My Rock

I often picture a vivid scene in my mind. The imagery is intense. There’s a raging storm near a lonely shore. It’s dark and bitterly cold. Barren trees cling to the ground, fighting for life against the wind. Branches snap, and debris whirls dangerously through the air. Rain lashes sideways—the kind that would sting your face if caught in the crossfire. The wind howls, nearly drowning out every other sound. It’s deafening. Everything around is moving, shifting, breaking apart.

But right in the middle of it all stands a great rock—so solid, so still. It’s the only thing in sight that doesn’t tremble beneath the storm’s great fury. No force of nature could make it waver, not even slightly. It’s almost as if the storm stops when you look at this rock—like suddenly everything moves in slow motion, and all you can hear is a faint ringing in your ears. The more you focus on the rock, the quieter it gets. The calmer it becomes. The better you feel.

That rock is Jesus. That storm is my life.