Ocean Of Grace

But when he saw the wind, he was afraid and, beginning to sink, cried out, ‘Lord, save me!. 

— Matthew 14:30

For almost three years, I lived with a friend in one of the communities along the shores of Accra, in a small place called Shiabu, near Dansoman Beach. My friend, Okunka, lived there with his parents. It was a typical Ga compound house where several families shared one yard. I grew up in a similar setting, though ours was my grandfather’s house. It was big, orderly, and filled with relatives who had built their own homes within the same space. But Okunka’s end of town was quite different.

Somewhere in the 60s, when Kwame Nkrumah built affordable homes at Chorkor, some Ga people complained that they didn’t want toilets inside their houses. They believed it was culturally inappropriate to live close to one’s own waste. Shiabu carried a similar culture. The bathhouses and restrooms were outside the homes, and many people used public baths. It had even become a big business in itself.

It was strange to me at first, but what fascinated me most about Shiabu wasn’t the layout of the homes; it was the sea. 

Okunka’s parents were fisherfolk. His father was a fisherman, and his mother sold the catch. He knew the sea well. He could tell when the tide was right or when the waters were dangerous. He shared stories about fishing, the names of fish, and the wild experiences they had at sea. 

I had strict parents, so I rarely visited the beach as a child. But now that I was staying at Shiabu, I thought, why not?

So one Saturday afternoon, ECG had taken their light, and we were very bored so we decided to go to the beach. The sea was very peaceful, perfect for swimming. We went together, Okunka, his friends, and me. They were all strong swimmers, many of them followed their parents to fishing as well, and they laughed as they shared stories of storms, accidents, and near-death moments on the sea. Truth be told, their stories frightened me. I remember one story where the guy fell asleep on the boat, and it was in the middle of the night. While sleeping, he turned and fell into the water and no one noticed till he called out for them. Fishing, I realized, was a very dangerous profession.

After talking for a while, we entered the water.

It was one of the scariest moments of my life. This was only my second time swimming at that beach. The first time, it had just been Okunka and I. He taught me how to face the waves, how to breathe, and how to float. But this time, his friends dragged me deeper, far beyond where my feet could touch the sand. The sea rose above me. If you’ve seen me before, you know I’m tall, yet I felt so small.

At first, I panicked. Then, slowly, I found my rhythm. Why? Because they were near.

They had been in the sea many times before. They knew what to do when it turned rough. Their confidence kept me calm.

And then I thought about Peter—the fisherman who sank.

As Jesus was walking beside the Sea of Galilee, he saw two brothers, Simon called Peter and his brother Andrew... ‘Come, follow me,’ Jesus said, ‘and I will send you out to fish for people.

— Matthew 4:18–20

Peter was a fisherman, probably from his youth. The sea was his home and his livelihood. He had spent countless nights battling the waves and casting his nets. He knew how to handle storms. He wasn’t supposed to be afraid of the water.

Yet, on that night when Jesus walked on the sea, Peter, the fisherman, began to sink. At that moment, Jesus was walking on the water toward the boat. The wind was strong and the waves restless. Peter then called out, asking Jesus to let him come to Him—also walking on the water. But as Peter felt the wind against his face, fear gripped his heart. You see, even if he was afraid of the wind, he shouldn’t have been afraid of the water; after all, he was a fisherman.

Interestingly, the carpenter’s son, whose father may have built boats, and possibly learned from him, was calm upon the waters, while the fisherman, who spent his life on them, sought safety in the boat.

It is a strange thing when the familiar becomes frightening.

The very thing he had mastered became the very thing that swallowed his confidence.

This Is Life

Some are walking on water.

Some are afraid to step out.

And some, are drowning;

in sin,

in huge debt,

in unemployment struggles,

in heartbreak,

in disappointment,

in lust,

in pain.

I too, once drowned.

I have drowned many times.

Not in the sea, but in life.

In doubt.

In exhaustion.

In sin.

In failure.

Even in faith.

Following Jesus is not always easy. As a pastor, I hear stories of people who are sinking and drowning, struggling to stay afloat. Even myself, I am not alien to this, not because I am an “osofo” but I sometimes suffocate (unnecessary pun intended). People are going through a lot. We are going through a lot. And honestly, it’s not because we’ve lost faith, but because even faith can grow weary. Peter’s story reminds me that it’s okay to cry out, “Lord, save me.”

Immediately Jesus reached out his hand and caught him. ‘You of little faith,’ he said, ‘why did you doubt?

— Matthew 14:31

Jesus reached out. That is grace.

Jesus reaching out His hand to save Peter shows that, many times, you can be so close to Him and still drown. You can be living the “Jesus life,” yet feel drained, tired of praying, or fall into sin after a long streak of purity. You can grow weary of doing good, lose your spark to serve, go to church, pray, and still appear to others as someone who deeply loves Jesus. What if those who seem to be doing the most for Him are the ones sinking? What if our friends—or even you—are quietly losing it?

We all need help. I do. I need God’s help. And the truth is, the only salvation for a sinking life is the hand of God. Nothing else. Just calling on Jesus. Your friends may help, your pastor may guide you, they may teach you how to swim, but only Jesus can save you, and help you walk on water. That’s the goal.

Maybe pause for a moment and pray silently. Ask Him to help you.

So call on Him. Whisper His name.

He will pull you back to safety.

He will clothe you again.

He will feed you, even if He must send ravens to do it.

You will be fine.

Everything will be fine.

Take a pause.

Breathe.

You will be fine.

This is life.

Here I am, learning not to drown.

Not because the waves have stopped,

but because I am learning, like Okunka once taught me,

how to stay afloat,

how to find balance,

and how to trust the Ocean of Grace beneath me.

Nii Lante Mills.