Nap Time

You stir the waters that make my storm. Blow the winds that break the bow of my serenity. And then ask me why I am afraid?! What is this charade? 

Or is the charade my own? Billowing waves pressed beneath the thin exterior of my face. You make them churn until even the casual passerby cannot deny this storm. For you desire truth "in the inward parts".

I'd be a fool not to fear when my life, all I hold dear is seemingly threatened by these waves. Drowning my plans and fragile hopes parading as control.

That is, if this is all there is. If the creator of the storm were not with me. Beside me (albeit asleep). In the boat on my sea of divinely directed circumstances.

Maybe I won't give him cause to question and choose faith instead of fear. A nap might be a good idea. There's just enough room in the bottom of the boat for one more to close her eyes.

And open them to the reality of the unseen.