The tips of two kayaks—one turquoise, one sky blue—appeared to my right as I sat against a tree trunk on the river bank. The wind blew strong enough that the direction the river flowed was unclear. The kayakers crossed in front of me, paddling silently with purpose. They dug their paddles deeper. I assumed the wind to be a factor in their intentionality (and perhaps it was), but as they approached the small section of land that jutted out from the bank, they angled towards it.
This was to be their stopping point.
They turned and maneuvered and adjusted until they were both safely nestled at the edge, in the crook of the bend.
As they stepped to the shore, I wondered what would happen if they’d missed their landing. What if the wind had been deterrent enough to take them down river, past their exit? I felt panicked at the thought, then comforted. They didn’t miss it. From the first dip of their paddles, they knew where they would bank.
It feels familiar, this panic. I don’t want to miss it.
I don’t want to get caught up in scrolling or numbing or doubting or racing—and miss the landing. I don’t want the wind and the current to keep me from the crook of God’s arm. When I imagine the story that He is writing of my life, I don’t want it to say, “But she kept floating by.”
If He asks me to step out, or to march around walls, or to hold up my trumpet and torch, I want to join Him there. I want to accept His invitation. I want to join Him with every dip of my paddle.
The kayakers stepped from their boats and pulled them up the bank, disappearing as quickly as they’d come. Their flawless arrival and swift departure reminds me that as long as I’m looking for Him, I won’t miss Him.
