(5) I Got You, Babe Series

(The Storm Whisperer)

Part 1 – John’s El Niño

The weather report on the way into the office said hot and dry—

pack a lunch, stay hydrated, expect nothing out of the ordinary.

That’s the forecast we like: predictable, manageable.

But life doesn’t always read the forecast.

Storms change our plans.

We got in the boat rehearsing all the Messianic prophecies,

convinced that if we could just coronate Jesus,

we could usher in the kingdom.

He can provide food just like Moses and the manna.

He just needs our help to get to the place we want Him to be.

It isn’t “Do you have Jesus?”

It’s “Does Jesus have you?”

They had just finished a seaside, three-day revival—

the Grow Your Personal Kingdom Conference

with motivational speaker Rabbi Yeshua.

Attendance? Over 5,000. It was yuge.

They collected all the leftover pizza for later.

Cousin Herman brought an old theatrical crown,

and Malachite offered purple curtains from his mother’s house.

They already started collecting palm branches

for the coronation parade down date-palm-lined Joshua Boulevard.

It had been a long time since anyone had seen

a genuine king-making parade in Israel.

They even joked they could use a Burger King crown if necessary.

We decorate thrones;

Jesus prepares hearts.

But then Jesus commands them—“Get in the boat.”

No explanation. No royal announcement. Just obedience and oars.

And as they rowed, the sky turned.

We thought we were riding into the sunset—

the kingdom coming,

the last stanza of “Will There Be Any Stars in My Crown.”

James kept practicing the sound of it:

> “Secretary of State James, Son of Thunder.

Can’t wait to get that past the church board.”

Bartholomew bragged, “I’ve got eight stars already.”

John grinned, “I’ve got nine.”

We were about to become riders in the storm.

But then, the harsh wind drowned out our song

and sent shards of shivers to the core of our being.

This wasn’t a passing squall.

> “For we wrestle not against flesh and blood …”

The most terrifying moment many ever face in life

is the one where you realize—I am alone.

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Part 2 – Storm on Cue

Half of the men in that boat had grown up on the sea.

Fishing wasn’t a hobby—it was their livelihood.

They knew the Sea of Galilee like the back of their hand:

where the sandbars hid, where the sudden gusts rolled down from the cliffs,

and how fast a calm night could turn violent.

Nathaniel — the honest disciple — even carried a bar of soap,

just in case somebody needed their mouth washed out

for using non-Biblical language

when the nets tangled or a sudden squall threatened to sink the boat.

He said it was “for spiritual hygiene.”

We laughed — but we’d need more than soap before the night was over.

The wind arrived like a slap.

One moment the water shimmered under the moonlight—calm, glassy, promising.

The next, it twisted and snarled, breaking into whitecaps that slammed the bow.

Oars flew from hands, the sail cracked like a whip,

and the laughter that had filled the boat only minutes earlier died in a single gust.

This wasn’t just weather—it was warfare.

And heaven seemed silent.

We shouted into the wind until our throats burned,

but no answer came.

The waves mocked our faith with every crash.

It felt as though the storm itself had intent —

as if hell was trying to keep us from reaching the other side.

Then it hit me:

this wasn’t punishment; it was a proving ground.

Jesus had sent us into the storm not to destroy us

but to teach us that even the power of the enemy

still answers to the voice of God.

We thought we were rowing toward triumph; we were really rowing into training.

Hours passed. The boat creaked and moaned. Salt stung our eyes.

We were cold, tired, and hopeless—

and this was only a couple of hours after we’d eaten from the Celestial Diner.

Twelve baskets of leftover pizza on the shore,

but out here in the dark, it felt like we had nothing at all.

And then—somewhere beyond the reach of our lantern light—

a figure began to move across the surface.

At first it looked like part of the night itself — a darker shape inside the darkness.

Then lightning flickered, and for a heartbeat we saw Him—

walking, unhurried, utterly calm.

The storm bowed beneath His feet like a beaten enemy.

The sea, that symbol of chaos and rebellion, became a carpet for its Creator.

What terrified us obeyed Him.

The very elements that threatened to drown us were holding Him up in worship.

We saw but couldn’t believe.

We saw but didn’t recognize our Savior.

We were blinded by our own agenda —