The doctor walked in, looked over to my son, and said the words I’d been holding my breath to hear: “His scan looks good. He looks good.” And just like that, we could exhale for another year.
It sounds so simple, but that moment carried the weight of two decades. The scan itself is always emotional, scary, exhausting, and nerve-wracking. But this visit brought more than just the usual nerves. It was my son’s last appointment at the Children’s hospital. He’s twenty-one now, and we are moving into a new chapter with an adult hospital. Saying goodbye to the doctors and nurses who have walked with us through so much felt like closing a book I wasn’t ready to put back on the shelf.
When I shook the hand of the surgeon one last time, the one who, with the precision of a millimeter, saved my son’s sight, I was overcome again. If his scalpel had slipped just slightly left or right, my son would never have driven a car, never have seen the world as he does now. Yet here we are, blessed with the miracle of sight, and with a boy who has grown into a man navigating the city with independence and freedom.
But the room was also complicated. My ex-husband was there. That added its own quiet storm. Sitting together felt like slipping into an old photograph, familiar but faded, not whole anymore. It was awkward, polite, strangely hollow. There was no sign from him of nostalgia for the past, no flicker of hope for change. Just formality, while I found myself caught in the tug of memory and what-ifs. It’s the kind of space where there’s no winning. Had he been unkind, it would have hurt; had he been too kind, it would have hurt in a different way.
By the end, all three of us—my daughter, my son, and I—were wrung out. We told my ex-husband goodbye, drove home and collapsed into my tiny apartment, carrying the fatigue of too many emotions layered on top of one another.
Yet in the quiet after the storm, there was gratitude. Gratitude that rose above the awkwardness, above the fear, above the exhaustion. Gratitude for a Savior who carried us through yet another year of good results. Gratitude that my son’s life is still unfolding in front of me.
I can live without a lot of things in this world. But not him. Losing him would undo me. So tonight, my prayer is simple: Thank You, Lord. Thank You so much for one more year.
Looking forward to this week feels lighter. We walked out of the hospital with good news, and now we get to turn our eyes toward what’s ahead. For months, we’ve been meticulously planning an international trip, something I’ll share more details about in an upcoming post. We’ve watched countless YouTube videos, ordered translation earphones, and started packing. Sometimes, the dreaming and the planning is almost as fun as the trip itself. The anticipation builds its own kind of joy, a reminder that hope is alive and waiting.
And now, the day is coming. I am so, so thankful that we can step onto this journey without carrying the crushing weight of a bad diagnosis. Instead, we carry gratitude, expectation, and excitement.
I’m looking forward to time with my kids, just us, away from the noise of everyday life. I’m looking forward to time away from work, to the chance to breathe in a new rhythm. To be somewhere different. To explore something new. To meet people whose stories are different from ours. To learn a new culture. To immerse myself in a world that isn’t mine but will leave its mark on me.
Travel has a way of keeping us alive. It shakes us out of our routines, stretches our minds, and reminds us how big and yet how small this world really is.
We’ve made it through another year. The storms of this week have calmed. And now, we get to live.
Be Still
The disciples knew storms, too, and perhaps all too well. The Bible tells of a particular story in Mark where the disciples learned the true power of their Savior. Theirs was not just a storm of emotion, it was a storm of wind and water, sudden and fierce.
Earlier that day, Jesus had been teaching crowds along the shore of the Sea of Galilee. The press of people was so great that He had climbed into a boat and taught from there, His voice carrying over the waves. As evening fell, He turned to His disciples and said simply: “Let us go over to the other side.” They didn’t know what awaited them, but they obeyed. They pushed away from the shore, leaving the crowd behind, trusting His word that they were going across.
At first, the night was calm. The sea stretched wide and dark under the moonlight, the gentle rocking of the boat almost lulling. Some of the disciples, seasoned fishermen, handled the sails with practiced ease. Others leaned back, tired from the long day.
Then it came. The wind rose without warning. Gusts whipped across the water, churning up waves that crashed against the wooden frame. The boat lurched violently. Rain pelted down in sheets. The once-placid sea became a monster, roaring and tossing them like a toy. Water rushed in over the sides, cold and heavy, pooling at their feet.
Fear surged through them. These were men who had spent their lives on this lake, men who had weathered storms before, but this one was different. This one was deadly. The sea was winning.
And through it all, in the stern of the boat, was Jesus. Asleep. His head on a cushion. His body at rest. The thunder cracked, the waves slammed, and still He slept.
It wasn’t that He didn’t care. It was that He already knew what they did not, that the storm would not have the final say. This night was not meant to destroy them, but to reveal Him. To show His power, and to stretch their faith.
Their voices rose, panicked, desperate. “Teacher! Don’t you care if we drown?” In that cry, their weakness was revealed, but so was their faith. Sometimes, when our hearts are as restless as the troubled sea, when our passions are unruly and our fears loud, all we have left is prayer. And prayer, even when it feels weak, reaches the ear of God.
Jesus rose. And in a voice that carried authority the storm could not resist, He spoke: “Quiet! Be still!”
Immediately, the wind stopped. The waves smoothed. The sea became like glass, as though bowing in reverence to its Creator. The silence that followed was almost overwhelming, the kind of silence that presses in after chaos, when fear drains away and awe takes its place.
Then Jesus turned to His disciples. His words were gentle, yet piercing: “Why are you so afraid? Do you still have no faith?” He was showing them what we often forget, that the antidote to fear is faith. Deep, abiding faith does not cower before the storm.
But we are human, and in this world, faith and fear take their turns in us. One moment we believe, the next moment we tremble. Yet, even in our faltering, Jesus is patient. He calms storms we cannot control. He teaches us that while fear may roar, it will not win. Faith will have the final word.
The disciples sat in the hushed stillness, soaked and trembling, their eyes wide with wonder. “Who is this? Even the wind and the waves obey him!”
They had set out across the water simply because He said, “Let us go.” They had not known what would come in between. But that night on the Sea of Galilee, they discovered that if Jesus says you’re going to the other side, no storm in the middle can stop you from getting there.
The Other Side
This week felt like our own storm. The waiting, the scan, the weight of emotions, the awkwardness of being together-but-not-together as a family. All of it left us weary and worn. In the moment, it felt like the waves were winning. I prayed. I wrestled. I feared.
And yet, just like on the Sea of Galilee, Jesus was there. He was never absent. He allowed the storm so we could once again witness His power. Then, when the doctor walked in with good news, when I shook the hand of the surgeon who once saved my son’s sight, I could hear it in my spirit: “Peace, be still.”
That’s the way storms work. They reveal our weakness, but they also reveal our faith. The disciples’ faith felt small, but their prayers were strong enough to wake the One who calms the sea. And ours? Our faith may falter, but our prayers are heard.
And isn’t it true that we’re almost always in the middle of some storm? My journals are full of me begging God to help me through. I’ve written some version of those words more times than I can count: “Lord, don’t You care if I drown?” And time after time, He has answered. It’s not that He always took me out of the storm; I still had to walk through the rain, still had to feel the waves. But over and over, He calmed the seas along the way. Sometimes the storms were small, sometimes they were overwhelming. But every time, when Jesus was in my boat, I made it to the other side.
Maybe you’re there now. Maybe your storm feels endless. Hear this: if Jesus is in your boat, you will not sink. You will get through. The storm will not have the final word. Faith will. Because the One who commands the winds and the waves has promised to see you safely across.
This week, our storm gave way to peace. We exhaled, exhausted but grateful. And now, we get to live in that stillness for a little while. We get to dream, to plan, to look ahead with hope instead of fear. We get to walk forward, trusting that the same God who calms the seas will carry us wherever He leads, all the way to the other side.
Add your comment