“But when he saw the wind, he was afraid and beginning to sink he cried out, ‘Lord, save me.’”

Matthew 14:29-30, ESV

Hard seasons are loud in the worst way.

The wave after wave of difficulty.

The intercom, beeping, voices, and codes of the hospital.

The door closing on job after job, the “not right nows” and “not the right fits.”

The way the fridge door rattles when there is not enough on its shelves.

One thing I remember very clearly from my wilderness season is how even in the quiet, the worry woke me from my sleep with its relentless rehearsals, how the attacks split open every moment of peace, and how the day-to-day needs screamed at me.

God seemed quiet, but my world was loud.

I saw it then, but felt helpless to see what I know confidently now: the enemy uses the loud to distract, to pull focus.  

When I would sit and try to pray, I would hear the clanging drum of worry pounding. When I would try desperately to seek God, there would be a brutal attack that left me spinning.

My eyes weren’t staying fixed on Jesus, but on the wind and the claps of thunder, and I was sinking.

In His infinite mercy, the Lord pulled me up and held on to me while I trod water.

Today, and especially today, I am hearing those little attacks… but I’m learning to sit with the noise. To acknowledge it, square my shoulders, and fix my eyes.

It’s slow work.

Sometimes it doesn’t work.

Each little moment of calling the noise what it is, though, makes the sharpness dull just a little—just enough.

But, above all, I know that if the noise catches me and I lose my footing in the storm —

it was never me doing the holding, anyway.