The painting shown here is a Spanish galleon. These ships were built to withstand great travelling distances, carrying not only the crew required to keep her afloat and moving, but also great treasures: heavy wooden chests filled with gold coins, precious metals and a king's ransom in jewels and gems. In the shipyard, this galleon may have been referred to as a three-master, because she has three sails on each sail mast, giving her the ability to take on and direct wind, which would carry her from port to port.
You and I are a ship designed by the Master Creator, built in the manner of this ship was. The Architect of our Souls sees our beauty and our weaknesses. And still, He loves us. But before we can reach the safety of our final port, we need to get through these waves we call 'life'.
Some waves are light and bounce across our hulls just enough to keep us buoyant. We laugh and rejoice at the sight of sunlight reflected off waves cresting. We are children, we have children. We grow, we learn; we cry and are cried for. We pray and are prayed for. We love and are loved in return.
Sometimes the babies we long to love die in the womb and we never get to know the joy of seeing them face to face. Or of holding them in our arms, feel their breath on our breasts, hearing their laughter in our ears. This is life.
Sometimes we get to watch our children grow into fine young men and women. Sometimes we don't. On their ship's journey, they have turned their backs to the storm clouds brewing on the horizon, and their ships falter. As parents, it is our job to keep them prayed for, that their ships not founder on the rocks, but steer towards the port of safety, the port of salvation. This is life.
Sometimes our young adults turn their back on their training, their upbringing in the Word, and strike out on their own, into treacherous waters. Waves that seem clear and fine on the surface, but which will actually threaten to overcome and drown the wayward soul. These, too, must be prayed over and for daily. This is life.
Sometimes we get to see our sons and daughters grow up and sometimes we don't. Some parents get to see their children have children of their own. Some of us don't. Some bury their child, while some children bury their parents. This, too, is life.
And the waves crash against the ship. She creaks, she groans. The waves crash across her bow. The storm threatens to bring her under. And still she rides it out. For on the horizon there is a light. It appears to be small from such a distance as we are, so tiny. The wind rips the sails from her masts; some shredded, some torn. But still the ship sails. Through the storm.
There is light behind the clouds, dark though they are. Not quite pitch black the sky above us. We can see each other. We can hear if we listen for the sound of our loves. We work together, bound with cords of love to each other and to our Designer. We see with hearts of hope. We stand precariously on the crested waves, as we ride the storms within life, just to come out on the other side. Not entirely the same as we went in, but perhaps, a little bit wiser, a little bit stronger, a little bit humbler than when we first set out on our journey.
We left our first port, mother's womb, kicking and screaming. There was a light ahead of us there, too. It was the light of a new world, a new day, a new beginning. We left our second port, our parents' home, in much the same way. Some of us at least. Wanting our independence, to do things our own way, to sail our ships. We should not have been surprised when our children left us the same way we left ours. But we were. Life.
In all these things we are more than conquerors. What things? Life.
