Jesus Will Meet You There

There comes a time in every life when the weight of living feels unbearable. It is the moment when you think you have finally reached the bottom, only to discover that the bottom can still give way. You find yourself slipping deeper than you thought possible, into a darkness words cannot capture, into a silence that drowns out every familiar sound of comfort. In those moments, your heart whispers the question you can’t quite voice aloud: How will I make it out alive?

And then—sometimes quietly, sometimes with a rush like the breaking of a dawn—you remember the promise: Jesus will meet you there.

Life has carried me through enough valleys to know that the presence of Christ is not confined to sanctuaries, or to sunny days when everything is well. No, it is in the nights of anguish, the hospital rooms filled with sterile light, the days when exhaustion overtakes even the will to pray, that His nearness becomes undeniable. He does not wait for us to climb our way out of the pit; He comes to us in it. And that is what sustains me, even now, in the season of my life where pain and uncertainty seem relentless.

When my husband’s seizures came like storms, unbidden and terrifying, when depression wrapped its claws around him and the man I love seemed lost in shadows he could not escape—my bottom gave way. I had thought we had already endured enough, and yet there came another wave, another diagnosis, another reason to feel helpless. I held him in those moments, not knowing whether to cry, to pray, or to simply breathe, and I realized: this is where Jesus meets us. Not on the mountaintop, not in the celebration of easy victories, but in the fragile, desperate surrender when we can no longer pretend to be strong.

There is something holy about reaching the end of yourself. It is terrifying, yes, but it is also where the veil between heaven and earth feels the thinnest. Because it is here that you stop striving, stop performing, stop carrying burdens that were never yours to bear. It is here that you can only whisper, Lord, I don’t know how to go on, and feel the quiet assurance that you do not go on alone.

The words echo in my soul: When the doctor says, “I’m sorry, we don’t know what else to do.” How many times have I lived those words, sitting across from medical professionals who cannot give us certainty, who cannot fix what is broken? And yet, I have seen something more powerful in those moments. I have seen Jesus sit with us in the not-knowing. I have seen Him place strength in my husband’s eyes when all strength should have been gone. I have felt Him carry me when my own knees buckled.

It is a strange mercy, isn’t it, that Jesus is not afraid of our suffering? That He does not shrink back from the messy, unexplainable pain of life in these frail bodies? He is not a God who stands at a distance, demanding that we find our way up to Him. He is the God who came down, who walked dusty roads, who wept at gravesides, who felt betrayal, who endured agony that we cannot begin to imagine. He knows the way to wherever you are. That line has become my anchor. He knows, because He has already been there.

When I sit with my husband in the aftermath of a seizure, when his body trembles with exhaustion and his eyes carry the weight of battles unseen, I think of that truth: Jesus knows. He knows what it is to feel pressed beyond endurance. He knows what it is to cry out from the depths. He knows what it is to face tomorrow with wounds still bleeding. And because He knows, He can meet us there with more than sympathy—He meets us with power, with peace that passes all understanding, with grace sufficient for the very moment we are in.

And it is not only about survival. It is about the small, quiet miracles that happen along the way. It is about how love deepens in the valleys, how faith grows roots in the wilderness, how hope flickers but does not die. It is about the way my husband and I have learned to hold on tighter to each other, and to God, even as everything else feels uncertain. It is about the way laughter still comes, surprising and healing, even on the hardest days. These are not accidents; they are the fingerprints of Jesus, reminding us that He is not only present—He is actively redeeming even the darkest chapters of our story.

Sometimes I wonder how our family will make it through. I look at the road ahead and it feels long and unmarked, with too many bends I cannot see around. But then I remember: Whatever road this life takes you down, Jesus will meet you there. Not just once, not just at the end, but at every step. He is faithful in the hospital, faithful in the sleepless night, faithful in the tears and faithful in the small victories.

There is freedom in letting go of the illusion that I have to map the way forward. Because Jesus does not just know the way—He is the Way. He is the Shepherd who walks ahead of us, who prepares a table in the presence of our enemies, who carries the lost sheep back upon His shoulders. He is not surprised by the twists in our path. He is not undone by the diagnoses, the setbacks, the questions. He has already gone before us.

So today, as I write these words with the weight of our circumstances still very real, I choose to believe what I cannot yet see. I choose to believe that even here—in the place where my heart aches, in the days when I feel emptied out—Jesus is here. And because He is here, there is still hope. There is still purpose. There is still a future that will one day make sense of all this pain.

If you find yourself where I am, wondering how you will endure the darkness, let me remind you: you are not alone. When you think you’ve hit the bottom, and the bottom gives way, you will discover what I am discovering—Jesus will meet you there.

He will meet you in the doctor’s words, in the tears of your family, in the silence of a midnight prayer. He will meet you in the questions you cannot answer and the burdens you cannot carry. He will meet you in the brokenness of your heart and the surrender of your spirit. And when He meets you, you will find that the place you thought would be your end becomes instead the place where His grace begins.

Because He knows the way.
Because He is already there.
Because His love will not let you go.

And that, my friend, is enough.