I knew before he said anything. It was in the way he avoided meeting my eyes. How he answered in half-gestures instead of words. How his silence wasn’t empty, it was suffocating. The kind of silence that hums with something unsaid, something sacred and terrifying. So I didn’t ask him why. That would’ve been cruel. That would’ve made it too real, too fast. Instead, I told him a story. I told him about a man who walked into the ocean waist-deep, lungs aching. The waves pulled at his ribs like open hands, promising weightlessness. Promising an end. He wasn’t weeping. He was tired. There’s a difference. But then a gull swooped low overhead. Shrieking. Rude. Undignified. Like the world interrupting his goodbye. He looked up. Not because of beauty. Not because of hope. Not because of God. Just… interruption. A breath of friction between impulse and the inevitable. And somehow, in that pause... he turned back. I didn’t tell him that the man was me. He nodded. His fingers curled around the table edge, knuckles white. And finally, finally he spoke. He didn’t thank me. Didn’t need to. The way he unclenched his hands was enough. Because sometimes, staying is the bravest thing we never get credit for. Jesus didn’t show up that day with answers. He didn’t rebuke the darkness, or drown it in light. He didn’t hand me a Bible verse or try to make it make sense. He just stood there, in the water with me. Said nothing. But stayed. And sometimes that’s all that saves us. Not theology. Not therapy. Just knowing someone holy isn’t afraid of the undertow. If you’re reading this, I’m grateful you stayed. Not just on this page in this world. There’s a reason. Even if it hasn’t spoken yet. And if you ever find yourself waist-deep again, I pray a gull screams. I pray something interrupts you. I pray Jesus doesn’t rescue you too fast, but stays long enough for you to remember, you were never alone. Not then. Not now. “He drew me up from the pit of destruction, out of the miry bog, and set my feet upon a rock.” —Psalm 40:2