What might have been,
what might arrive
on these bright shores,
we never grasp.
For we are endowed
this precious island
in constant current,
small and ignorant,
and blind to beyond
the mystery . . .
I penned these lines upon our arrival in Vanuatu, and after more than a year has passed, they have taken on a sort of prophetic significance. It is as if God were preparing us for what lay ahead. We had no idea of the trials that awaited us. Now we have endured storms. We have been shaken to the core. And by the grace of God we are standing in his strength.
The end of the poem has served and still serves as our exhortation:
. . . With open hands
await the tide
the One who is.
Inching toward the edge of the high dive, there was always an increasing sensation of something like an anxious weightlessness. You know, when it feels like your stomach is falling into the water but you’re just kind of hovering there, starting to shake with the board?
Well, that’s where we are right now. We’ve been climbing the steps a long time; we’re ready for this. But we can’t really see the water below. We just hear: “Go ahead.”
So we’re going to jump. I’m sure we’ll feel a rush as the air whisks by, as we fall.
And as our plane lands in Vanuatu, we’ll have no idea what lies ahead. I guess that’s how the future is for all of us: always unfolding, always different, always unseen.
So we endeavor to make the most of the present, together on the high dive.