2026 Sacred Whispers Blog

“When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you; when you walk through fire you shall not be burned, and the flame shall not consume you.”

Isaiah 43:2 (ESV)

There are some pains in life that you do not walk through quickly. You don’t “get over” them, you don’t “bounce back,” and you don’t just “move on.” You sit in them. They sit in you. They take a chair in the corner of your soul and decide they are not in a hurry to leave.

There are some sorrows so deep that you cannot pray them away, fix them with a Scripture, or shout at them and make them obey. You just breathe through them one hour at a time. The grief of a loved one gone too soon. The ache of a relationship that will never be what it once was. The slow, grinding agony of possessing a body, mind, or soul that simply does not cooperate. These are not drive-through, microwave struggles; these are sit-down, slow-roasting seasons.

And for many of us, the greatest fear in those seasons is not the pain itself. It is the possibility that we might have to sit in that pain by ourselves.

THE MINISTRY OF JUST SITTING

I remember sitting with a young man in my office years ago. I can’t even remember his name, but I remember his story.  He had lost his father unexpectedly, and grief seemed to hit him without warning. He was strong, smart, talented, and usually composed, but that day he sat in the chair across from me completely undone. Hands shaking. Eyes red. Breathing hard.

I did what pastors are trained to do: I reached for words. I pulled for Scriptures. I tried to find the “right thing” to say that might lift some of the heaviness off his chest. But every time I opened my mouth, the Holy Spirit seemed to put His hand over my mouth and say, “No. Not yet. Just sit.” So that’s exactly what I did.

We sat in silence long enough for the clock on the wall to be the loudest sounds heard in the room. He just sat there and sobbed and sobbed.  Neither of us said a word. I reassured him every once in a while, that I was still with him, but other than that… nothing was said.  No sermon. No speech. Just presence. After what felt like an eternity, he looked up at me through his tears and said, “Pastor, you don’t know how much that means. Thank you for not trying to fix me. Thank you for just letting me sit here.”

Now, no, I am not suggesting that he left my office with less grief. But I am saying that he left with less loneliness.  Sometimes the most powerful thing you can bring into someone’s pain is not an answer, but a chair. Not a lesson, but a shoulder. Not a solution, but a listening ear that refuses to leave the room.

That is what Isaiah 43 is all about. It is God saying to His people, “I am not the God who only meets you at the finish line. I am the God who runs beside you in the race.”

ISAIAH’S PROMISE OF A WALKING GOD

Isaiah 43 is not written in a season of spiritual sunshine. God is speaking to a people who are either in exile or on their way there. Their national security is crumbling. Their routines have been interrupted. Their identity feels fragile. Their future feels uncertain.

Into the middle of this national anxiety, God does not begin by explaining the unanswerable “why.” He doesn’t hand them a theological flowchart.  He doesn’t presume to satisfy some non-existent philosophical dilemma that they may or may not have. He simply and plainly begins with the promise of His companionship: “When you pass through the waters, I will be with you.”

Notice, He does not say, “If you pass through the waters,” but “When.” The waters are a certainty. The rivers are a certainty. The fire is a certainty. Difficulty is not a faint possibility; it’s a real part of life’s journey. But right alongside that certainty is another unmistakable certainty that echoes from the hollow caverns of broken hearts: “I… will… be… with you.”

In the Hebrew, that phrase “I will be with you” carries the weight of a continuous, active presence. It is not God saying, “I’ll keep an eye on you from a distance.” It is God saying, “I will walk into this with you. I will sit down in this with you. I will inhabit the very conditions that are trying to consume you.”

God reminds Israel of their own story as He speaks. Waters remind them of the Red Sea and the Jordan, those terrifying thresholds where everything looked impossible until God stepped in. Fire reminds them of the furnace in Babylon, where three Hebrew boys were thrown into the flames, only for a fourth Man to show up and turn the blaze into clapping hands of fire praising God for the presence of His glory.

The story is consistent: wherever the waters rise, wherever the flames roar, God is right there with us.  He does not shout encouragement from the grandstands. He steps into the flood. He walks in the fire. He is the God who sits down in our worst places and refuses to leave us there alone.

THE JOY OF NOT BEING ALONE

If you listen closely to Isaiah 43:2, you can hear a deeper truth about joy. Joy is not the absence of waters. Joy is not the avoidance of rivers. Joy is not a life that never feels the heat of fire. Joy is the quiet, stabilizing, healing awareness that I am not alone in any of it.

There is a special kind of peace that comes over a child when a loving parent simply sits on the edge of the bed at night. The monsters in the closet don’t disappear. The darkness outside the window doesn’t suddenly turn to morning. But the presence of someone who loves them changes how the room feels.

Our God is that kind of Father. He does more than give instructions from heaven; He comes and sits on the edge of our sorrow. He comes and pulls up a chair beside our anxiety. He leans into the silence of our depression and refuses to treat us like an interruption.

This is what Jesus embodies as Emmanuel, “God with us.” He doesn’t just walk Galilean shorelines with rejoicing crowds; He weeps at Lazarus’ tomb. He shares bread with betrayers and washes the feet of the faithless. He prays in Gethsemane with sweat like drops of blood while His closest friends fall asleep on Him. He knows what it means to sit in a moment that hurts and stay there until the Father’s will is done.

In Christ, God does not merely identify with our victories; He identifies with our valleys. And that is where the deepest joy is born.

THE GOD WHO SITS IN YOUR PAIN

Some of you are walking through waters right now, and you’re not sure if you’re going to keep your head above the waves. Some of you are passing through rivers of anxiety, depression, financial strain, relational fracture, or secret shame, and you feel dangerously close to being overwhelmed. Some of you feel the flames of disappointment licking at your heels, threatening to burn up every hope you’ve ever held.

I want you to hear the promise of God personally: “When you pass through these waters, I will be with you. When you walk through this fire, you will not be consumed.”

He doesn’t sit with you because you’ve handled it well. He doesn’t sit with you because your faith has been flawless. He sits with you because you belong to Him. Immediately before this verse, God says, “Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine…” (Isaiah 43:1).

I remember one particular day that I felt an unusually heavy burden weighing on my heart.  I was at my desk in my office responding to emails, and my notification bell appeared in my top menu bar. It was one of my favorite preachers who had just released a new sermon, so I clicked it to listen.  I only had about 5 minutes or so, and then I had to get back to my work, but what he said changed my entire attitude for the day.  He said, “You are not a random case file in heaven’s file cabinet. God knows you by name, and He has claimed you as His own.”  Wow. That word pierced through the gloom of my heart like an arrow of hope hitting its long-awaited target.  I just sat there for a moment and allowed myself to feel the holy nearness of God. I am known by Him.  You are known by Him.  He has claimed us as His own.  And because we are His, He has bound Himself by His own Word to sit with us, stand with us, walk with us, and carry us when our strength has no power left to hold us up.

Even in natural, non-spiritual arenas, we understand that healing rarely happens in isolation. It happens in safe, steady, non-pressuring presence. Someone who can sit with you without rushing you. Someone who does not flinch at the seedy and unsavory parts of your story. Someone who can allow space for your tears without trying to turn them off, or dry them up.  Someone who understands the cathartic power of a silent scream.

Spiritually speaking, God is that Someone on a level no human being can ever reach. He can hold your anger, your confusion, your questions, your exhaustion, and not back away. He can sit in the ashes with you as long as it takes, until your soul remembers how to hope again.

That is where joy begins, not when everything is resolved, but when you realize that even in the unresolved, you are not abandoned.

PRAYER

Lord, thank You for being the God who does not rush past my pain. Thank You for being willing to sit with me in the rooms I don’t know how to leave, and in the seasons I don’t know how to navigate. You see the waters that scare me. You see the fires that threaten me. You see the rivers that rise higher than my strength.  Make Your presence felt in the places where I feel most alone.  May the peace of your presence bring me Joy.

In Jesus’ name. Amen.

SPIRITUAL DISCIPLINE: THE EMPTY CHAIR

Today, find a quiet place and imagine an empty chair in front of you. As simple as it may seem, imagine Jesus sitting in that chair, not as an idea, but as a Person who loves you. Talk to Him about one specific “water” or “fire” you are walking through right now. You don’t have to be eloquent; you just have to be honest.

Tell Him where it hurts. Tell Him what you’re afraid of. Tell Him what you’re tired of carrying. Then sit in silence for a few minutes and simply breathe this prayer in your heart: “Jesus, thank You for sitting with me.” Let that awareness wash over you like a quiet river, until joy begins to rise.  The joy of knowing you are not alone.