In the Eye of the Storm

There are moments in life when the ground you’ve been standing on suddenly gives way—when everything familiar shifts beneath your feet, and you find yourself grasping for something, anything, to hold onto. I’ve known that feeling too well these past months. Watching Tim’s health crumble, feeling powerless to stop it, juggling fear and faith in the same breath—it’s like standing in the middle of a hurricane, praying the anchor holds.

“When the solid ground is falling out from underneath my feet, between the black skies and my red eyes, I can barely see.” That line feels like it was written from inside our home some days. There are mornings when I wake up already tired, already bracing for what the day might bring. Will today be calm? Will he be okay? Or will the seizures come again, unannounced and unrelenting, like waves against the shore?

In those moments, I’ve learned something both humbling and holy: the storm doesn’t scare God. He doesn’t flinch when the winds rise or the sky turns black. He doesn’t leave when everything else falls apart. In fact, it’s in those moments—the ones that feel unbearable—where I’ve felt His presence most.

Because when the storm is raging, and I can’t hear anything but the roar of fear and grief, He whispers through the wind: “I’m still here.”

“When I realize I’ve been sold out by my friends and my family, I can feel the rain reminding me.” There’s a loneliness that comes with struggle, a kind that most people don’t talk about. When the crisis first begins, there’s concern, support, help. But as time goes on—when the diagnosis doesn’t resolve, when the hard days stretch into years—people drift back to their lives. They mean well, but they forget. And suddenly, your storm feels invisible to everyone but you.

But not to God. Never to Him.

Because when everyone else fades away, His presence becomes more tangible than ever. The rain that should soak me instead starts to feel like grace. The chaos that should break me becomes the space where He reminds me that I am not abandoned.

“In the eye of the storm, You remain in control.” Those words hold me together when nothing else does. Because I’ve learned that even when life looks out of control, He never is. The same God who spoke peace over the sea still speaks it over me. He’s not pacing the heavens wondering how to fix my situation; He’s already holding every broken piece in His hands.

I think of the disciples in their storm—waves crashing, hearts racing, thinking they were about to die—and Jesus, asleep in the boat. They mistook His calm for indifference, when in truth it was confidence. He wasn’t worried because He knew the storm couldn’t win. And maybe that’s what He’s been trying to teach me, too—that I don’t have to fear what He’s already conquered.

“In the middle of the war, You guard my soul. You alone are the anchor when my sails are torn.” I’ve felt those torn sails. I’ve seen the plans I made shredded by the winds of reality. There’s a unique kind of heartbreak in realizing that your life doesn’t look the way you hoped it would. Watching someone you love suffer, fighting battles you can’t see or stop, can strip away your sense of safety and certainty.

But the beautiful thing about anchors is this—they don’t stop the storm, but they keep you from drifting away in it. And that’s what His love has done for me.

It’s held me steady in nights when I’ve cried out, “Why us?” It’s held me when I’ve watched Tim seize on the floor and felt helpless to do anything but pray. It’s held me when fear whispered that our future was too uncertain, that we’d never find stability again. Through every wave, His love has wrapped around us like an unbreakable tether.

Because even when my faith feels fragile, His hold on me isn’t.

There’s something about the phrase “the eye of the storm” that feels so powerful. The eye, right in the center of chaos, is actually the calmest place of all. The winds circle around it, the clouds rage above it, but right there—in the middle of everything—there’s stillness. Peace. That’s what life with Jesus feels like sometimes. The storm doesn’t stop, but somehow, right in the middle of it, He creates space to breathe again.

“When my hopes and dreams are far from me, and I’m runnin’ out of faith, I see the future I pictured slowly fade away.” Those words ache. Because I know what it feels like to watch your plans unravel—to realize the picture of your life you painted so carefully no longer exists. The future I once imagined for Tim and me looks different now. It’s quieter, smaller, more fragile. But it’s also more real. More sacred. Because when life strips away what you thought you needed, it leaves room for what you truly do.

I’ve learned to stop trying to resurrect the life we had before his diagnosis, and instead to embrace the life we still have now. There’s beauty in the small moments—the calm after a seizure, the laughter between tears, the way his eyes still light up when we talk about old memories. The world may see our situation as loss, but I see love that has deepened through suffering, faith that has become unshakable through pain.

“And when the tears of pain and heartache are pouring down my face, I find my peace in Jesus’ name.” There have been so many of those tears. Tears cried in silence because words couldn’t capture the ache. Tears shed in prayer, begging for healing, for rest, for relief. But I’ve come to see that tears aren’t weakness—they’re worship. They’re the language of surrender. Every tear that falls is a testimony that I’m still choosing faith even when it hurts.

And in those moments, when the tears come and my strength runs out, peace does too. Not because the circumstances change, but because He shows up in the middle of them. I don’t always understand His timing or His ways, but I know His heart. And that’s enough.

Because in the storm, He doesn’t just calm the wind—sometimes, He calms me.

So when the world feels unsteady again, when my heart starts to tremble under the weight of it all, I go back to that truth: In the eye of the storm, You remain in control.

The diagnosis doesn’t define us—His presence does. The fear doesn’t dictate our future—His promise does. The storm may rage, but we are anchored to the One who never moves.

And when the day finally comes when the storm quiets for good—when this life of struggle gives way to peace—I know what we’ll find. We’ll find Him there, waiting on the shore, hands outstretched, saying, “You made it. I’ve been here all along.”

Until then, we keep sailing. We keep believing. We keep trusting that even when we can’t see past the waves, there’s calm waiting in the center, and we are held by the One who commands the sea.

Because the storm is never the end of the story.
The calm is coming.
And His love will always surround us—right there, in the eye of the storm.