As we celebrated the radiant Feast of the Transfiguration on Wednesday, I’ll be honest — I wasn’t exactly feeling “mountaintop holy.”

Between advocating for my dad in his latest health challenges, keeping pace with the swirl of daily life — a princess of a pup who believes all walks should be royal processions, a bit of work drama, an ever-growing laundry pile threatening to form its own zip code, and a vacuum sulking in the corner as though I’ve forgotten its very existence — I was already halfway down the mountain before the feast even began.

During the Gospel reading — Christ’s face shining like the sun, His garments white as light, Moses and Elijah beside Him — I couldn’t help but think: I doubt either of them had a single thought about whether the laundry was done.

They were too busy talking with the Lord about His coming Passion. And there I was, standing and facing the altar, but still mentally answering emails.

On Tabor, Christ wasn’t putting on a divine light show. He was giving His friends (and us) a preview of the victory that lay beyond the coming cross — a foretaste of what St. Paul calls our own transformation: “He will transform our lowly body to be conformed to His glorious body” (Phil. 3:21). That’s not just theology for the bookshelf; it’s hope for anyone who has ever kept vigil at a hospital bed or stood at a graveside.

And yet, I’ll confess — I forget this hope almost as quickly as I hear it. When storms hit, my default is to work harder, row faster, and try to muscle my way to shore on my own strength — as though sheer willpower could calm the wind.

All the while, Christ is standing there, hand outstretched, wondering when I’ll remember that He’s already in the boat.

Meanwhile, I’m still barking orders at the imaginary crew, rearranging the deck chairs, and checking the weather app — as if that’s going to help. (Guess which sister from the Mary-and-Martha story Fr. Stephen gently nudged me to reflect on this week? Spoiler: not Mary.)

It’s humbling to sink, especially when He both calls us to a task, and gives us His strength to do it. Here, I may not be the only one to forget: “Unless the Lord builds the house, the laborers labor in vain” (Psalm 126 LXX).

And maybe that’s why yesterday’s Gospel — Peter walking on water — comes so soon after Tabor in our lectionary. We get a glimpse of Christ’s glory, and then we are immediately reminded that life with Him is not lived on the mountaintop alone. It is lived in the boat, in the storm, on the water… and sometimes, under it.

The Church doesn’t give us these stories back-to-back by accident. Tabor’s light is not meant to shield us from the storm, but to steady us in it. Christ knows the way from the mountain to the waves — and He walks it with us.

This week, for me, it was a phone call from the care team about Dad’s latest test results. In that moment, the waves felt high and the wind sharp, and I forgot — again — that Christ was already reaching for me.

For a few glorious steps, Peter’s doing it — standing where only God should stand, because his eyes are locked on Jesus. You can almost hear him thinking, “Look at me! I’m actually doing this!” right before it occurs to him there’s no such thing as a floatation device for this situation.

The wind kicks up, the waves roar, and down he goes, faster than you can say, “O ye of little faith.”

Here’s the mercy in the story: the moment Peter cries out, “Lord, save me!” Jesus doesn’t give him a lecture. He doesn’t tell him to swim harder. He just reaches out and hauls him up. Storm still raging, wind still blowing — but Peter’s hand is in His again.

That’s the hope I need, and maybe you do too — not that life will stop sending waves, but that the One who shone on Tabor is also the One who will grab us before we go under. Hope doesn’t mean we’ll never sink; it means we have Christ to cry out to when we do.

If you, like me, are more Martha than Mary some days… if you’ve been “powering through” on your own steam… if you’ve been distracted by the wind and waves — take heart. The Lord is close.

His hand is already reaching for you. Step toward Him.

And if you sink, don’t be too proud to yell for help. He loves to pull His children out of the deep.

Maybe this week, when the wind rises, we could pause for just a breath — long enough to remember the mountain, the light, and the hand already stretched toward us.

We live in a world where the wind can turn suddenly, both in our personal lives and in the life of our culture. And when it does, we need to remember that hope isn’t a feeling we work up — it’s the hand we grab hold of.

Let me leave you with the words of St. Theophan the Recluse, a man who clearly knew something about wind, waves, and grace:

“Do not be afraid of the surrounding tempest. Look at the Lord and do not look at the waves. You will not drown. Even if it seems that you are about to drown, cry out: ‘Lord, save me!’ and you will be saved. Only be with the Lord, and if you do leave Him, return at once. May the remembrance of the Lord be as it was for Peter: as soon as he called out, the Lord stretched out His hand and took hold of him.”

Glory to God for all things,

Perpetua