If you’ve ever watched any nautical movie, one of the first things they do when the clouds soak black and the waters spit venom is lighten their load.
They jettison the flammable, heavy, destabilizing stuff – everything that puts the greater plot at risk. 
The unnecessary going overboard is sometimes by choice, but oftentimes just a natural outcome of a ship barfing left to right. 

I’ve felt the constant rumble of this spelt out scene because it’s something God’s had me in for upwards of two years - maybe longer, who knows - but most violently in the past four months. 
It started with light nudges and small buckets of rain – suggestions to lighten up, lighten up – before graduating into subtle storms prefacing actual squalls. I didn’t realize it at first, but the ask has been the same the whole time: Everything that doesn’t serve the plot has to go. 

Literal, physical possessions.
Emotional kegs and weights.
Mental weapons and sandbags.
Spiritual ideas and nooses. 
Divisive relationships and old flames.

Sometimes I knew exactly what He was referring to, and I’d gladly slingshot it into the sea with a wild yelp of relief.
Sometimes I had to tie myself to the mast and just brace myself. I’d shake with the loss, wailing with the grief of a process I didn’t yet understand. 
But I stayed in it because both the silence of insidious dormancy and the certain captivity of turning back were never options.

Because everything lost in the audit, everything abandoned, lifted weight off me; the salient sensation of lightness actually surprised me. 
Because I’m alive once. I get the great sea only once. 
But mostly because I’ve never wanted to do life with anyone as much as I’ve wanted to do it with the divine.

So, whatever that takes and wherever that leads me, 
I’m going.

Dani KreeftComment