Be Still

I remember the night that I was sitting by Lake Erie watching the ducks swim near the shoreline. They were just gliding through the water, enjoying the moment, when all of a sudden the wind started to pick up. The water, which was calm and peaceful, began to get rough. At first, the ducks kept swimming and handled the small waves just fine. But then the waves got bigger and more powerful, and I noticed something interesting: the ducks stopped trying to fight them.

They didn’t frantically paddle harder or try to prove they were strong enough to overpower the water. They didn’t exhaust themselves trying to conquer something much larger than they were. They simply stopped fighting. Some of them sat still and let the waves pass beneath them; whereas some headed for shore and waited until it was safe to return to the water. They recognized their limitations and the size of the waves they were facing, and they weren’t ashamed of acknowledging either of those things. As I watched them, I couldn’t help but think about how different I am. When the waves of my life rise around me, my instinct is to fight harder. When grief comes, I try to outrun it. When uncertainty comes, I have the desire to control it. When fear comes, I try to suppress it. I exhaust myself fighting waves that weren’t ever mine to conquer, believing the lie that faith means pushing through no matter what.

This is where one of my favorite verses comes into play. “Be still and know that I am God” (Psalm 46:10). The words “be still” sound great in theory, so much so that we place them on coffee mugs and t-shirts. However, it is important to acknowledge that Psalm 46 was not written in a time of calmness, rather in the middle of chaos

The beginning of the Psalm faces the reality of mountains falling into the sea, the waters roaring and foaming , and even the foundations of the earth giving way. It paints an image of a world that is falling apart, and to be honest, oftentimes we know what that feels like. The diagnosis that changes everything, the relationship that is broken beyond repair, a loss that leaves a permanent ache, and even a future that just feels uncertain. The uniqueness of Psalm 46 is that it was written in the middle of a storm. So the reality of the storm isn’t shied away from.

However, before God ever gives the command to be still, He provides us with His identity. "God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble." Not a far-off help, not an occasional help, not a help that arrives once we've exhausted every other option. A very present help. The kind of help that remains when the waves do not, that stays when the answers don’t come, the kind of help that holds us together when our own strength has long since run out.

I wonder if that is what I was seeing on the shore without realizing it. The ducks were not pretending the waves didn't exist. They were not denying reality. They were simply responding appropriately to something larger than themselves. When the water became too much, they stopped fighting it. Some rested in it. Others moved toward safety. Neither response was weakness; it was wisdom arising from understanding their limitations.

We desire to prove we can handle it so much so that we carry burdens long after they have already crushed us. We cling to situations we cannot fix, lose sleep trying to control outcomes that were never ours to control, and we wear exhaustion like a badge of honor and call it perseverance. But often what we call faith is really an unwillingness to admit that we have reached the end of ourselves.

The older I get, the more I realize how often my exhaustion doesn’t come from the waves themselves, but from my refusal to stop carrying what I was never meant to carry. In fact, the entire invitation of Psalm 46 rests upon that reality. God never asks us to be the refuge or to be the fortress. He never asks us to be the strength that binds everything together; He simply asks us to come to Him because He already is.

Perhaps that is why the command to "be still" is so difficult. Because to be still requires surrender, releasing our illusion of control. It requires admitting that some waves are bigger than us. It requires trusting that God is holding what we can no longer hold ourselves.

Maybe faith is not found in frantically paddling against all the waves that threaten us. Maybe faith is found in knowing when to stop striving and rest in the presence of the One who commands the sea. Maybe faith is found in recognizing that there is no shame in seeking refuge because God Himself has offered to be that refuge.

As the waves continued crashing along the shore that evening, the ducks did not seem concerned with proving how strong they were. They simply trusted the safety available to them. I have found myself ever since, wondering if this is true of myself.

The waves will come, they always do. There will be seasons when life feels larger than your ability to endure it, seasons when the waters roar and foam, and even seasons when all feels unstable beneath your feet. However, the promise of Psalm 46 is not that the waves will never rise. The promise is that when they do, you have a refuge. And because He is your refuge, you do not have to spend your life fighting every storm.

You can be still. Not because the waves are small or because they don’t come - but because they were never ours to overcome.