Closer Than the Storm
It started in green pastures—
the kind you imagine when you think God is taking good care of you.
But suddenly things changed.
And I came upon the waters.
They were deep. Dark. Unsteady.
Not safe. Not predictable. Not easy.
Crossing them would hurt.
I saw on the bank in the distance
A bridge—steady, straight, untouched by the chaos below.
I wanted that bridge.
But He wasn’t on it.
He was in the water.
The bridge looked like the life I wanted.
A negative biopsy.
No heavy diagnosis.
Or some kind of shortcut.
No chemo. No radiation. No spread.
Safer. Predictable. Easier.
But standing there, just beyond the shore, hands outstretched, He spoke,
“Come.”
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?
Why wouldn’t he let me?
But the crossroad became painfully clear:
Be safe without Him…
or uncertain with Him.
I stepped into the rising waters He had chosen for me.
The cold hit first—sharp, immediate. Doubt followed close behind.
Is this right? How could He want this for me?
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.
I didn’t know yet if His presence would be enough.
But the next day, I started chemotherapy.
And somehow it was enough.
The bridge would have been easier.
I still believe that.
A different scan. A different result. A simpler story.
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.
A longed for shortcut from the hard.
I still wish for it.
But I know this now:
I would rather be in deep water with Him
than safe on the bridge without Him.
The storm didn’t disappear.
The uncertainty didn’t resolve.
But I was not alone.
And neither are you.
“He reached down from on high and took hold of me;
he drew me out of deep waters.” Psalms 18:16
Questions for the Water
· What part of your story are you still trying to escape?
· What “shortcut” are you grieving most right now—and what might honest lament look like there?
· What are you clinging to because it feels safer than surrender?
· What would change if you stopped asking, “How do I get out of this?” and started asking, “Where is He in this?”
· Where have you already seen evidence that you were carried, not just coping?
· If the bridge meant avoiding pain, but also missing His presence, would you still choose it?