Taking Heart When Waters Rise: Awe, Connection, and the Art of Surrender

“When we are no longer able to change a situation, we are challenged to change ourselves.” Viktor Frankl, famous psychiatrist and survivor of the Holocaust

All of you in the Wenatchee Valley know what has been going on. In this blog, I'd like to offer a reflection that particularly leans on some wisdom I gleaned recently from one of my granddaughter's college entrance essays. Let's get started. (And thank you to those who has sent photos and videos).

Here in our little berg of Cashmere, by the Wenatchee River, we’ve entered a season of uncertainty. What was once a peaceful winter’s prelude has become a testament to both nature’s power and our human vulnerability. Across Western Washington, historic rains and atmospheric rivers inundated rivers and communities, prompting a statewide emergency declaration and mobilizing thousands for rescue and relief efforts. Rivers crested at record levels; tens of thousands evacuated; roads, homes, and lives were disrupted. Even now, as waters begin to recede, communities in our area brace for the next storm and the long work of recovery ahead. One person in my SAIL and yoga class who lives in Leavenworth was evacuated by canoe!

Here in Cashmere, the Wenatchee River has surged past 16 feet I'm told, leaving homes without power and neighbors filling sandbags in shared concern. Churches, schools, and community centers have become hubs of support and shelter. Life has been jolted out of its familiar rhythm, and with it comes a question many of us have never had to face before: How do we live well when life stops feeling safe?

This question — of turbulence, control, and surrender — is echoed beautifully in my granddaughter’s college essay. In it, she writes not from a place of despair, but from a place of transformational awe — the kind of wonder that nudges us from fear into connection. In her words, and in our shared experience now, there is a path forward.

The Fear of Losing Control — At 35,000 Feet and at Home

My granddaughter admits that flying was never her superpower. While many children dreamt of soaring through clouds, she feared it. The moment the engines roared and the plane lifted, her hands trembled. Thoughts of stalled engines and lightning hijacked her peace. For someone whose life was charted by routines — calendars, study blocks, predictable plans — being thrust into the sky felt like nightmare territory.

She wrote:

For someone who is grounded by routine and control, darting through clouds 35,000 feet up was a worst-case scenario.

That resonates with so many of us — especially now. When life feels predictable and safe, we go about our days with purpose and plans. Then, suddenly, the rain comes, the river rises, the school closes, the power goes out. Our engineered lives — family dinners, goals and intentions laid with precision — are buffeted by forces far greater than we imagined.

Her story reminded me of how many of us equate control with peace. We chase results, we tighten our schedule reins, and we brace against the unexpected, believing that peace is the absence of chaos. But what if peace exists paradoxically within the chaos — not after it?

When Turbulence Becomes Teacher

My granddaughter is also a runner — disciplined, strong, determined. Yet, she’s lost more races than she’s won she says...maybe. She describes crossing finish lines less like triumph and more like bruised vulnerability. Her legs giving out near the end taught her a humbling truth:

By gripping the yoke tighter, I drifted further off course.

That insight — both simple and profound — becomes wisdom in the face of community crisis. When floodwaters rise, we are reminded that control is an illusion. No blueprint, schedule, or checklist can bar a river from its course. But our response — that we can shape with intention.

She continues:

Turbulence often visits during the cross-country flights I take for athletics. I’ve discovered that while careening through the ether, my mindset can act as a gyroscope, even as my feet long for the ground.

It’s a compelling image: not surrendering in defeat, but choosing mindfulness, awareness, intentional response. On one flight, amidst rough air and fear, she found a meditation program on the in-flight entertainment, listened to it eight times, and repeated to herself:

“I am one with the sky and everyone who has ever taken flight.”

What shifted in that moment wasn’t her physical environment but her heart posture — from fear to awe, from resistance to unity. Connection with something bigger than the self.

Christians (and Jews) talk about shalom — the peace that surpasses understanding, a wholeness that persists even in brokenness. There is a deep spiritual kinship between awe and peace: both humbly recognize that life is larger than our control, and that we are not alone.

Standing at the summit of a night hike with her father, without headlamps, looking out over her home town looking like a miniature twinkling Christmas village, she found something precious. Not escape — but connection. Not denial — but embracing beauty even when life feels uncertain.

She wrote:

I lost track of time, and I hope to continue to lose track of time, not just to escape uncertainty, but also to embrace beauty.

What a lesson for all of us — especially now as flood cleanup begins and uncertainty persists.

Living in Cashmere — a community with a strong sense of faith, neighborly solidarity, and a resilient spirit — we know that life’s turbulence doesn’t have to fracture us. In fact, when we allow ourselves to connect — with our neighbors, with nature, and with our experience of the Great Mystery/Divine/God — turbulence becomes a revelatory teacher.

The floods across Washington remind us of how powerful elements can be. Across the state, rivers like the Skagit, Snohomish, and Wenatchee reached historic flood stages, displacing families, closing roads, and activating rescue operations.

But they also reveal something else: the resilience of community. Neighbors filled sandbags side by side. Local churches opened doors as shelters. (And isn't it rather mirculous that we have had no resports of death or even injury?) City workers, teenagers, parents, and elders stood shoulder to shoulder. In these real-life moments, we witness the very thing my granddaughter learned in the sky — that she is one with the earth, one with her community, one with the shared human experience of vulnerability and hope.

On the journey to The Good Life, it isn't helpful to aim to perfect control. Rather we can aspire to awesomely navigate uncertainty with grounded hearts. My granddaughter’s epiphany on an airplane — that peace comes not from controlling the sky but from being in awe of it — can transform how we respond to every turbulence:

• When the Wenatchee River crests and cuts a main road…

• When the lights go out and we light candles…

• When we sit with neighbors who are overwhelmed…

• When we wonder if our plans will withstand the storm…

  
  

We can choose to see these moments not as catastrophic endings, but as openings into deeper connection — with LOVE, with each other, and with what truly matters.

Christian theologian and pastor Frederick Buechner once wrote that “the place God calls you to is the place where your deep gladness and the world’s deep hunger meet.” In times of peace, deep gladness is easier to see. But in times of disruption — like a statewide flood emergency — the hunger for comfort, assurance, and human connection becomes most visible.

And the call remains the same: to step into life fully, even when it shakes us.

Three Practices for an Awe-Filled Life

Here are three anchors pulled from both my granddaughter’s reflection and what we see unfolding in our community:

1. Reframe the Fear of Loss as an Invitation to Awe

Whether on a plane or with floodwaters at your doorstep, the fear of losing control is a universal human experience. But reframing it not as something to be defeated but something to be witnessed invites awe — the calm astonishment that life is both fragile and filled with wonder.

Awe is different from simple beauty. It’s the recognition that life is vast, unpredictable, sacred, and shared with all of humanity.

2. Stay Present with What Is

On that flight, she didn’t escape the turbulence — she sank into it with breath and awareness. Similarly, as rain falls and rivers rise, we can choose to show up fully — helping neighbors, listening to fears, offering prayers, and simply being there.

Presence is the unspoken prayer of community. It says, I am here with you.

3. Choose Connection Over Isolation

It’s tempting to seek safety in separation — to build walls around our schedules, homes, and plans. But real peace emerges in shared experience:

• sitting with a neighbor whose basement just flooded,

• checking in on elderly friends who can’t shovel sandbags,

• bringing a warm meal to displaced families,

• praising beauty when the sun returns.

  
  

Connection sustains us. Awe unites us. And in surrendering the illusion of complete control, we gain true agency: the power to respond with love.

Life will continue to throw turbulence at us — in the skies above and the rivers below. But if we let these moments deepen our hearts rather than harden them, we discover an unexpected gift: A life rich in connection, compassion, and awe — even amid chaos.

My granddaughter’s words remind us that success is not just results — it is the breath we take in every moment, the way we appreciate the view from wherever we stand. Whether we are in the air, on a trail at night, or standing knee-deep in floodwater helping a neighbor, our soul’s response makes all the difference.

We can’t always steer the plane. We can’t always hold back the rising water. But we can choose how we experience the ride — with grace, courage, presence, and awe.

And that — in every crisis, every calm, every mundane and every miraculous moment — is what it truly means to live The Good Life.

How might we stop trying to steer the plane when that is a ridiculous goal and choose to experience the ride with grace, courage, connection, and awe?

(And many thanks dear granddaughter for allowing me to learn from you and share your wisdom)