Kissing the Waves that Shatter Us

Rachel Culver

I was shocked when my illness started. I didn’t know how to respond. I vacillated between resentment and anger, bitterness and hopelessness, sorrow and despair.

I tried desperately to trust that the Lord was doing good in my pain, but all my eyes could see was loss. And that sense of constant loss led to fear. “What will he take away next?” I thought.

What I thought I understood about the Lord began to crumble before my eyes: his providence, his compassion, and his tender care felt distant. If the Lord said he is my good shepherd, then why are my dreams crumbling? If the Lord says he withholds no good thing, why is he taking my health away? If the Lord is wise, why is he making me look like a fool? These questions rattled around in my head for weeks as I wrestled with the Lord’s purposes.

My memory began to falter, and I feared that I would forget the goodness of God. My questions led me to journal and to read for hours as the pain and weariness in my mind and body impacted every aspect of living. I wanted to remember and believe that my Savior was with me in the darkness, even though I could barely see.

One afternoon, I found myself sitting in my pastor’s office. He welcomed me in and pointed to the couch across from his desk. I sat down and set my bag in the corner. We made some small talk. But I desperately wanted to have answers to my soul’s deepest questions. I was in spiritual and physical pain, and I needed help.

I would have loved to discuss books and other theological topics, but that day I needed direction. I asked a series of questions that aren’t usually spoken aloud:

Can I qualify my circumstances as suffering? Why is the Lord allowing me to feel a flurry of physical symptoms with no medical answers? How am I supposed to worship the Lord when I can barely read a sentence? Why has depression settled in? What is the purpose of my illness? What if there is no hope of healing? What do I do then? How do I live?

I shared about my physical health and how my life felt like it was turned upside down. My spiritual health was suffering, too. Brain fog and pain were unwanted companions, making it hard to read and pray. Headaches, migraines, and fatigue interrupted everyday life, leaving me bedridden most evenings and weekends.

I told him how grief had become a constant companion, how I cried often, wondering why the Lord opened several doors and then placed me in the fire of affliction. I was in storm-tossed seas, and I didn’t even know it.

My pastor listened attentively to my lament—I felt like a fragile boat tossed around by raging seas.

Spurgeon’s Stormy Seas

My pastor looked at me and repeated a phrase from Charles Spurgeon, “I’ve learned to kiss the waves that throw me against the rock of ages.” But I didn’t react the way he probably imagined I would, at least not at first.

The image of stormy seas, a jagged rock face, and dark skies filled my mind. I felt resistance in my heart. The phrase was distressing, not comforting.

I imagined a fragile wooden boat splintering into a million shards and wood fragments floating off into the dark abyss; it was an image of disaster, not hope. And there was no one to save me.

This quote, which has comforted many, left me feeling hopeless and distressed. Why would my Lord, who claims to love me and tenderly guide me, send waves with power to destroy?

After a brief pause, I remember saying out loud, “But when I am thrown into the rock of ages, I will be shattered.” Another pause. My pastor looked at me with a quizzical, yet calm gaze. I don’t think he had ever considered that thought. I think he was as shocked as I was.

He grabbed his bible from his desk, turned to the Psalms of Ascent, and in a slow cadence, he began to read Psalm 121:

“He will not let your foot be moved; he who keeps you will not slumber. Behold, he who keeps Israel will neither slumber nor sleep. The Lord is your keeper; the Lord is your shade on your right hand.”

I imagined the Lord wrapping his arms around me, holding me safely, and carrying me through the storm. The stormy image didn’t leave my mind, but I pictured my gentle Savior for a moment.

My pastor then asked me to read Psalm 124 aloud:

“If it had not been the LORD who was on our side—let Israel now say—if it had not been the LORD who was on our side when people rose up against us, then they would have swallowed us…then the flood would have swept us away, the torrent would have gone over us; then over us would have gone the raging waters.”

That’s it. I felt like a fragile boat, overwhelmed by raging flood waters. But the Psalms of Ascent told a different story. Although I felt restless and adrift at sea, the Lord would not let me go. He promised that the waves would not consume me.

After leaving my pastor’s office, there was a calm that washed over me. I was able to voice my doubt and confusion courageously, and he didn’t condemn me. He allowed me to wrestle with hard truths, ones that I am still grappling with today. And he comforted me with the truths that my Savior is near; I will be rescued.

It wasn’t until a year later that I slowly realized the truth hidden within my fears of being splintered. The waves did shatter me, more than I ever thought possible, but the pieces didn’t fall to the depths of the dark abyss or drift off at sea. The pieces of my frailty were picked up in the hands of my tender shepherd, and one by one, he has been remaking me.

I still feel like a tattered boat, but he didn’t allow the stormy seas to overwhelm me. He chose the waves as an instrument—and he picked me up out of the storm-tossed seas.

While he allows the storms and stirs the raging seas, he is also the one who leads us gently by still waters (Isaiah 40:10-11; 51:15; 63:14). Even when all hope seems lost, the Lord is with us, and he will not let the waves overwhelm us. He calms the raging storm within us and around us—he restores our souls (Psalm 23:3).

The story we can tell

This is the story I can tell: the one where the Lord rescued me in the depths of a dark, stormy ocean. Although I was storm-tossed, afflicted, and not comforted, the Lord rescued me and began building my foundations for heaven (Isaiah 54:11). His compassion and gentleness stooped down into my pain. He entered my darkness and didn’t leave me. Instead, he chose to pick me up and walk with me. When I felt like I was drowning, he picked me up so that I could walk on water. And when I felt like I was drowning again, he stooped down again and again.

At the moment, I didn’t realize the power of the statement I courageously shared with my pastor. But the Lord did. He has cared for me every step of the way, and he hasn’t let me go, even when I was shattered into a million little pieces.

He picked up the pieces, and he is rebuilding me according to his timeline. I am a vessel for his glory—a beautiful masterpiece at his bidding (Isaiah 48:9-11; Isaiah 54:11-13; 2 Corinthians 4:1-7). As my life (and yours) unfolds, the Lord is gently leading me along a path that includes twists and turns, new roads, and suffering. Although pain and illness persist, the Lord is forming us for endurance of faith and patience of hope. He is forming a heart of quietness and trust—a heart that depends on our maker rather than on self-sufficiency (Isaiah 30:15-18).

I can say that my Lord is good, gracious, and compassionate because he has stooped down to me in my darkness. He has shown me his steadfast love. It’s not that he has physically healed me, but he has spiritually restored me. More dark nights will come—and when they do, I know my Savior will meet me again.

My hope is not in healing but in my Savior who transforms and redeems my suffering. So whether I return to my old capacity and energy, whether I have pain-free days and good sleep, or whether I ever have to keep taking medication and supplements, I have been comforted by the gentleness of my savior.

So, even though the perplexing nature of our trials has shattered us, the Lord will not leave us in pieces. Through suffering, we are brought to the end of ourselves so that we may grow in our knowledge of God, understand ourselves rightly, and behold our God as our all-sufficient merit and satisfaction. As he transforms us and redeems our suffering, we can see the gentleness and compassion of our Lord in a new light, even in the comprehensiveness of our pain and illness.

That’s the story I can tell–and that’s the story you can tell, too.

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Rachel Culver, a graduate of The Master's University, currently works for Pacific Legal Foundation as a writer. She resides in Clovis, California, with her family. She also writes at her Substack, A Pleasant Vineyard, where she discusses theology, counseling, and the Christian life. When she's not reading and writing, she enjoys spending time outside, drinking tea, and having thoughtful conversations with friends and family.