When Waters Rise: Christian Hope in a Broken World

Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our affliction. 2 Corinthians 1:3-4

Save me, O God,
for the waters have come up to my neck.
I sink in the miry depths,
where there is no foothold.
I have come into the deep waters;
the floods engulf me.

—Psalm 69:1-2

The Guadalupe River in central Texas surged without warning—rising 26 feet in just 45 minutes. In the dark hours of the morning, the waters came, swallowing roads, cabins, and campers in them. As of this writing, at least 43 people, including 15 children, have been confirmed dead. Dozens more are still missing. Children were swept away. Families are waiting, grieving, hoping.

What unfolded in Texas is not just a tragedy—it is a catastrophe. An inundation.

An overwhelming flood.

And the rest of us—watching from afar—are asking the old questions again: Why? Where was God? How do people cope? What do people do with grief?

This is every parent’s nightmare. Anyone who has ever packed a duffel bag for their child’s summer camp knows that vulnerable, helpless feeling—the whispered prayer, the trusting goodbye, the silent hope for safe return. But this loss is different.

The scale of it is staggering. Many still missing. We ache for the families who now walk through this valley of shadow. We weep for what they must endure, and for what they will carry for the rest of their lives.

What to say? What can help?

What can Christians say in moments like these?

We begin by telling the truth.

Jesus was never at peace with the world as it is. Though it was made by God, the world is still groaning for redemption. As Paul says in Romans 8, “The whole creation has been groaning together in the pains of childbirth until now.”

And this groaning isn’t a metaphor. It’s floods. Its parents wailing at the water’s edge. Though beautiful, majestic, and reflective of the power and glory of it’s Creator, nature and its forces are not friends of ours.

We talk about “Mother Nature,” but let’s be honest: nature is often brutal. It does not mother us. It does not weep for our children. A river does not care. A storm does not know your name. This world—called ‘good’ when it was made by its Maker—is broken.

But still, Christians have hope. Not because we ignore suffering. But because we know it deeply. And because we know the One who entered it with us.

Paul wrote: “We are afflicted in every way, but not crushed; perplexed, but not driven to despair… struck down, but not destroyed.” (2 Corinthians 4:8–9) We are knocked down—but never out.

We grieve—but not as those without hope. As Paul told the Thessalonians: “We do not want you to be uninformed… about those who are asleep, that you may not grieve as others do who have no hope.” (1 Thessalonians 4:13)

And we trust that: “Though outwardly we are wasting away, inwardly we are being renewed day by day.” (2 Corinthians 4:16)

That sounds lofty—but let me say it more plainly. Christian grief is real. It hurts. It hollows us. And Jesus said it would be omnipresent in this world—it is inescapable.

Help Can Come This Way

What helps? Sometimes not much. But community can.

Sometimes the only way forward is to borrow the faith of others—to let the body of Christ believe for you when your own belief buckles. That’s what the Church does. She holds hope for the hopeless, prayers for the prayerless, and strength for the crushed.

Today—Sunday—countless churches around the world will be lifting these families in prayer. Their names may not be known. But their pain is being carried.

As Paul wrote to the Corinthians: “God comforts us in all our affliction, so that we may be able to comfort those who are in any affliction.” (2 Corinthians 1:4)

Intercession doesn’t erase grief. But it shares it. And that, too, is a grace.

Time is also a gift. A strange one. A slow one. But it’s God’s way of helping us carry what we cannot lift all at once.

We will not be who we were before. But we will not always feel what we feel today.

And finally—faith. Not sentiment. Not wishful thinking. Faith.

Some outside the Church may pity the parents who grieve and still believe. They may wonder how anyone could trust God in a moment like this. God forbid some might scorn their faith—or at least scoff at it. “Where is your God, now?”, reminding us all of the jeering crowds on Good Friday.

What about God?

But for many Christians, it is precisely in moments like this that we turn to God—not away from Him.

Not because we can explain the flood. But because we’ve walked with Him through too many storms to stop now.

How can we not praise the God who has carried us this far—and will carry us still? When David wrote that God redeems our life from the pit, he was remembering all the times God had done it…and thus he knew God would do it again. (Psalm 103:4)

And again.

The river rose in the night. But God was not absent.

He was there. And He is here. Not as a distant force. But as the Man of Sorrows, acquainted with grief. The Shepherd who walks with us through the valley of death. The Lamb who bore it all.

So we cry. We pray. We bury the dead. But we do not lose heart. Because joy—though sometimes long in coming—will come.

Not because we feel it.
But because He promised it.
And He has never broken a promise yet.

May the God of all comfort, who comforts us in every affliction, draw near to the families who mourn, uphold those who search and serve, bring mercy to the broken, and light even into this deep darkness.

And may we, with tear-stained faith, trust that joy will come in the morning.

Amen.

Grace and peace,

Write a prayer for those who have lost loved ones.

---

The Anglican is the Substack newsletter for LeaderWorks, where I share insights, encouragement, and practical tools for clergy and lay Christians. I’m also an author of over a dozen books available on Amazon.

If you are a Paid Subscriber, thank you! Thank you for supporting The Anglican and the ministry of LeaderWorks. If you are not a subscriber, please consider becoming one today.