A Year Untethered
The day we watched strangers carry away our dining room table, I felt a mixture of apprehension and excitement. It was February 2022, and my husband Ken and I were selling nearly everything we owned—our home, our furniture, even our plants. What we didn't sell, we donated. All that remained were several bins of books, some family photos, and a few sentimental items tucked into a small corner of a friend's basement.
Three months later, we found Remedy, the sailboat that would become our new home. We traded modern conveniences—washers, dryers, dishwashers, unlimited water—for a marriage adventure. We split our time between Remedy and our land-based rental for eighteen months. But on December 27th, 2023, we finally untied the dock lines and set sail for unknown waters.
As our first year of living aboard and traveling draws to a close, I find myself reflecting on all that this year has held. If I were to capture the year in two words, they would be "untethered" and "grounding." These words might seem contradictory, but they've been complementary companions throughout our journey.
This past year, we spent twenty-four hours a day together, living and working in 250 square feet of space. We left behind all that was familiar and comfortable—family, friends, and the hometown we’d lived in our entire lives. It’s been a year of compromises and trade-offs, filled with uncertainty and challenges. Everything is more difficult and takes longer. We are learning to do without, to adjust our expectations, and to hold all things loosely. Yet, we have never felt more grounded in our faith or our marriage.
Perhaps, in letting go of everything that once tethered us, we are discovering a new footing—one grounded not in possessions or place or predictability but in faith and dependence on God and one another.
Three Teachers and What They Taught Me
Scripture:
The last time I read through the Scripture chronologically was ten years ago—a rich experience that left me longing to do it again. This year, I finally did, and it was just as meaningful as the first time. There are many ways to read and benefit from the Scripture: reading a psalm per day, working through a specific book, reading large portions in one sitting, reading slowly and taking time to study passages in depth, journaling through the Scriptures, or following a reading plan. Regardless of how you read the Bible, it is full of truth, beauty, and goodness. But for me, reading chronologically helps connect the dots, bridging the gaps from Genesis to Revelation and revealing Scripture as one cohesive story.
The insights, comforts, and hope I gained from reading Scripture this way are too numerous to list. But one truth stands above the rest: God desires to be known. This message echoes throughout the Bible, from the Old Testament to the New Testament. Whether through revelation, miracle, prophecy, or discipline, God repeatedly declares, “Then they will know that I am the Lord.” This narrative arc of Scripture points to a God who desires to be known.
This idea has fundamentally shifted my thinking. I’ve followed Jesus and studied the Scriptures for close to twenty years. I’ve sought the Scriptures to teach me, correct me, and conform me more to Christ’s likeness. I’ve read them for comfort and encouragement. And I’ve read them to remind me that I am known and loved by God.
It wasn’t until reading this year that I realized how self-focused my reading of Scripture has been. Just as I desire to be known and loved, our God desires to be known and loved. From the Garden in Genesis to the Holy City in Revelation, God has pursued us and provided for us, ultimately giving of his own life so that we may know him and be known for him for all eternity.
This truth challenged me and invited me to consider how we relate to God and how his desire to be known could deepen our intimacy with him.
Powerlessness:
Powerlessness is not a teacher I would have chosen, but I am better for her persistent lessons. From start to finish, this year was marked by circumstances far beyond my control. We can set our course in life, but we cannot control all the factors involved in reaching our destination. We can have goals, but we cannot prevent life from intervening with its own agenda.
We can make wise choices, but we cannot guarantee their outcomes. We cannot control when the sun rises or sets, nor can we command the wind, waves, or rain. We have no power over whether our eyes open, our hearts beat, or our lungs draw breath. These fundamental truths of our humanity humble us daily, yet we often rush past them in our pursuit of certainty, assurance, and security.
Modern life is engineered to maintain our illusion of control—our calendars, modern conveniences, and carefully curated routines. This spiritual stupor keeps us bound to our agendas and expectations. As products of our culture, we often view surrender as something arising from weakness and defeat. True surrender, however, is born of humble strength and deeply rooted faith in the God who controls all things.
Much of what I learned through powerlessness I already understood cognitively. But living this past year at the mercy of the weather—our minutes, hours, days, and weeks determined by forces far beyond us—gave me tangible opportunities to experience that real freedom comes from surrender. It was not easy. Much of it was thrust upon me, leaving me no choice. Many things did not go according to plan this year. Timelines were stretched and altered—some things I even had to grieve. But when I finally surrendered to my circumstances, I discovered I could be fully present in each moment, embracing both its unexpected gifts and challenges.
Perhaps the greatest paradox of powerlessness is that when we release our grip, we do not find ourselves in a random freefall but held firmly in God's hands.
Creation:
“Why do people keep asking to see
God’s identity papers
When the darkness opening into morning
Is more than enough?” Mary Oliver, I Wake Close To Morning
There is something transcendent about the sun rising over the distant horizon. Before we lived aboard, it was just another sunrise to me. Occasionally, an extra special one might cause me to pause in admiration. For the most part, though, I was oblivious—preoccupied with the demands and distractions of life.
Unlike my husband, I’ve never been particularly drawn to nature. I like climate-controlled rooms. I hate sweating, humidity, and all forms of insects. But this year has shifted something in me. Don’t get me wrong. I still hate sweating, humidity, and all forms of insects! But living more closely connected to nature is expanding my view of God.
Seals, dolphins, eagles, foxes, piebald deer. Trees aflame with brilliant shades of orange, red, and gold. Crystal blue waters and pink sand beaches. Craggy cliffs and rocky shores. Clear starry nights and dense foggy mornings. From land to sea to sky—every created thing points to the wonder, power, creativity, hilarity, and lavish generosity of our Creator.
Living in closer connection with nature has not only deepened my appreciation for God’s creation but has also drawn me closer to him and expanded my capacity for worship.
Two Favorite Books (and a bonus soon-to-be-book)
Favorite Faith-Based Book: This Homeward Ache, by Amy Baik Lee
If you’ve ever wondered how to keep going in this world while holding on to the hope of the world to come, This Homeward Ache offers you courage, companionship, and a stirring sense of the scope of our journey home to Christ. (description from Amazon)
“Christ has gone to prepare a place for me. I am free to receive the signposts as aids intentionally sent. For the journey of this rich, humorous, grace-pierced faith has never been merely a question of cerebral comprehension and assent; it is an odyssey Home to—and with—a God who has asked everything of me: heart, soul, mind, strength. In the face of my own tendencies to wander or linger along the way, the sweetly barbed longing is just deep and frequent enough to keep me tender—and moving.”
Baik’s book was beautifully written and reminded me there are outposts of beauty, truth, and goodness all around us as we walk homeward.
Best Fiction Book: Theo of Golden, by Allen Levi
Theo of Golden is a beautifully crafted story about the power of creative generosity, the importance of wonder to a purposeful life, and the far-reaching possibilities of anonymous kindness. (description from Amazon)
“There must be love for the gift itself, love for the subject being depicted or the story being told, and love for the audience. Whether the art is sculpture, farming, teaching, lawmaking, medicine, music, or raising a child, if love is not in it—at the very heart of it—it might be skillful, marketable, or popular but I doubt it is truly good. Nothing is what it’s supposed to be if love is not at the core.
I fell in love with this book and all its characters, especially with Theo. It made me want to love others better, to really understand them, and to leave them better off than when I met them. Theo of Golden is a book I will read again.
Bonus Soon-To-Be Book: Feasting on Hope: How God Sets A Table in the Wilderness, by Hannah Miller King
Christianity speaks of healing and renewal. But most Christians still live with unmet longings and seemingly unresolvable pain. Grief and loss. Family brokenness. Chronic illness. Traumatic memories. How do we steward these longings as people of hope? And how might the ancient practice of Communion give us a fresh imagination for living in this tension together? (synopsis by Hannah Miller King)
“In a world enslaved by scarcity, Jesus serves the one meal that will never run out. He nourishes us with his life. This doesn’t automatically resolve our physical needs; trusting Jesus doesn’t insulate us from hunger or hardship. But it fills us with a different kind of fullness, a kind of life that transcends mere bodily existence even while securing our bodily future. And it heals us of our fearful striving for what we’ve never actually been able to secure on our own.”
I was honored to read an early draft of my friend Hannah’s book. Hannah, an Anglican priest, is a beautiful and thoughtful writer. Drawing from her own story and her life as a priest, Hannah leads us to the Table, where we feast on and are nourished by Christ—broken bread for broken bodies, broken hearts, broken relationships, and broken lives. I can’t wait to get my hands on a physical copy of this book in the coming year!