The Anchor Holds

Last Christmas day, we were on a cruise ship in the middle of the Caribbean Sea, and I don’t regret that at all. We didn’t decorate our house or buy many presents, but A.J. was wheeled from end to end of a floating city as if he were a prince. I treasure photos of our family in Christmas pajamas on a spiral staircase in the ship’s atrium and of A.J., swimming with a dolphin. The decision to book that trip was made on the spur of the moment. An impromptu choice that left me forever thankful. 

This year, we’re flying to Boston on December 25th. It’s our first Christmas without A.J, our third without Olivia, and I don’t know what to feel. The thought of not having to decorate or do a ton of shopping fills me with relief and with guilt too. Perhaps I should grin and bear the burden of doing “all the things,” for the sake of two little girls who will only view Christmas through childlike eyes for so long. We did buy them each a little polaroid camera. Shh! Don’t tell! I plan to pack goody bags for the plane, in lieu of stockings. For me, the trip is a welcome distraction, and yet I worry that I’ll struggle to give my family the gift of presence. My head and heart are all over the place and nowhere at all.

This morning, I woke up thinking about a moment from last December. Our cruise was set to visit Costa Maya, but waters were rough—too rough for the Carnival and Royal Caribbean ships to even attempt to come into port. Somehow, our captain managed to bring the Ruby Princess ashore. I remember walking down the gangplank with Robert, amazed at the skill displayed by the master of the ship. Waves crashed high and hard against the pier. Our ship was nearly as long as three football fields and weighed as much as 2,500 fully loaded semi trucks. Mere feet separated its steel hull from a colossal wall of concrete. In less capable hands, docking that large of a ship under those extreme conditions would have been a recipe for disaster.

The Costa Maya port was teeming with sights, sounds, and smells we’d never experienced. Much of what it had to offer was not available onboard. I savored one of the best tacos I’ve ever eaten before sauntering through a peaceful, beachside village and finally grabbing a scoop of mango gelato—my favorite. A year later, the irony is not lost on me: I was only able to enjoy those simple pleasures because of a series of complex maneuvers carried out by the ship’s highest officer. 

It reminds me of a verse written to a group of people who were hurting like me. The cause of my pain is grief. Their suffering was brought on by rampant persecution of Christians. Some had already abandoned their faith, and others were considering it. Inspired by the Holy Spirit, the unknown author of Hebrews wrote these words of encouragement:

“For it was fitting for Him, for whom are all things and by whom are all things, in bringing many sons to glory, to make the captain of their salvation perfect through sufferings.”–Hebrews 2:10 (NKJV)

Other translations call Jesus the Author, the Founder, the Source, or the Pioneer of our salvation. He is, of course, all of these things. But, the term Captain hits home for me. When standing at the helm of a ship, the captain takes his own life—along with all other souls onboard—into his hands. It’s a metaphor that fittingly describes how Jesus stood, and stands, in solidarity with all who step into His boat and under His command:

“For both He who sanctifies and those who are being sanctified are all of one, for which reason He is not ashamed to call them brethren, saying: ‘I will declare Your name to My brethren; In the midst of the assembly I will sing praise to You.’ And again: ‘I will put My trust in Him.’ And again: ‘Here am I and the children whom God has given Me.’”–Hebrews 2:11-13

Jesus—Immanuel, God with us—suffers with us and sings with us too. He shows us by His own example how to trust the Father.

Inasmuch then as the children have partaken of flesh and blood, He Himself likewise shared in the same, that through death He might destroy him who had the power of death, that is, the devil, and release those who through fear of death were all their lifetime subject to bondage.”–Hebrews 2:14-15

Through his death and resurrection, Jesus did all that is necessary to free us from the kind of slavery that comes from being born into a world in rebellion against its Creator. Masterfully, He accomplished our salvation, and bids those who have not yet joined Him to come onboard. What an awesome Captain! What a wonderful Savior! 

Still, salvation means so much more than eternal safety. It is whole-person wholeness, and this is why Jesus allowed himself to suffer in all of the ways that we do. He sits with us in our pain, never chiding us for our tears, ever pointing us toward soundness of heart, soul, mind, strength, and body. 

The holidays are hard for me, and I know that I am not alone in that. Yet, the Holy Spirit is so faithful to show me that peace is available, even in the storm. Joy is still possible when “sorrows like sea billows roll.” If left to my own devices, I’m certain I would crash into the very pier I hope to reach, tossed to-and-fro by waves of hurt and confusion. But He is Captain of my peace and joy, just as He is Captain of my salvation. He has made a way, and He leads me in it, again and again. As surely as Jesus called me onboard, He leads me onward to sights I have yet to see.

I have one more thought for those hurting so badly that you can’t see the shore. I’ve been there too, and I’m reminded of the lyrics of a Ray Boltz song my mom used to sing when I was a little girl:

It was in the night, through the storms of my life. That’s where God proved his love to me.

The anchor holds, though the ship is battered. The anchor holds, though sails are torn. I have fallen on my knees as I faced the raging seas. The anchor holds, in spite of the storm.