Mightier Than the Waves

This morning, I walked onto my favorite stretch of sand with tea in hand and gratitude in my heart. The air felt thick — the kind of stillness that warns you something is coming.

And it did.

Within minutes, the sky shifted from soft blue to iron gray. The wind picked up. The ocean, which had been gently rolling in as if it were humming a lullaby, turned restless.

Then angry.

Waves rose like they had something to prove. They crashed hard and loud, flinging foam into the air. The shoreline disappeared under their force. It felt dramatic. Sudden. Unsettling.

I stood there thinking, That escalated quickly.

Storms do that, don’t they?

One minute everything feels manageable. The next minute your phone rings. Or the diagnosis comes. Or the relationship shifts. Or the plan you carefully mapped out dissolves like watercolor in too much water.

I have so many I love in life's storms right now. A loved one who desperately needs a liver transplant, a friend beginning the journey of divorce, adult kids who are struggling to find peace in their lives. It's a lot.

The ocean this morning was a painting of that truth — dark, layered blues, heavy strokes, white splatter flying like uncertainty itself.

But here’s what I love about the sea.

It does not stay angry forever.

Two hours later, the clouds began to thin. The light pushed through in soft beams at first, then boldly. Birds returned. The water, still moving, softened its rhythm. The same ocean that had roared now rolled in with a kind of tired peace, like it had released whatever it needed to release.

The shoreline reappeared.

The sun shimmered across the surface as if nothing had happened.

And maybe that’s the point.

The storm felt overwhelming in the moment — but it was temporary. The power of the waves was impressive. Intimidating even. But it was not ultimate.

There is something mightier.

“Mightier than the waves of the sea is His love for you and me.”

When I painted this wave, I leaned into the deep indigos and stormy teals. I let the brush sweep long and bold, almost reckless. I splattered white to capture the force and movement. But if you look closely, even in the darkest parts, there are lighter layers beneath.

The storm never had the final word in the painting.

And it doesn’t have the final word in your life either.

His love is not fragile.
It is not seasonal.
It does not retreat when the skies darken.

It is steady beneath the surface — deeper than the undertow, stronger than the crash, calmer than the aftermath.

Storms will roll in quickly. They always do.
But calm returns. Light breaks through. The birds come back.

And the ocean — just like your heart — finds its rhythm again.

If you are in a storm right now, let this painting remind you:

The waves may be loud.
They may feel overwhelming.
They may rise higher than you expected.

But they are not mightier.

Love is.

And it is holding you, even now.