The sea was never quiet at night. Even on calm evenings, the waves slapped against the wooden planks of our fishing boat like they had something to say. But that night… that night was different. That night, the sea screamed.
My name’s Eliab. I’m twelve, but I’ve been working the boats with my uncle ever since my father lost his strength and couldn’t sail anymore. Most of Jesus’ followers were grown men—fishermen like my uncle or tax collectors and such—but I helped where I could. When He said we were crossing the lake, I begged to come. I wanted to hear more of those stories. I wanted to be near Him.
The sun had only just slipped under the horizon when our boat pushed off. Jesus was already tired—He’d been teaching crowds so big we could barely walk through them. He curled up in the back on a cushion and fell asleep almost right away. I remember thinking, “Even when He rests, He’s calm like the stories He tells.” That thought didn’t last long.
The wind hit first. Sharp and sudden, like it had waited all day to trap us in open water. Then came the rain—hammering sideways, filling the boat faster than we could shout for help. Thunder cracked. Lightning made faces glow white before snatching the light away again. We couldn’t see the shore. We couldn’t see anything but waves as tall as rooftops curling over us.
I tried to help my uncle bail the water out, but the buckets were useless. Every time we emptied one, two more waves poured in. Someone screamed, “We’re going to die out here!” I think it was Peter—but maybe it was me.
And then someone shouted, “Where's Jesus?” That brought the others stumbling toward the back. He was still there. Still sleeping.
How could He sleep?
“Teacher!” Peter shouted, shaking Him. “Don’t you care if we drown?”
Jesus opened His eyes—and stood up. The boat rocked wild under His feet, but He didn’t flinch. He looked out over the chaos, and His voice cut through everything.
“Quiet. Be still.”
That was it.
No chant. No ceremony. Just a few calm words.
The wind gusted once more… and then stopped.
It didn’t slow down. It didn’t fade. It just stopped. Like the storm had been waiting to obey Him the whole time.
The sea—screaming seconds before—was suddenly quiet. Too quiet. The kind of stillness that makes your stomach twist, like you’ve just seen something you can’t explain.
Everyone stared. Even Peter didn’t speak.
Jesus looked at us and said, “Why are you so afraid? Do you still have no faith?”
I expected someone to answer—but nobody could. We were still dripping and shaking, standing in a puddle at the bottom of a boat that should’ve sunk... but didn’t.
That was the first time I realized something deep. Not just that Jesus could stop storms—but that He was never afraid of them in the first place.
Later that night, when the stars peeked back out, I dried off and leaned against the side of the boat. My hands were still trembling, but my heart wasn’t. I looked at Him—really looked—and I knew: if Jesus is in the boat, we’re not going under.
The waves didn’t just calm down. My fear did, too.
The sea was never quiet at night. Even on calm evenings, the waves slapped against the wooden planks of our fishing boat like they had something to say. But that night… that night was different. That night, the sea screamed.
My name’s Eliab. I’m twelve, but I’ve been working the boats with my uncle ever since my father lost his strength and couldn’t sail anymore. Most of Jesus’ followers were grown men—fishermen like my uncle or tax collectors and such—but I helped where I could. When He said we were crossing the lake, I begged to come. I wanted to hear more of those stories. I wanted to be near Him.
The sun had only just slipped under the horizon when our boat pushed off. Jesus was already tired—He’d been teaching crowds so big we could barely walk through them. He curled up in the back on a cushion and fell asleep almost right away. I remember thinking, “Even when He rests, He’s calm like the stories He tells.” That thought didn’t last long.
The wind hit first. Sharp and sudden, like it had waited all day to trap us in open water. Then came the rain—hammering sideways, filling the boat faster than we could shout for help. Thunder cracked. Lightning made faces glow white before snatching the light away again. We couldn’t see the shore. We couldn’t see anything but waves as tall as rooftops curling over us.
I tried to help my uncle bail the water out, but the buckets were useless. Every time we emptied one, two more waves poured in. Someone screamed, “We’re going to die out here!” I think it was Peter—but maybe it was me.
And then someone shouted, “Where's Jesus?” That brought the others stumbling toward the back. He was still there. Still sleeping.
How could He sleep?
“Teacher!” Peter shouted, shaking Him. “Don’t you care if we drown?”
Jesus opened His eyes—and stood up. The boat rocked wild under His feet, but He didn’t flinch. He looked out over the chaos, and His voice cut through everything.
“Quiet. Be still.”
That was it.
No chant. No ceremony. Just a few calm words.
The wind gusted once more… and then stopped.
It didn’t slow down. It didn’t fade. It just stopped. Like the storm had been waiting to obey Him the whole time.
The sea—screaming seconds before—was suddenly quiet. Too quiet. The kind of stillness that makes your stomach twist, like you’ve just seen something you can’t explain.
Everyone stared. Even Peter didn’t speak.
Jesus looked at us and said, “Why are you so afraid? Do you still have no faith?”
I expected someone to answer—but nobody could. We were still dripping and shaking, standing in a puddle at the bottom of a boat that should’ve sunk... but didn’t.
That was the first time I realized something deep. Not just that Jesus could stop storms—but that He was never afraid of them in the first place.
Later that night, when the stars peeked back out, I dried off and leaned against the side of the boat. My hands were still trembling, but my heart wasn’t. I looked at Him—really looked—and I knew: if Jesus is in the boat, we’re not going under.
The waves didn’t just calm down. My fear did, too.
