Despite my slight fear of drowning and the unpleasant taste of the Pacific Ocean, I found myself back in the water again. Vague childhood visions of chasing the tide while dodging jellyfish reminded me of how far I had come—I was once terrified of the ocean, yet now I was learning how to surf off the coast of Kauai, Hawaii.

My present-day love affair with the roaring waves and salty breezes didn't result from happy vacation-at-the-beach memories. I had only been to the ocean once as a child, apparently disgusted with the feel of sand in my swimsuit. The subsequent near-drowning at a water park and a ridiculous college outing to the Texas Gulf Coast just hours before a hurricane should have sealed my fate as a landlubber.

Yet here I floated, clutching my long board, awaiting my instructor's commands.

As an adult, I was drawn by the ocean's beauty and power. Still aware of its danger and uncontrollable nature, I learned not to fight against it, thus keeping myself safe in its engulfing waters. There I found peace amidst the risk always involved with entering its presence.

It actually reminds me of God and the ways He draws me in.

He is all-powerful, the Beautiful One. As C.S. Lewis once put it, "'Course He isn't safe. But He's good.'" When I fight against Him, things only get worse. In His presence, peace and risk beautifully intertwine.

I continually find myself going back to God for more—more lessons to learn, more understanding to behold, more risky steps of faith and hope.

I don't want a god that is predictable and safe, like a channeled canal, or small and controllable, like the water from my bathroom faucet. I'm glad He is bigger than me, stronger than me, beyond my comprehension.

I'm glad He's like the ocean.

I would love to say I was a natural surfer, but there's nothing natural about competing with the strength of a breaking wave on nothing but a glossed-up piece of foam. Who knows what I'll try next? But as with my Father, I will keep coming back to the ocean for more.

It was my first time riding a horse, and my pale-brown steed, Abbie, was not making it easy. Unlike the smooth and steady 12-year-olds other folks in our group rode, Abbie was just three years old and, accordingly, had a youthful sense of adventure.

Our instructors warned us not to let our horses eat the foliage on either side of our path, but Abbie took full advantage of her opportunity to sample every leaf, frond and berry she saw. Nothing seemed to work—when I tried to direct her back to the path.

I was incredibly frustrated and not having much fun.

Sometimes I am like Abbie—easily distracted from the path God puts before me. I can allow the momentary pleasures of this world to keep me from His perfect direction. I even resist when He gently pulls me back to facing forward.

Proverbs 4:25,26 says, "Let your eyes look directly ahead and let your gaze be fixed straight in front of you. Watch the path of your feet and all your ways will be established." I pray that I'll never become too much like Abbie, and that I'll be able to focus on God's leading instead.

"I wanna get DOWN!" our son, Wilson, screamed from my husband's arms.

We had just stopped to point out a passenger train to Wilson, thinking it would thrill him. But as the train's racket continued even after it pulled to a stop, Wilson was less than thrilled. He wanted only to get as far away from it as he could.

"I wanna get DOWN!" Wilson screamed over and over, his eyes widened in terror.

I realized that Wilson's fears arose from his sense of danger when the noisy train invaded our calm afternoon. He wanted us, his parents, to take him far from that danger—to keep him safe. When he realized that we weren't moving away from the danger fast enough, he begged to be let down—hoping to run away and find safety on his own.

In my life, I've been in a spiritual season that has felt dangerous. And I've seen that God doesn't move me away from it. Instead He stays right there, too close to it for me to feel strong on my own.

Thus I'm left with a choice: I can scramble to get down and leave God behind as I run for cover, or I can cling to my Father in trust that He will take care of me.

I want to choose the clinging option. And maybe one day I'll look back on that danger and think, Seeing that noisy train up close really was a thrill.