The Boat, the Melody, and the Tide

The Boat, the Melody, and the Tide

by Kateb Nuri-Alim Shunnar

There are days when the soul speaks in a whisper so gentle, you’d miss it if you weren’t paying attention. It doesn’t shout or demand, it simply nudges. And on those days, without any plan or particular reason, I’d find myself walking toward the church on a quiet weekday, while the world rushed past. No grand service. No altar call. Just the soft call of Spirit drawing me in.

The doors would creak open like the arms of an old friend, and I’d step into the cool, echoing hush of that sacred space. Sometimes I’d walk into a prayer meeting. Other times, it was just choir rehearsal. The choir would be warming up, stretching their voices, calling on Heaven without even realizing they were already touching it. I couldn’t sing not even close. But I didn’t need to. The melodies carried me. They were like liquid light, pouring down from the rafters and bathing the weary places in my spirit.

There was something about those harmonies those “melodies from Heaven” as some would call them that didn’t just sound beautiful. They felt like balm. Like medicine for wounds I didn’t know I had. Each note felt alive, as though the Creator had poured Spirit into the lungs of each singer and turned them into vessels of comfort. I’d sit there quietly, not to be seen, not to be known, but just to be. And being was enough.

Sometimes I’d close my eyes and let the music paint pictures in my mind images of rivers flowing gently, sunrays slicing through stained-glass windows, angels humming just beyond the veil of sound. Other times, I’d open my eyes and let the sanctuary itself speak to me the flicker of a candle, the worn pages of a Bible left open on the pulpit, the old wooden pews that had held generations of seekers like me. There was a holy stillness there. A kind of peace that you don’t find in the noise of everyday living. And somehow, without fail, I’d leave lighter than I came.

But that sanctuary wasn’t just in the building. Life, in many ways, became my sanctuary too. And I realized something profound: life is like a boat journey.

We’re each in our own vessel some crafted from joy, others scarred from pain, many patched together with bits of both. And we sail. Sometimes the waters are calm and shimmering, reflecting the blue sky of peace and promise. Other times, we’re caught in the swirl of unexpected storms winds howling, thunder roaring, waves slapping the sides of our fragile boats. And yet, in all of it, the Creator is present. Not just above us, but with us. In the boat. In the wind. In the silence between the waves.

It’s amazing, truly, how if you just stop trying to control every moment if you loosen your grip on the oars, unclench your fists, and surrender the Divine will take over. The Creator will breathe upon the waters, and the tides will begin to shift. The winds will carry your vessel in the direction of your purpose, even if you can’t see the shore. Even in the storm, even in the dark, there’s a holy hand guiding the motion. The same One who carved the seas commands them still.

Faith is trusting that unseen hand. Trust is knowing that even when the compass spins and the sky grows dark, the One who made you also made the map. That kind of trust deep, unshakable, soul-level trust is something the world can’t give you. And it’s something the world can’t take away. I have that. Not because I’m perfect. Not because I’ve always gotten it right. But because, time and again, I’ve let go and the tides carried me safely through.

I wouldn’t trade that trust for anything. Not for status, not for fame, not for a soft place to land. Because with that trust, I’ve discovered something sacred: even when I don’t know the way, I’m never lost.

And so, here in this boat of mine weathered by storms, kissed by sunlight, shaped by time I write. I write not because it’s easy. I write because it’s necessary. It’s how I breathe. It’s how I pray. It’s how I speak back to the universe that has spoken so much into me.

Sometimes I write in silence, with only the gentle lapping of water as my soundtrack. Other times, I write through the storm, with thunder in my chest and lightning cracking across the page. But always, always, I write from the soul. Not from the polished parts of me, but from the raw, the real, the sacred center where Spirit and story meet.

I write because someone out there might be sitting in their own boat, wondering if they’ll make it to shore. And maybe just maybe my words will remind them that they’re not alone. That the same winds that once guided me are still moving. That the same melodies that once lifted me are still echoing. That the same Creator who whispered to me in a quiet church pew is still whispering to them now.

So if you’re reading this, and your waters are rough, take heart. Loosen your grip. Let go. Let the winds of the Creator guide you. Trust the tide. And know that even in the storm, even when it seems you’re drifting, you’re still in the hands of Love.

And from this boat my floating sanctuary I will keep writing. Because as long as there are tides, there will be stories. And as long as there is breath, there will be praise.