.png)
Finding God In The Drift
​It was July, warm and bright, and forty of us—children and adults—gathered on the banks of the
River Stour. As usual, the scene was full of our normal chaos: people figuring out how to
balance on their boards, conversations overlapping, the occasional splash as someone lost their
paddle. This was Ocean Church—messy, alive, and beautiful in its own way.
Once we were all in the water, we began paddling upstream. There was a rhythm to it—some
found it quickly, while others struggled. After we pushed against the current, I invited everyone
into something deeper: centering prayer. I asked them to focus on a single word that described
God in that moment. Then, we’d drift back downstream in silence, letting the river carry us back
to where we started.​
EVERYONE IN
What happened next was unexpected, even for me.
​
Silence. Real, collective silence. Even the kids, who are usually full of energy and chatter,
became part of this stillness. As we floated downstream, the only sound was the gentle ripple of
water against our boards. We were all suspended in that moment—connected by something
deeper, something beyond words.
​
There’s a tension between noise and silence in life, but it’s not just about sound. It’s about the
inner noise—the constant hum of thoughts, tasks, and distractions. That day, on the river, it was
like we stepped out of that noise and into something quieter, more sacred. In the stillness, God
wasn’t something we had to search for. God was already there, waiting for us to notice, inviting
us to just be—no words, no actions, just presence.
It’s easy to get caught up in the paddling—pushing against the current of life, trying to keep up. But maybe the real invitation is to drift sometimes, to let go of the need to paddle, and just be carried.
Where might God be inviting you to stop striving and simply drift today?
​
John Good