Please Sit Down: Lessons from a Ferry to Zanzibar

For several years, my job required me to take regular trips from mainland Tanzania to the island of Zanzibar. I know what you’re thinking: Must be nice. But this wasn’t the white-sandy-beach Zanzibar that you’re thinking of. It was the “catch the cheapest ferry, stay in an old hostel, sort through thousands of pounds of material in a dark, sweaty attic while wearing a head covering” Zanzibar.

Somehow the salty air and busy streets of Stonetown, Zanzibar always carried a hint of redemption. The ferry, however, was another story. I hated the ferry. There was no system or structure for boarding, just hundreds of passengers rushing onto a narrow bridge leading to the boat. I can’t count the number of times I was trampled or nearly knocked into the water. Just thinking about those moments still triggers my fight-or-flight response. Mostly fight flight.

Last month, our family decided to take that same ferry for three days in the white-sandy-beach version of Zanzibar. Okay. Pause. Go ahead. Take your time. Ask your question. Okay…yes, it was nice. It had been years since I’d been back to the island. My kids were dreaming about the beach. I however, was mentally watching them plunge into the sea, shoved off the bridge like dominoes by the crowd.

The first thing I noticed when we arrived in the boarding area, was that the seating sections were clearly marked. Then something beautiful happened. A ferry agent, an older Zanzibari man, walked through the waiting crowd, making sure no one stood until their section was called. He called out orders, kept everyone in place, and maintained complete control of the crowd to prevent the stampede that had once tortured passengers. It was beautiful. Everyone waited their turn. No one pushed. No one rushed. They simply waited for him to direct their section.

I wanted to hand this old man a long awkward hug medal of honor. I loved him that day. I still love him. I’m still thinking about him. But this story doesn’t end with me inheriting a new Zanzibari grandpa to tuck me in at night. You don’t always get what you want.

While waiting to board, I noticed two British women stand and begin walking toward the boat. My beloved grandpa The ferry agent quickly stepped in front of them and called for them to sit back down. They kept walking, pretending not to hear him. They were visibly irritated that he was interrupting their plan to move ahead.  

He moved closer. So did they.

Before long, they were locked in what looked like a preparation for hand-to-hand combat. My money was on my grandpa. The slender woman in front raised her voice and her hands, insisting she would not sit down. She was enraged by the thought that this man would tell her what to do. They argued back and forth, but because she didn’t speak Kiswahili, she couldn’t understand what he was saying. She just kept repeating, “Stop disrespecting me. You don’t have to yell at me. I don’t want to sit down.”

I sat there, hoping no one noticed our glaring physical resemblance, while slowly collapsing into an emotional puddle of second-hand-embarassment. Eventually she pushed her way onto the boat, and the rest of us followed through the beautifully ordered system created by our beautiful Zanzibari hero, my grandpa (okay, that was the final one. I promise.).

I couldn’t stop thinking about that moment. 

The very thing our belligerent co-passenger was angry about was the very thing that was keeping her safe. I wondered how she would have fared several years earlier when boarding was a complete free-for-all. I imagined her being pushed into the water, flailing, struggling for… I thought about how her inexperience and inability to understand the language kept her from realizing she was actually being protected.

The “no” she hated was the safety she didn’t know she was receiving.

The more I thought about her, the less I judged. The more I replayed the scene, the more I realized how much I was kind of looking at a reflection of myself…and not just because we shared the same skin color. This past year has felt like one long boarding announcement. Please wait. It’s time to leave another home. Another country. Please wait. Still no resident visas. Please wait. Your family is now spread across three continents. Please wait. Learn another language. Build another community. Make mistakes. Feel awkward. Start over. Again.

Like her, I don’t understand the bigger picture. His bigger picture.

So I shift in my seat. I try to stand anyway. I protest. Throwing quieter, more covert tantrums. I raise my voice and metaphorically shake my fist at a God whose plans are much bigger than preventing ferry stampedes.

But He has a better view than my little section of the waiting area. His view is eternal.

Maybe the commands that feel most restrictive from where I’m sitting are the very means of His mercy that I have been missing. The God who “declares the end from the beginning” (Isaiah 46:10) sees both the journey behind me and the one ahead. Nothing surprises Him. Nothing falls outside His sovereign hand.

Every “Not yet,” every closed door, every interruption to my carefully laid plans is not arbitrary. They are the ordinary means by which a sovereign Father is lovingly directing my steps. “The heart of man plans his way, but the Lord establishes his steps” (Proverbs 16:9). If He withholds something, it is not because He delights in deprivation, but because in His perfect wisdom He gives…and withholds…according to His good purposes.

I’ve thought about my beloved Zanzibari grandpa (oops, okay, this was the last time) more than he probably knows. Not because he told people to sit down, though we already know how much I love him for that. Because he could see what most of the passengers couldn’t. He knew what they didn’t know. He planned for what they never thought to plan. He protected them from what they didn’t even know they needed protecting from. 

And that is what God kept putting before me as I sat on that ferry. Not whether I understand His instructions, because clearly I’m much more like the confused and impatient British tourist than I want to admit.

But whether I trust the One telling me to “Wait.” “Not yet.” “Sit down for now.”

The One who sees the entire destination while I’m still frustrated with the boarding area.

“This God. His way is perfect.” (Psalm 18:30)