I took this photo while kayaking on Lake Niangua one afternoon. The water was quiet, the air was warm, and the sun hit these water lilies just right. For a moment, they looked like they were glowing from the inside out.
That is what stopped me.
Not just that they were pretty, though they were. But because I knew what was underneath them. The mud in that lake is deep. Thick, dark, grab-your-feet-and-try-to-keep-you kind of mud. And yet here were these soft white flowers, floating on top of all that mess like they had no idea they were supposed to be ashamed of where they came from.
I have had seasons where I did not think I would survive.
Not dramatic for the sake of being dramatic. Just honest. There have been stretches of life that felt too heavy, too lonely, too confusing, too much. Seasons where I could not see a clean way forward, and all I knew to do was keep breathing, keep praying badly, keep waking up, keep trying one more day.
And somehow, here I am.
That is not nothing.
Jeremiah 31:2–4 says:
“The people which were left of the sword found grace in the wilderness; even Israel, when I went to cause him to rest. The LORD hath appeared of old unto me, saying, Yea, I have loved thee with an everlasting love: therefore with lovingkindness have I drawn thee. Again I will build thee, and thou shalt be built…”
There is something about that phrase — found grace in the wilderness — that feels like truth you can hold in your hands.
Not grace after the wilderness.
Not grace once everything was pretty again.
Grace in it.
Grace in the hard place. Grace in the survival season. Grace when you are tired, muddy, unsure, and still trying to figure out how to keep going. And then God says, “Again I will build thee.”
Again.
I love that word.
Because it means broken is not final. Exhausted is not final. Lost is not final. The version of you that crawled through the wilderness is not the only version there will ever be.
Sometimes we think surviving means we barely made it, like it is something small or unimpressive. But survival can be holy ground. Sometimes survival is the place where God teaches you that you are stronger than you thought, not because you are tough enough on your own, but because He kept carrying you when you had nothing left to carry yourself with.
And when you come out of that season, even if you come out limping, you do not come out empty-handed.
You come out with wisdom.
You come out with compassion.
You come out with eyes that notice pain in other people faster.
You come out with the kind of strength that does not need to brag, because it knows exactly how much mud it had to rise through.
2 Corinthians 1:3–4 says:
“Blessed be God, even the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies, and the God of all comfort; Who comforteth us in all our tribulation, that we may be able to comfort them which are in any trouble…”
That is how we carry on.
God carries us through, and then one day we find ourselves beside someone else who is still in it. Someone who cannot see the top of the water yet. Someone who feels buried in the mud. Someone who thinks they will never be anything but stuck.
And we get to say, “I know. I have been there. But keep going.”
Not from a place of superiority. Not with cheap advice. Not with fake cheerfulness. But with the steady voice of someone who knows the wilderness does not get the final word.
Those water lilies did not bloom because the mud was lovely.
They bloomed because life was still working underneath.
Maybe that is the reminder.
You may feel like you cannot survive this season, but look at you. You are here. You are still breathing. Still reaching. Still being held together by a God who knows how to build again.
And when He carries you through, do not forget to turn around.
Someone else needs to know there is grace in the wilderness too.
