Closer Than the Storm
It started in green pastures—the kind you imagine when you think God is taking care of you.
But suddenly things changed.
And I came upon the waters.
I was given a choice.
Not out loud. Not in words.
But I knew exactly what it was.
Stay on the bridge… or step into the water.
The bridge looked like the life I wanted.
A negative biopsy.
Surgery and done.
No chemo. No radiation. No spread.
Safe. Predictable. Easier.
I could see it clearly—steady boards, a straight path, a way over everything that felt dark and unknown.
I wanted that bridge.
But He wasn’t on it.
He was in the water.
Standing there, just beyond the shore, hands outstretched.
“Come.”
The water didn’t look safe.
It was deep. Dark. Unsteady.
Everything in me resisted. This wasn’t the plan. This wasn’t the path I would have chosen.
The bridge was right there.
Why wouldn’t I take it?
But the choice became painfully clear:
Be safe without Him…
or uncertain with Him.
I stepped in.
The cold hit first—sharp, immediate. Doubt followed close behind.
Is this right? Did I just choose wrong?
But I reached for Him anyway.
And He took my hand.
The storm came quickly.
What started as uneasiness turned into something much bigger—wind, waves, noise, chaos.
It rose around me until it felt like it would swallow me whole.
Chemotherapy.
Radiation.
Surgery.
Appointments. Decisions. Unknowns.
Fear. What-ifs. Complications. Side effects.
The water climbed higher and higher.
Surely this is where I go under.
But I didn’t.
Not because the storm stopped.
It didn’t.
But it stopped reaching me.
It was as if something unseen surrounded me—close, steady, unshakable.
The waves still crashed, but they broke just short.
The wind still howled, but it didn’t touch my face.
The storm was real.
But so was He.
And He was closer.
I thought I was standing still—stuck, bracing, barely holding on.
But when I looked down, I realized something surprising.
We were moving.
Not quickly. Not easily.
But forward.
He was holding me up. Carrying me through.
I didn’t understand that moment fully then.
But the next day, I started chemotherapy.
The bridge would have been easier.
I still believe that.
A different scan. A different result. A simpler story.
That bridge existed.
But that’s not where He was.
He met me in the water.
In the place I didn’t want.
In the story I wouldn’t have chosen.
In the storm that didn’t let up.
He didn’t take it away.
He carried me through it.
And somewhere along the way, something shifted.
The place that once felt tight and terrifying became… spacious.
I wasn’t alone there.
I saw my husband.
My kids.
Pieces of myself—afraid, younger, hurting—now held and understood.
There was provision there.
There was presence there.
There was Him.
I still see the bridge sometimes.
I still wish for it.
But I know this now:
I would rather be in the water with Him
than on the bridge without Him.
The storm didn’t disappear.
The uncertainty didn’t resolve.
But I was not alone.
And neither are you.
Reflection
Where are you reaching for the “bridge”—the easier, safer version of your story?
What would it look like to trust Him in the water instead?
Do you believe His presence can be enough, even if the storm doesn’t stop?