Life, as I’ve come to know it, often mimics the Sea of Galilee. Calm one moment, stormy the next. There have been days I’ve started with a quiet confidence in my plans, only for a single phone call, a chance encounter, or even my own thoughts to stir the waters into a raging storm. And in those moments, when I feel tossed about—emotionally, mentally, spiritually—I remember that night on the boat. Jesus, asleep on a cushion, surrounded by terrified disciples. The waves were breaking into the boat, and it was already filling with water. It wasn’t just a symbolic storm; it was a real and present danger. And yet, He slept.
That has always puzzled me. How could He sleep in a storm that threatened to drown them all? Was it indifference? Was it exhaustion? Or was it divine serenity? I now see that His sleep was not ignorance of the danger but mastery over it. Jesus wasn’t out of control—He was utterly in control. His resting body revealed a resting heart, one untroubled by the chaos that raged outside. That scene has been a mirror for me. Where I panic, He rests. Where I lose grip, He holds firm. Where I see a threat, He sees an opportunity to reveal who He is.
When the disciples woke Him, their question strikes me as hauntingly familiar: “Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?” How many times have I asked the same? Maybe not with those exact words, but the sentiment has surfaced in prayers whispered through tears, in questions I didn’t dare voice aloud, in journal entries where I traced out fears I was ashamed to admit. “Don’t you care, Lord?” When things unravel. When prayers go unanswered. When good people suffer. When silence lingers. “Don’t you care?”
And yet, His response is not what they expected. He stands, speaks to the wind, and commands the waves. “Peace. Be still.” And just like that, nature obeys. The wind ceased, and there was a great calm. Not just a calm, but a great calm—a silence so deep it could only come from the mouth of the Creator himself. Then He turns to them and asks, “Why are you so afraid? Have you still no faith?”
That question pierces me. Why are you so afraid? It’s not a rebuke in anger, but a beckoning—a gentle call to remember who is in the boat. Jesus was never out of the picture. He was always there, even if silent for a while. Faith doesn’t mean storms won’t come. It means knowing who commands the winds and waves.
There have been storms in my life that made me forget He was in the boat. Storms of disappointment. Of heartbreak. Of delay. Of confusion. There have been moments when I looked around and all I could see were the rising waves and water coming in faster than I could scoop it out. I’ve known the taste of fear, the tremble of anxiety, the heaviness of not knowing what comes next. And in the midst of those inner and outer storms, I’ve cried out, “Don’t you care?”
But He always does. And even more, He always comes through. Not always in the way I expect, not always in the timing I want—but always in the fullness of His power. I have learned that sometimes He calms the storm, and sometimes He calms me in the storm. Both are miracles. Both reveal His nature.
I think about how the disciples responded after the calm: “Who then is this, that even the wind and the sea obey him?” They were filled with great fear—not of the storm anymore, but of the one who had calmed it. That holy awe, that stunned reverence, is what I long to carry in my heart. To look at Jesus not just as a teacher, not only as a miracle worker, but as Lord over all creation. The one through whom all things were made and who still speaks order into chaos.
Putting my hand in His isn’t just a poetic idea. It’s a daily choice. It means I choose to trust His voice over the roar of my circumstances. It means I believe that even if the boat rocks, it cannot sink if He is in it. It means I stop striving to fix everything on my own and instead learn to rest—even sleep—knowing He is awake and sovereign.
One of the most challenging lessons I’ve had to learn is that storms are not signs of abandonment. The presence of a storm does not equal the absence of God. In fact, some of the deepest revelations I’ve had of Jesus came in the fiercest storms. When all my human resources were exhausted, when no logic could calm me, when no friend’s words were enough—that’s when I saw Him stand and speak. That’s when I heard the gentle, firm command: “Peace. Be still.”
It’s as if He was not just calming the sea, but also calming me. My inner turmoil, my rushing thoughts, my emotional waves. “Peace,” He said, and slowly the churning settled. “Be still,” He whispered, and I found the strength to let go of my panic. That voice, that word, changed everything.
And now, when storms rise again—as they surely will—I recall that night on the lake. I remember that the same Jesus who calmed the sea is the one who holds me. I no longer panic at the first gust of wind. Instead, I seek His presence. I cry out, but not in fear—more in recognition: “Lord, I know You are here.”
Sometimes I imagine sitting beside Jesus in the boat. The wind is loud, the waves high, but I am seated next to Him, watching Him rest. His peace envelops me. I don’t have to know when the storm will end—I just need to know He is near. I can put my hand in His, and that alone is enough.
When I look back, I see a trail of storms behind me, each one bearing witness to His faithfulness. There are moments I thought I would break, but I didn’t. There are situations I thought I would drown in, but I came through stronger. Not because of my strength, but because He never left the boat. His hand was steady, His voice clear, His love unwavering.
So, when I put my hand in the hands of the one who calms the storm, I’m not holding onto a vague hope. I’m holding onto the person of Jesus—mighty in power, tender in love. I’m holding onto the Word that spoke creation into being and still speaks life into dead places. I’m holding onto the nail-scarred hand that reached into the grave and rose in victory. That hand will never let me go.
Perhaps you, too, are in a storm right now. Maybe life feels overwhelming and your boat is filling fast. Maybe you’ve asked, “Don’t you care?” I want to tell you this: He does. And He is with you. The storm doesn’t scare Him. The chaos doesn’t confuse Him. The delay doesn’t distract Him. He is not sleeping because He’s indifferent; He rests because He reigns.
Let His peace flood your heart. Let His voice still your soul. Listen for the whisper in the storm: “Peace. Be still.” And let that become your rhythm. Let it echo within you, a holy calm that the world cannot take away.
For in the end, the greatest miracle is not the still sea—but the still heart. And that, He gives freely to those who put their hand in His.
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