Save me, O God!

For the waters have come up to my neck.

I sink in deep mire,

where there is no foothold;

I have come into deep waters

And the flood sweeps over me.

I am weary with my crying out;

my throat is parched.

My eyes grow dim

with waiting for my God.

Psalm 69: 1-3, ESV

I didn’t have the strength in the valley to open my Bible some days—or to pray. Each prayer felt like living out my anxiety by putting it into words. What prayers I did manage were often more of, “God, you know. I can’t say. You know.”

And He did.

He didn’t disqualify me from heaven because I couldn’t find the words. He didn’t take points off because I couldn’t open my Bible on some days.

I felt like He might—the fear of being so heartbroken that I couldn’t open the Word was made worse by the fear that I might fall from God because I just couldn’t.

But He never did.

We’re supposed to cling to Jesus, but the truth is, if He wasn’t clinging to us, we could never hold on.

I know He held me when I just couldn’t move, or breathe, or understand.

Occasionally, I would find the energy to open my Bible, and it was always to the Psalms. The laments were my place of peace.

I felt the waters up to my neck.

I felt the mud pulling me deeper down.

I heard the crash of the deep waters as they swept over me.

My eyes grew dim waiting for God.

“Let not the flood sweep over me, or the deep pit swallow me up, or the pit close its mouth over me.” (Psalm 69:14-15).

The waters receded, and the mud let go. My eyes became clear.

It wasn’t that everything was fine again—in fact, the days after were stumbling to find my footing after losing the things I loved.

“I am the talk of those who sit in the gate.” (Psalm 69:12)

Life after the wilderness wasn’t freedom and restoration, but the slow shining of light on the God who never let me go.

The God who sang over me when I didn’t have the words.

The Jesus who interceded for me.

The One who clung to me with a love and fervor that surpasses human understanding.

I can still feel the suction of the mud. Sometimes my eyes grow cloudy. I hear the sound of the waters, and I’m transported back.

But the ground under me is stronger, built by the pain of trusting when it doesn’t make sense.

Held together by the God who never lets go.