It was the fifteenth day of the storm. The sailors were exhausted and scared. And hungry. 

“For the last fourteen days,” their prisoner Paul told them, “you have been in constant suspense and have gone without food—you haven’t eaten anything. Now I urge you to take some food. You need it to survive. Not one of you will lose a single hair from his head” (Acts 27:33-34).

Not bad advice, especially coming from one of the criminals they were transporting back to Rome. 

But that promise? Not losing a single hair? Not even a scratch or a scrape or a bruise? After enduring fourteen days of the perfect storm, they had to have been dubious. 

What Paul did next, though, was about way more than providing a few calories to sustain them.

“After he said this,” Luke continued, “he took some bread and gave thanks to God in front of them all. Then he broke it and began to eat” (27:35).

It was no simple dinner he was serving. It was the eucharist, the thanksgiving, the breaking of the bread Jesus had celebrated with his disciples that last night of his earthly life.

The sailors were “encouraged” (27:36). That’s what Jesus does. He gives courage.

When the ship finally runs aground, the soldiers’ first impulse was to contain the damage. “At least let’s not let the prisoners escape “, they say to themselves (27:42). The commander Julius had other ideas. He wanted to save Paul, but he couldn’t save Paul without saving the others. He had to let them all live. So be it.

Julius gave orders. If the men could swim, they could jump overboard. If they couldn’t, they’d jump anyway and grab one of the planks of wood from the busted up hull. They all made it to shore.

It’s been a long week. What I had chalked up to a little stress and lack of sleep turned out to be an infection that I let go too long before getting help. Even as I write, I’m drooping and looking forward to bedtime.

But, dinner is soon and prayer at the table. Jesus encourages. And as I picture a bunch of prisoners, maybe sailors and soldiers too, clinging to pieces of wood as the storm pushed them closer to the beach, I’m assured. I’ll make it to the shore. The infection will pass. 

Everything–even me, even you–will be all right.