its warmth, I lay my head down and wait, eye to eye with the dove, its soft feathers brushing against my forearm, my heartbeat slowing, my mind quietening.

The storm again rages yet I remain positioned, my eyes transfixed on the dove, the dove never breaking its gaze back at me, never wavering.