I live in New England near America’s oldest seaport. It’s a city known for venturing out to sea, and the local high school mascot is the Fishermen. When the winds pick up, the causeway floods as the tide rises and we ride it out, taking detours on the flooded roads and then cleaning up what we can. This area is at the mercy of the ocean air and saltiness that corrodes. But perhaps one of the most striking features of our corner of New England is the Fisherman’s Memorial.

It is a copper statue that has turned green over the years and depicts a Gloucester fisherman with his hands on the steering wheel of a ship. He looks with pensive eyes out over the harbor, determined and focused.

When I stand in front of the Fisherman’s Memorial, I feel the intensity as I hear the waves crashing against the walls. When the king tide comes in, the water floods over the edge, seaweed wrapping around the railings that keep passersby from falling into the waves. The Gloucester fisherman stands in front of plaques with thousands of names that date back to the 1600s. Over 10,000 men have died at sea after leaving Gloucester. In fact, in one stretch, from 1860-1906, a staggering 660 ships sank.

This is a town that understands the weight of losing to the sea.

Most famously in recent history, the Andrea Gail, an American commercial fishing vessel, was lost in 1991 during a Nor’Easter we called The Perfect Storm. A film was made that beautifully captured the area, reminding us of the heart of this industry that keeps a community afloat.

When I am driving past, I almost always stop for the memorial. I hop out of my car and feel the wind on my cheeks, turning them red. I trace my finger along the names on the memorial, wondering who they were and what they cared for most. As I turn back to face the fisherman, I look down at the base of his footing where a simple phrase is written: THEY THAT GO DOWN TO THE SEA IN SHIPS.

It took me an embarrassing amount of time to figure out that this was a reference to Psalm 107. In this passage, various situations of need are mentioned and then the people cry out to God and are met with his help.

I wonder about the irony of living in a largely non-Christian environment that is represented by a statue that is based on our need for the divine. I suppose it anchors in me a hope that there is a deep, human need to cry out in moments of distress. To call to God when it feels like we’re drowning. To recognize our helplessness when the tide rises and the swells get too high.

In these seaside towns, we feel the weight of how very out of control we are. When the storms hit, we are at the mercy of the wind and water. When the temperatures drop, we watch it all freeze and crack. When the skies go red in the morning, we know the shift might not be in our favor.

Living in a community that is tied to the world around us reminds me that God is ever-present, ready to enter into the needs we have. We can call out to God — not only in our distress but in our day-to-day. Like those who go down to the sea in ships, who venture out of the safe harbor onto the open ocean where the safety of land is nowhere to be seen, there is a deep reliance in our blood. A reliance that watches the sky and listens to the wind, marveling at how intense God’s power is.

You may be landlocked, but the God of the sea is still your God.

You may have clear skies, but the God of stormy weather is still your God.

You may be in an uncomfortable season, but the God of comfort and hope is still your God.

Seasons come and go. Storms arrive and pass. What is today may not be tomorrow. But by God’s grace, like those who go down to the sea in ships, we will all arrive at the Harbor we’re hoping for.

 

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