Lifeboat Living

I didn’t plan it this way, but the last two novels I read took place on a lifeboat. I’ve never really believed in coincidences. I assume that if something catches my attention or occurs repetitively, God might be trying to tell me something. In this case, I was relieved we’d already taken our Disney cruise before I picked up two very intense books about being trapped in the middle of the open ocean for months. (That’s right, MONTHS. Word to the wise: don’t read The Stranger in the Lifeboat or Life of Pi before you step off the dock onto a boat, ship, raft, canoe, kayak, or flotation device of any kind.) While I didn’t foresee myself being on an actual lifeboat anytime soon, (seeing as I do not have the spiritual gift of prophecy), I started to ponder if I may be in a metaphorical lifeboat of some sort, and I wondered what God wanted to show me as I floated along in a vast blue sea.

The two stories I read were different to varying degrees, but the characters onboard the lifeboats in each tale followed the same general course. When they first find themselves in a lifeboat with fellow shipmates whose lives were also spared, they are in shock. The reality of their situation hasn’t hit them yet. They look back to the wreckage of their original boat and wonder how on earth they ended up swimming for their lives. As any normal passenger would, they had blindly trusted the seaworthiness of their vessel. Looking to their left and right, they take comfort in the reassuring words of their new companions; surely a distress call was sent out and a rescue party has already been deployed. In just a matter of hours, help will arrive in the skies or on the horizon. They need only to be patient.

This past spring I found myself on my own lifeboat, as it were. The life I had known changed suddenly and completely. My husband resigned from full-time ministry and I found myself looking back at the vessel I had trusted to keep us afloat and wondered how I didn’t see the signs of distress. Where were the cracks, the leaks, the worn-out equipment? They must have been there all along. But then, there I was, in a daze of shock and confusion, leaning heavily on the assurance of those around me; clinging to hope. My husband would find a new vocation; we’d find a new path in no time. Surely all would be set right soon. We just had to be patient and watch the horizon. After all, lifeboats aren’t meant to house people for any great length of time. How long can anyone really live in a lifeboat? It turns out, a long time.

Watching the horizon; that’s what consumes the first few days on a lifeboat according to the novels I’ve read. Hope is what helps tick by the long hours under an unforgiving sun. Hope is what makes the seasickness bearable and keeps the intense thirst at bay. But soon the horizon starts to play tricks on your eyes. You begin to see things that aren’t there. Every blur of the sunset might be a ship coming to pluck you from misery. Every cloud passing overhead might be the shadow of a plane or helicopter. Every time your eyes drift off the horizon, panic seizes you; what if you missed it, your one chance to be saved? There are only so many flares you have at your disposal; knowing when to shoot them off is a potentially life-or-death decision.

This is what the first month, (and the second month), felt like for me on my metaphorical lifeboat. I was constantly watching that horizon, convinced if I just stared long and hard enough, help would come. Every interview, every consultation, and every resume submitted by my husband was a glimmer of hope. “The next one will be the one,” I’d think. I knew exactly how much money we had in savings and exactly how much time we had before things would start to feel desperate. I wasn’t there yet; I wasn’t desperate. Surely the horizon would hold the answer. But after a while, my eyes got tired of watching the sun rise and set time and time again with nothing to show for it. We circled back to every option and explored every possibility we could. Nothing was fruitful. We kept turning over the idea in our mind of taking a job in retail; that was our flare. It wouldn’t pay much but there were plenty to choose from. We decided to wait. We weren’t at that point yet. We weren’t ready to send my husband, at 41 years old and the holder of both a Bachelor’s and Master’s Degree into a grocery store to apply for a job.

At some point in the stories, and it’s different for everyone, a lifeboat passenger resigns to the harsh reality that help isn’t coming. They tear their eyes away from the sky or off the horizon, and instead start to dig around for supplies left in the boat. If help won’t come, they will help themselves. They rely on resourcefulness and the companionship of whoever else is in the boat with them for survival. They may find food rations, water filters, a tarp, or fishing equipment. Whatever is in the supply box may as well be the Holy Grail. They’ve never been so relieved to open a can of vegetables or a package of crackers. But more important than anything else in the survival kit, is the manual; a handbook of what to do and not to do while drifting out in open waters.

This is where I found myself by late June. Nearly three months had passed and things were not looking up. Everywhere I looked I saw blue ocean. I had no way of knowing how far we had drifted or how near we were to land. All I knew was rescue had not yet come, and it might not for a very long time. I, like the passengers of the lifeboats I’ve read about, was determined to survive, and I looked to the manual, God’s Word, to do just that. I lived off Scripture day and night, finding assurance and courage in its pages. Like a survival kit, the Bible sustained me and gave me my daily portion of what I needed to survive one hour, one day, one week, one month at a time. When I was immersed in the daily presence of God, I lost all track of time. I found this profound sense of peace and normalcy in the unknown, just like the passengers on the lifeboats in my novels. All the days began to fade into one another, disorientation becoming the new way of life. The ocean, spread out in an endless blanket in every direction, became home. Before I knew it we were approaching the five-month mark since my husband’s “self-imposed sabbatical.”

The final stage of living on a lifeboat, per fiction literature, is the fear of rescue. It sounds strange, but when you think about it, it makes sense. After living so long on their own, adrift in the vast expanses of the ocean, the thought of being on land again, surrounded by civilization and the conveniences of the regular world is quite terrifying. What if they’ve forgotten how to speak, how to hold a utensil, how to use the facilities (oh dear)? What if everyone thinks they died? What if their family and friends have moved on? How much have they missed? Living in survival mode for so long changes a person. They are stronger, more resilient, more determined, and capable of heroism they never before thought possible. When they step off that lifeboat, everything is different, not necessarily because the world has changed but because they have changed.

I’ve found the same to be true in this final phase of my lifeboat living. The land is in sight and I’ll be setting my feet on solid ground very, very soon. After a season of equal parts rest and struggle, God has provided us with an opportunity to re-enter full-time ministry. It’s what I’ve been praying for and hoping for. The rescue I thought was just a figment of my imagination is now a vivid outline on the horizon and it’s getting clearer by the minute. God, I hope I’m ready. I hope my husband is ready. All I’ve known is the close comforts of my lifeboat for so long now. What if I don’t have what it takes to live on land anymore? I’ll be rejoining the ranks of pastors’ wives and while the role is familiar, I am not the same person I was when I last held the title. Like the lifeboat survivors, I am well-versed in navigating lonely waters. I have gained wisdom I never hoped to gain, but I am braver for it. My perspective on ministry has changed for the better. And oh, the story I have to tell.

Maybe I’ll write a book about it someday, too.