Above the fray

Robert and I stepped into a speed boat with a yellow and blue parasail attached at the stern, and I couldn’t help but think how this wasn’t the first time we’d attempted such an adventure. The day that our A.J. passed away, we were in Mexico—just the two of us, walking the shoreline in Cancun in search of a parasailing tour company. A.J. had been doing well when we left for our trip, but Gammie called to tell us that he was struggling. We asked her to take him to the ER and then headed for the airport.

My stomach dropped as my thoughts collided—simultaneously thinking of that flight home, to floods of grief and goodbyes, and the flight ahead, to frightening heights and blue skies. The first couple in our tour group strapped into a harness and drifted into the air like two balloons slipping through a toddler’s faltering grasp. 

Two years ago, I thought for sure the flight home would be my undoing. I imagined the plane as a closed capsule—trapping me within curved walls, forcing unpredictable emotions into a confined and unforgiving space. I envisioned myself being carried out on a stretcher, not sure that my body could physically make it through another loss. Now, watching two tiny figures suspended between a fully expanded chute and the distant horizon, I fully expected that our flight above the ocean waves would be wild. Deafening. Turbulent. Chill bumps rose on my arms, and I pulled on a sweatshirt, certain that things were about to get a lot colder.

But when the small Sun Country plane left the tarmac on June 1, 2023, I was filled with a supernatural peace that somehow settled my heart without crowding out the profound sense of loss that can only be understood by those who have had to let go of a child on this earth while holding onto the hope of seeing them again in heaven. On May 28, 2025 I was similarly astonished to find that I’d judged my external circumstances—and their impact on my internal world—incorrectly.

Trailing behind the boat and hundreds of feet above the waves, the atmosphere was extraordinarily calm. No wind whipping at my face or roaring in my ears. Robert and I simply sat, rocking gently in what felt like a porch swing beneath the clouds, complete with 360 degree views of Catalina Island and the Pacific Ocean. I was warmer than I’d been in the boat. As our easy chatter settled into a comfortable lull, I recalled a passage from Ephesians chapter two:

“But God, who is rich in mercy, because of his great love that he had for us, made us alive with Christ even though we were dead in trespasses. You are saved by grace! He also raised us up with him and seated us with him in the heavens in Christ Jesus, so that in the coming ages he might display the immeasurable riches of his grace through his kindness to us in Christ Jesus.”–Ephesians 2:4-7 (CSB)

It’s been a few weeks since that parasailing experience, but God is still using it to remind me that our outward circumstances are far less significant than how the Holy Spirit uses them to change us from the inside out. True surrender means being just as willing for God to use the circumstance to change me as I am for him to change the circumstance. Like a toddler releasing balloons into an ever-widening sky, we can let go and let God—not because He needs our permission but because He will never fail to be faithful.

We serve a God who is incomprehensibly wise, who presides sovereignly over His creation. He knows when to calm the storm and when to be the calm in the midst of the storm. His thoughts and ways are higher than ours, and if we allow Him to, the Spirit of God will lift us up above the chaos—though wind and waves rage on—allowing us to catch a glimpse of the world as He sees it. We are seated, even now, “in the heavens in Christ Jesus” (Ephes. 2:6). This means that we can have His perspective and peace, come what may. 

Recalling the image of Peter sinking into the sea of Galilee after looking to the storm instead of to Jesus, Oswald Chambers wrote:

If you are truly recognizing your Lord, you have no business being concerned about how and where He engineers your circumstances. The things surrounding you are real, but when you look at them you are immediately overwhelmed, and even unable to recognize Jesus … Let your actual circumstances be what they may, but keep recognizing Jesus, maintaining complete reliance upon Him. 

Those words ring with truth: “The things surrounding you are real … but keep recognizing Jesus …”

Father, 

When daily realities and seemingly impossible circumstances loom larger than my faith, teach me to recognize Jesus. Help me long to see Your completed work in my life more than I want an easy path. Raise me up above the fray so that I have perfect peace in knowing that You are totally trustworthy and fully in control. 

In Jesus’ name, 

Amen