Angi Aymond

Seven years ago yesterday, my family walked away from our home, water rising. We waded with the water at our knees to get to our truck, two of us carrying a suitcase each, while the other carried our pup, Rocco.

Leaving the neighborhood, a dad asked if we could please take his son with us because he had room for only one of his sons. The boy climbed into our truck and sat in the lap of a stranger until we could get him to the home of his grandparents not far away.

We then drove toward the middle of town where we would drop off our oldest daughter at the home of her sister, our middle.

“Now what?” we said to each other, feeling the weight of absolute helplessness.

Hotels were full. We didn’t want to head out of town for fear we couldn’t get back soon enough. We reluctantly called a friend who lived on the other side of town.

“You can come here.” The sweetest sound. Hope.

But could we even get there? Water was everywhere. Roads were closed. Signs were up.

I’m a rule follower. My husband isn’t bound by the same. Pushing the truck through high water, ignoring signs that clearly told us to stop, my husband got us to safety. (Little did we know – nor the friends who invited us – that we’d stay at their home for three and a half months.)

Just a few days after we had left our home, it was cleaned out; gutted. In just 72 hours, everything we owned was either packed up in boxes or piled up on the street in front of our house.

My kitchen was packed into boxes by a woman I had never met.

Wet clothing was washed, dried and carefully folded by people I didn’t know.

A dear friend took it upon himself to organize and plan the process of gutting and drying out our house. His brothers joined him. People from church came to serve. Other friends came to help.

It was all so overwhelming on many levels. The loss juxtaposed by the love. The love was the greater.

A few days later, we were alone at the house. You could see straight through. From the primary bath to the front yard, nothing obstructed the view but a few studs.

My ever artful-eyed daughter snapped the photo below.

“All because two people fell in love.”

Photos had previously hung just below that vinyl phrase. The story of us.

It was true, I suppose. I had personally rubbed it up there because I believed it to be so.

That little phrase seemed to be all that remained of what we had built with love.

Funny enough, my grandmother’s pastor, Brother Jack, asked us just a few weeks before we married, “Whatch’all gonna live on? Love?”

I suppose we had. For thirty-one years. And now, we’d see if that love could get us through again.

But on the seventh anniversary of this life-changing event, this photo hits me differently. While our love may have started it all, God’s love had sustained it. Sustained us.

Thirty-eight years of marriage doesn’t happen because two people fall in love.

People fall in love all the time.

We’ve weathered many storms. The little storm with no name that flooded our house in 2016 wasn’t the hardest. Not even close.

This family had been held together because the two people who fell in love and made plenty of mistakes surrendered our feelings to God, trusted Him to hold us all together. Extended forgiveness. Received forgiveness. All around.

Though the two of us make His job a bit easier these days, God’s still holding us together.

But I know your story might be different. Maybe you had no choice in the matter. Maybe you did.

Friends, I’m not a fan of religious snippets. And I’m not a fan of throwing Bible verses toward your broken heart, hoping they will stick in just the right spot.

I know that the storms of life are hard. The ones we bring upon ourselves and the ones we don’t. I’ve been praying for friends who find themselves in all sorts of situations, none that resemble my own, yet break hearts deep just the same. Storms that beckon the ‘why mes’ and the ‘why nows’ that have lain dormant until now.

Here’s what I know to my core, deep in my soul. The God who created the universe loves you deeply. He sees you, and He knows what you are going through. He will wade through deep waters alongside you. He will carry you through cancer. He will hold you through addiction and its toll and toil. He will be your peace when trust has been lost.

Through infertility. Infidelity. Death. When you think you might drown in sorrow. When you would rather drown. He is the anchor that holds. The arms that hold you.

Yes. Sometimes, it helps when Jesus-with-skin shows up. I pray God sends those friends to you to surround you. To feed you. To sit with you. To make you laugh when your circumstances don’t declare it. To speak God’s truth to you.

In the middle of our storms, we feel like we might drown. And when we’re drowning, we too often fight the one rescuing us.

It’s best to simply surrender. Your dreams. Your hopes. Your plans. Your fears. To the One who will hold all things together, for your good and His glory. If you can trust Him enough to let go. He is your greatest Hope.