I feel like a storm-tossed sea. I don’t say this in anger, nor in shame. I say it with the truth that only certain nights know how to draw out of your heart. The nights when silence weighs heavy. My child—even though he’s grown now—faces the world every day with his fragile body and a strength that often feels greater than my own.
I feel like rough waters because living beside him is an immense gift, but also a fatigue I don’t always know how to bear. There are days when it feels like too much. I wish I could always be smiling, patient, strong… but sometimes I’m just tired, and even a little angry. With myself, with life, with God.
There are waves that arrive when you least expect them: a difficult medical visit, a bout of tears, a judging glance on the street. Waves that get inside you. And sometimes I ask: “Lord, where are You? Why don’t You still this storm?”
And yet… right there, in the heart of the squall, I feel that Jesus is with me. He doesn’t always calm the sea. But He calms me. He gives me a peace that doesn’t come from everything going well, but from knowing that I am not alone—and that He truly is in my boat.
I see Jesus in my son’s smile, which can light up entire days. I feel Him in the small gestures of those who lend me a hand, even just to help me up a step. I meet Him when, in the middle of a heavy day, someone listens to me without rushing.
I’ve learned that my boat does not sink. Even if water gets in, even if the wind is strong, I stay afloat. Because He is with me. Because every day He gives me the strength to begin again, to love, to give everything—even when I think I have nothing left. This is my crossing. Not easy. But real. And full of Him.
