I am a Ships Captain. Sailing through the salty bitter waters of an Inland Passage through the icy treacherous 'Straights of pain.' My ship is sinking. At least it feels that way to my seaman's eye. The hull is leaking and sprung in many places. The masts are twisted and splintered and the rigging is rotting and stiff. It seems its always stormy in these waters. I look at the waves towering over my ship and at times completely covering it, engulfing it in an avalanche of foam and fury. Sometimes a huge Sea rises up and down it goes, completely underwater, only like a whale to breach again and shrug off the water through the scuppers, continuing bravely along the narrow way just inches from the jagged rocks on each side. The salty foam blown from the tops of the waves sting my eyes and the wheel I stand behind is loose and feels like it is coming off of its stanchion but somehow my ship holds together.

I only have one real sail left… A Top sail. A tiny canvas that I thought was peripheral when I first began the journey in the calm tropical islands years ago. The Master shipbuilder who gave me this boat set a mast way out on the prow of my ship. A skinny sapling of a thing, completely out of character with the rest of the noble lines and styling of my racer. He climbed that narrow tree himself and said these cryptic words as he strung it way up where I can't possibly reach. "Aye Matey, Listen sharp now. This one must be left alone now boy. This one knows its business... This one will not fail ye." At the time I snorted secretly in derision at the plain little sail among all the beautiful canvas I had displayed above me, proud and gleaming in the sun. It just didn't seem to match. Like a Peasant girl in an apron at a gala bell it was an eyesore among Swans. Now all that glory of canvas leaping in the wind is tattered rags and the little sail stands out straining in the storm, filled to its limit and doing all the work of those acres of sheets. How it takes the strain, I don't know.

The rocks lining the channel are like torn metal, hungrily waiting to shred my little ship. There are mermaids languishing on the rocks, calling and calling my name to... "Jump overboard... Swim to me... Give up your quest...You will find rest in my arms..." I never go though... The Master who gave me this boat and who strung my faithful little topsail forbids me to go. So I sail and weep as the salt crusts up on my beard and clothes. There is a room in the hold. A room that is plain and unadorned. Just a simple table with only one chair and a bunk small and cramped. The Master who gave me the ship told me that it was my home, mine to keep and live in. He said this room was his home also. That He would always live there and wait for me there. At the time I did not understand what He meant.

When I began my journey I hardly ever went there. It is small and unattractive. It is not like the place where I used to bunk. That was something else. A real pleasure to behold. A majestic room on deck with luxurious and soft beds. It was like a mansion. A Stateroom with large windows exposed to the wind and a beautiful skylight to watch the stars by at night. That Stateroom is gone now. A furious Storm uprooted the rivets holding it to the deck and swept it overboard. Now I dwell in the tiny room in the hold. Every time I go there my thoughts are focused on the Master ship builder. He had such kind eyes yet such a gruff voice. At times I feel as if I can almost see Him His presence is so palpable. When the fear and the trouble and the labors of the journey, constantly keeping watch on deck, gazing anxiously at the little straining sail wondering if it will hold together in the hurricane winds get too wearisome I go there. There is always a table set in there. There is ALWAYS bread and wine on the table. There is always a brightly lit candle and a book laying there waiting for me. I eat, drink, and read. The book…

Oh the book... It is the Master's book. The strangest and most wonderful logbook I ever saw. It doesn't have any maps of the terrible watery road I tread. It doesn't give any strategies to gun down the enemies that taunt me and shoot their horrid fiery arrows from the banks. It just has all these wonderful descriptions of the destination I seek, and one single word among all the thousands written there. "Trust the Master's sail and rudder. His unseen hand is on them both." Ah! That's another thing. The rudder… There is a mystery now! It seems to have a mind all of its own. It constantly moves this way and that and I must allow it to have its way. I have resisted through sheer force of arms the turns it takes at times but EVERY SINGLE TIME THAT I DO I SCRAPE AND GRIND AGAINST THE SHALLOW ROCKS THAT THREATEN MY BOAT.

So many times in a storm I have been certain that my journey was over and that I was headed for the bottom of the sea. So many times I was sure I was sinking. So many times I have simply fled the deck and left the till and the sail and the rudder to the merciless wind and currents while I simply hide in the small room with the bread and the wine and the book and the presence of the Master. Like now... A horrendous gale is blowing topside. I must be insane to just leave my post now but I am just too exhausted by struggle too fight the freezing rain and waves. So I am in retreat. In the yellow glow of this warm candlelight I hear the boat squealing and shuddering as it is tossed in the darkness. Somehow it always finds its way as I read the wonderful book and allow the peace of the bread and dreaming of the destination overtake my soul. What a strange journey this is! The book says that in order to arrive at my destination I will eventually have to sail my boat right over the edge of the world itself!!! Right off the globe I must go! The Master's book says that there is a great waterfall at the edge of the world. A vast cataract of rushing Seawater that just pours and pours over the edge endlessly into space. The book says that when I careen madly over this terrible abyss my boat will turn into a ship of the air and I will fly like an Albatross to my Masters castle in the sky. What a wild tale!

I wonder about my master sometimes but His sail and His rudder work so well. I know that I must trust Him in this also. Well… I must stop writing by the glow of this candle now. Strange how it never burns down or out. It is the smallest candle I have but I found it among the many plain but useful treasures in the master's sea chest after all my fancy lamps had gotten soaked and ruined by sea mold and rot. I will put this message in a bottle and throw it in the sea now. Maybe the waves will wash it aboard the deck of someone else traveling this passage. Maybe someone will read this and sigh and pray for me…

Oh.... You know what the best part of this journey is? The book says that the shipmaster is waiting for me on that far distant shore and that all these mysterious movings of the sail and the helm and the rudder is actually Him. He His own-self, invisible... HERE!!! Actually aboard my ship... Somehow His Spirit is permeating my boat. He is really here… He is really with me on this fools voyage. I love Him so much… OH! WHAT WAS THAT? A loud bang and crash just now in the storm... Has that center fossils crossbeam on that old useless but proud mainmast fallen? Maybe the tangled rigging has broken loose again and is pounding against the useless old wood. Thank the master for the mast my plain sail is mounted on... The skinny tree at the very front of my ship. It just bends and sways in the wind, flexing but never even splintering. I can't believe I once thought that THAT mast was useless... Well…

I must stop scribbling and go on up and try and clean up that mess on deck now. If you do read this missive, and if you see an old ragtag ship forlornly limping along in the bitter water near you, please hail me. I will speak to you of the Master Shipbuilder. My thoughts are always on him now. Who is he really? I want to find out. I must find out. I must find out.

Written by: Roy White
http://home.integrityonline.com/roy/
Used with permission.

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