A few months ago I stood upon the rocky shores of Malta and gazed out to sea. I pondered what it must have been like nearly 2,000 years ago as the Apostle Paul leapt from a battered, broken ship and made his way ashore. There are a number of spots on Malta that claim the historic pedigree as the place he landed. The most widely accepted candidate is the aptly named Saint Paul’s Bay. It has shoals and reefs capable of causing a ship to run aground and beaches capable of receiving shipwrecked passengers. If it is not that specific location it is certainly one nearby.
I have never been aboard a ship that was so blown and tossed by the wind that the crew had lost all control of her. I have never been aboard a ship that was in such a precarious situation that all hope had been abandoned and all thoughts of rescue set aside. I have never been in a situation in which I could only count down the hours and minutes to my demise. But if I ever am, I hope I will react like Paul did.
While the expert sailors frantically
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