Melissa Ledbetter

I’m deeply drawn to Matthew’s story of Peter climbing out of the disciples’ boat to walk on the water toward Jesus in the middle of a storm (Matthew 14:22-32). I can imagine myself as Peter, holding on to the boat, wondering where Jesus is–then, seeing Jesus walk toward them and climbing out of the boat to reach him. Even though Jesus is right there, somewhere between Peter’s hand releasing the side of the boat and reaching Jesus, he fears the wind surrounding him and starts to sink. Jesus reaches out and pulls Peter to himself, calling him, “you of little faith.” This declaration has always felt unfair to me, as Peter seemed to be the only one who dared to get out of the boat.

I was raised with a heritage of seeking the Lord, learning Scripture, and trusting that we serve a loving God who hears and responds. As I grew older, this faith and the experience of the Holy Spirit became fully my own.

My parents got sick last summer. After years of wearing masks and staying current on their boosters, they both contracted Covid-19. Their illness stretched into weeks before they began to improve. My mom continued to deal with fever and low oxygen saturation as my dad began feeling better. But his legs retained fluid. This condition, and my mom’s continued cough, had them head to urgent care. The medical staff approved mom to continue her current treatment and sent dad to the ER. Medical personnel began testing to determine if impaired liver function or congestive heart failure was the cause of my dad’s condition. In the end, results indicated possible liver cancer. They referred dad to Barnes Jewish Hospital in St. Louis for more tests and guidance on next steps. I flew to Missouri from El Paso, Texas. One of my brothers drove up from Pine Bluff, Arkansas, to help our parents with a few house projects and to travel with them to the hospital in St. Louis. In the week between tests, dad was given the unexpected gift of a release from his hometown hospital. He enjoyed some good days. He spent mornings at our family farm and met friends for lunch. While I was there, I cooked dinner each evening. Dad’s prayer before each meal included, “Lord, we know this is all in your hands, and we ask that we would honor you in this process.”

The day of tests and doctors’ appointments in St. Louis felt like waves knocking our hopes back and forth. The tests seemed to confirm liver cancer, and the doctor who came in the morning gave a dire prognosis of containment and comfort at best. After another scan, the afternoon doctor was opposingly positive with talk of a biopsy and taking fast steps to shrink the tumor. We left with only the promise of the doctors’ collective diagnosis and prognosis to come the next day. We found a local restaurant and together enjoyed some of the best BBQ we ever had.

I returned home to Texas a few days later knowing Dad had liver cancer. There would be no biopsy or surgery. He would begin treatment a week later, on his 78^th birthday. Over and over, I pictured Peter climbing out of the boat to get to Jesus, and I knew the Lord was there, in the storm of the hospital trips and the unexpected diagnosis and what turned out to be the final days of dad’s life. I was still bothered by Jesus calling Peter’s faith small as I wrestled with all I wanted to be true. Then, in a moment of my own prayer, “Lord, I believe – help my unbelief,” I knew that while I could not exactly identify or quantify my own faith, I know that my trust in the Jesus was intact. Whatever was to come, even if my faith faltered, I still trusted God, His goodness, His sovereignty, His love. I believe that even as Peter’s faith may have faltered in that moment, he trusted Jesus. Trust got him out of the boat.

Our faith may move mountains–but trust will get us out of the boat and draw us toward Jesus when nothing else makes sense.