But God

Psalm 77:16–19 NLT

“When the Red Sea saw you, O God, its waters looked and trembled! The sea quaked to its very depths. The clouds poured down rain; the thunder rumbled in the sky. Your arrows of lightning flashed. Your thunder roared from the whirlwind; the lightning lit up the world! The earth trembled and shook. Your road led through the sea, your pathway through the mighty waters—a pathway no one knew was there!”

I have often likened scenes from my widowhood to the children of Israel standing on the shore of the Red Sea with the Egyptian army in hot pursuit. While God helped me move straight through the initial grief of losing my husband and father of my five children to a rare form of blood cancer in 2019, I had no idea how the secondary losses of an unknown future, pandemic-induced loneliness, and solo parent exhaustion would leave me standing at a similar dead-end shore.    

I have never claimed the road paved with suffering and loss hasn’t been easy or pleasant. In fact, I have come to view lament as a form of worship. But I got to a point where there seemed to be a lack of viable options for true forward motion, and it was really hard to see God in any direction. The fleeing nation of Israel—God’s beloved, like me—saw no foreseeable way forward either. I can only imagine how trapped, ambushed, confused, and fearful they must have felt in those terrifying moments as the dust from the Egyptian chariots rose higher in the sky.

But God.

What we know for sure is that we can’t split the sea by ourselves. Our ways pale in comparison to God’s ways; He is not just a bigger version of us. “When the Red Sea saw you, O God, its waters looked and trembled!” The sea doesn’t tremble in our presence. In fact, it often threatens to swallow us up, drowning us whole.  

How many of us have stood on the shore, seeing no possible way to any kind of redemption of our hard stories? Calling my family’s situation impossible seemed justified for a while, especially as I applied my earthly understanding to what appeared to be truly hopeless. That narrative can become a sick torment that is carefully veiled with enough truth to make us believe it IS the truth.

But God.

In a wild, sky-splitting symphony of natural wonders, the waters unexpectedly pulled back to reveal a hidden way through. “Your road led through the sea, your pathway through the mighty waters—a pathway no one knew was there!” (Psalm 77:19)  

It takes a minute to move when you’re dumbfounded, and I often stumble around a bit before I get going, especially without my lifelong partner by my side. Hidden pathways can be scary at first, and new roads of possibility begin at such seemingly impossible start gates sometimes. But I have walked through more than one of them since being widowed, and God is helping me blaze new trails toward my future. These walks are rife with pure wonder. The surprising walls of water around me “hem me in, behind and before” (Psalm 139:5a), assuring me of His faithful presence. In front of me lies an altered version of a meaningful life that God is working with me to embrace. As I walk, I am steadied by the firm grip of my solid, unwavering Jesus; He never tires as I stumble and stride. And drowning somewhere behind us are the taunts of fear and doubt on their way to a watery demise. I am learning to never underestimate the mighty wake behind my Jesus.

But God.

It’s true that the redemption of my difficult story will never be falling in love with a new partner, finding a meaningful career outside of my home, watching my kids succeed, or entering some kind of promised land on this earth. I will certainly celebrate those things if and when they happen. But, the real redemption of my story is in knowing and believing with all of my heart that no matter how rocky the path, how high the walls of water, or how impossible the way forward may look, my God will make a way for me and my kids. He is WITH us. And He makes ways where there simply are none; I spot these hidden pathways with better vision now. I am learning to anticipate them as I baby-step my way forward, keeping my eyes wide open and trusting for what I cannot yet see. Last I checked, that’s a pretty good definition of faith.

–Written by Karen Booker Schelhaas. Used by permission from the author.