“Stillness in the Storm,” Liahona, Mar. 2023, United States and Canada Section.
Stillness in the Storm
“The winds and the waves shall obey thy will: Peace, be still.”1
I’m driving my husband to a chemo treatment. It’s midmorning in early September, and the road is so drenched in water and fog that the white line on the side of the road is almost invisible. Wind rocks the car, and my fingers hurt as they grip the wheel. In another life, just a few weeks ago, we’d never have left the house in a downpour like this. But we have a 10:00 a.m. appointment with a small bag of poison, and not going isn’t an option.
Ahead is a stretch of road that lies low in the valley. It collects the fog like a bowl, and the water pools on the freeway there. I’m terrified of hydroplaning, but just before we hit the dreaded spot, the fog lifts a little. My windshield wipers catch up with the water, and a calmness settles in my chest. The rain drenches us for the whole 25 miles, but we make it in one piece.
Later, when we are done and the sun is elbowing through gray clouds outside the treatment center, my husband, Jacob, tells me he wasn’t afraid as we drove.
That’s all fine. But he wasn’t the one behind the wheel.
Jacob doesn’t leave it there. “The Savior has control over the elements. He walked on the water and calmed the seas.”
My heart lifts at the thought: Jesus walking on water (see Matthew 14:22–33), Jesus rebuking the storm (see Matthew 8:23–27). “The Master of ocean and earth and skies.”2
Jacob’s voice is breathy and scratchy—a side effect of all the treatments. “I knew we were going to be OK. I could tell that you were nervous, though. I prayed, ‘I know Thou canst control this water. If it be Thy will, please lift the rain a little so she can see.’”
I remember the easing of the rain and the peace settling inside me.
That evening we realize my husband is almost out of pain medication. It’s Friday. Jacob has spent the afternoon shaking under a mound of blankets. If he runs out of medication over the weekend, what will we do?
By the time I figure out the right doctor to call (the doctor we had already seen that day), it’s almost 5:00 p.m. A medical assistant answers. He checks with the doctor and tells me, “If you can be here in 30 minutes, I’ll get you the prescription. Here’s my number. Call it when you get here. The doors may be locked.”
I herd our three-year-old daughter to the car, leaving Jacob in the bed and our 10-year-old son with a video game. We drive 25 more miles. The medical assistant gives me the prescription and talks me through the chemo symptoms. I know he must have waited for me.
It’s almost dinner time. I haven’t made any food. I still need to fill the prescription. My daughter is hungry and tired. But out over the valley, the sun breaks through the overcast sky, and a ray of light runs in a straight line to the place I’m headed for. I say a prayer of gratitude for the medical assistant who waited for me.
The woman who rings up the prescription remembers me. Another pharmacist gives my daughter a free sucker. I get a text message from my husband. Someone from the ward has brought us dinner.
I almost start crying. Not because I can’t do it anymore but because the assistant waited. Because dinner is at home. And because two pharmacists took time for me and my daughter. The fog and rain have lifted enough for me to see again. I know we are going to be all right. We’re being carried in the hands of the Lord.
The author lives in Utah.