11/08/2025
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Still Held: Peace in the Waters of Uncertainty
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Before the first light touches the sky, Billy is already fighting a battle few will ever see, one waged not on fields of glory but in the quiet fight to move, to breathe, to endure, and to hope. His muscles weaken day by day, yet his courage burns brighter than ever. Duchenne Muscular Dystrophy has changed everything we once thought strength was. We used to measure it by progress and stability, but now we find it in patience, surrender, and the love that endures even as the world we knew shifts beneath us.
Now we have learned to see strength in the fierce, everyday acts of resolve, as Billy perseveres through long, painful stretches to fight the tightening of his muscles, holding on to dignity while the ordinary becomes a battleground. Each small task reminds us of what is being taken, one ability at a time. Yet even when weakness feels constant and unyielding, another kind of strength begins to rise, the kind faith holds together when everything else falls apart, trusting that God’s power is still alive in our weakness.
His sisters, Ily and Abby Rose, surround him like a living fortress of love and joy, lifting him through laughter, tenderness, and loyalty. And our family prays constantly, not only for every appointment but for wisdom and discernment in the choices that shape his care, for courage in each trial, for breakthroughs in research, and for every treatment that might stretch the hours of his youth until something emerges that could save his life.
And as the years have unfolded, we have begun to name what we once only feared, learning that naming it does not make it stronger, it makes us braver.
Duchenne is relentless. It is more than a diagnosis; it is an unwelcome companion that lingers beside us through every plan and every hour, pressing its weight into even the smallest parts of life. It limits where we can go and how far we can travel, shaping every question we ask: are there stairs, is there a ramp, will the wheelchair fit, is there accessible seating?
It demands constant attention, drawing us into the unending rhythm of care that reaches from morning until night. There are days when the future itself feels smaller, as hopes and dreams slip quietly into the jaws of a shadow that never rests. Yet even as it tries to close in, we refuse to live beneath it, for fear is not our guide. Faith holds the lamp.
In those heavy moments, we have come to understand what the Apostle Paul meant when he wrote, “My grace is sufficient for you, for My power is made perfect in weakness.” The weakness we once feared has become the place where God paints His strength. Even as abilities fade like light at dusk, we pray for courage to endure, for wisdom to guide us, and for grace enough to meet each day until new hope rises again.
And through that naming, something begins to shift.
The waters that once threatened to pull us under begin to still,
not because the storm has passed,
but because faith has learned how to stand within it.
Our faith has not spared us from the storm, but it has taught us where to rest when the waves begin to rise. We no longer measure strength by what we can hold, but by the peace that holds us when all else slips away. The same power that quiets the sea steadies our hearts when the wind begins to howl.
We pray not only for healing, but for the grace to remain steady when the waters surge, to move through these depths with dignity and joy, carried by the mercy that steadies every wave. We ask for hearts that stay calm, for faith that keeps us afloat when strength gives way, and for joy that glimmers even when the sky is gray.
One by one, the things we thought would last have been carried away by the tide. Yet our hands still rise in worship, and our hearts remain anchored to the steady presence of God, whose hold does not loosen, even in the storm. And though the waters still rise, we have learned that peace is not the absence of the storm but the assurance that we are not alone within it.
We have seen God’s presence made visible through the people He sends. Friends, family, our church, and even strangers have stepped into our storm and chosen to walk beside us, their presence a steady light along a road that might have broken us alone. Their care has reached into the deepest places of our need, bringing comfort where words could not and strength where hope had begun to fade. Each gesture, each touch of kindness, has been like a light along the water, guiding us back to the certainty of God’s faithfulness. Through their love, we have seen His promise made real, and we know that we are held not only by His hands but by the hearts He sends.
I never imagined that any good could come out of this journey. In the beginning, it felt like everything we knew had been stripped away, and I could not fathom how light could break through so much loss. Yet as the years have unfolded, I have learned that even the hardest roads can reveal something sacred.
Each valley takes something from you, sometimes quietly, sometimes all at once. But in the taking, it also uncovers something deeper: a tenderness, a wisdom, a resilience you never knew you carried. The pain does not vanish, but it begins to shape you into something new. You are not the same person who entered the storm. And though the journey is hard, the growth that comes through it often carries the fingerprints of heaven. Never waste your valley.
Each season of pain has a way of remaking us from the inside out. Suffering reshapes the soul in ways comfort never could. It softens what was once hard, deepens what was once shallow, and turns faith from something spoken into something lived, a way of breathing when words fall short.
In time, the struggle itself becomes a strange kind of teacher. We stop fighting for the life we thought we wanted and begin receiving the life grace is giving us. The valley no longer feels like punishment but like passage, one that leads us closer to the heart of God, where even loss can give birth to peace.
We do not know what the future holds for Billy, but we know the One who holds his future. Each day reminds us that control was never ours to begin with, only the invitation to trust. The road ahead may narrow, and the unknown may stretch wide, yet His hands remain steady beneath every step.
What once felt uncertain has become sacred ground, where surrender and hope meet. We live one day at a time, resting in the truth that His plan is not measured by the length of days but by the depth of love within them. And though we cannot see what waits beyond the horizon, we walk forward with quiet confidence that His light will meet us there.
Our story, like every story touched by grace, is held close in the heart of God. Whatever waits beyond the horizon, whether healing or heaven, we will rest in His mercy that never leaves us. His love finds its way through every shadow and brings light to places we thought were lost. We may not see the whole design, but we know His hands are steady. From sorrow He draws beauty, from loss He brings life, and even here, in what feels unfinished, His goodness remains.
And still, we are learning. We are learning how to live what we say we believe, not when the sea is calm but when the waves rise higher than our strength. Some days the tide pulls hard, and it feels like we are drowning in the waters of fear. There are nights when hope drifts far from shore and faith feels small against the dark. Yet even there, grace finds us, not on steady ground but in the struggle, where we thrash to stay afloat and somehow discover we are still held by the mercy that will not let go.
Grace does not wait for the storm to pass. It meets us where we fall, in the salt and the sorrow, lifting us when we have nothing left to give. God does not stand at the far shore but moves beside us through the waves, patient in our weakness, faithful in our wandering, gentle in our breaking. Each morning we rise again, breathing through the ache and trusting that love still holds, that mercy still moves, and that even here, we are still held by the One who never leaves.
~ Love, Peace, and Hope ~
W.C. Ojeda
