When the Apostle Paul made his famous missionary journeys, there was a stretch of sea he must have become very familiar with. The northeastern portion of the Mediterranian Sea is a dramatic flow of breathtakingly beautiful water--think tropical beach colors--which can throw a fit without much notice. We had the opportunity to see its beauty and rock with its furry during a recent visit to several Biblical sites. I will now better understand those stories in the books of Acts, as they were, set against the glory and moodiness of that sea.
Yet, deep into one of those tossing nights, it wasn't scripture I had on my mind. I was experiencing a wonderful new understanding of my father and his life. I used to love for him to tell me stories about the seas he sailed in a small liberty ship between San Francisco and the South Pacific island of Somoa. He told me of seasick sailors, and how he had somehow avoided the malady. I had proudly thought of all his years fishing in waters--waters which knew him so well, they must have chosen to treat him as a friend.
In the ink dark of one night, while experiencing the pitch and toss of the sea, I thought of my father and his stories. No, I didn't think of them, I lived them. And it seemed I lived them with him. If a night vision camara had been in the room aimed properly at my face, it would have seen me smiling warmly. I was full with thoughts of my dad, and I enjoyed him so dearly through that rough patch of sea.
In the morning, as we stopped in a port where Paul had visited, I understood a bit differently the adventures that must have been his back in those days. And I had a deeply devotional question form in my mind: Did the Apostle Paul ever get seasick traveling to Corinth? Somehow I'm guessing he was as stubborn as my father and I, and was able to avoid it while thinking of his higher agenda.
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