Held At Water's Edge

I Knew The Water Could Wash All The Bad Things Away

(Laisa’s Story)

I was eighteen and already exhausted by living.

Faith was supposed to make things better. That’s what everyone said. Christians weren’t meant to fall apart. They weren’t supposed to sink into despair. But here I was—betrayed, silenced, and abandoned by the very people who should have protected me.

God, where were You when it happened?

Where are You now that everyone has turned against me?

Do You even see me anymore?

If family couldn’t be trusted—and God hadn’t stopped it—who could?

I didn’t feel dramatic when the thought came. I felt calm. Numb. Certain. If I was ruined, if I was no longer worth defending, then maybe there was only one way to end the ache.

So I walked.

(Note: This story discusses a suicide attempt.)

Image by Christoph Partsch from Pixabay

The coast was raw and unforgiving, a stretch of cold sand and angry water beneath a sky the color of bruises. Rain stung my face. Wind hurled grit against my skin. Waves crashed and retreated, endless and gray. I kept walking, waiting for peace to find me.

It didn’t.

Not in the storm. Not in the empty shoreline. Not in the bare dorm room I’d left behind.

So I turned toward the sea.

The waves rushed forward, foaming and dark. All it took was a change in direction. One step away from the hard-packed sand. One step toward the water that would wash everything away.

I breathed in. And tried to move.

But my feet wouldn’t budge.

I pushed again. Nothing.

Fear flared. Then anger. I shoved hard against whatever held me back, but the force was unyielding, solid as stone.

“No!” I whispered, fighting it.

That was when I felt it.

A hand—warm, steady, unmistakably real—pressed against my chest.

I could feel every finger. The heel of the palm. The strength behind it. My body was soaked and shaking from the cold, but that touch was alive with warmth.

There was no one else on the beach. Not a single soul for miles.

And yet I was not alone.

The struggle drained out of me. Slowly, I leaned into that unseen presence, letting it hold me upright while the storm roared around us.

It stayed just long enough.

When it faded, it left something behind—a broken heart made soft again. A peace I hadn’t known was still possible. A quiet, steady hope.

Tears came, not of despair this time, but of release.

I turned away from the waves.

The first step back felt impossible. Then it happened anyway.

The road ahead was not easy. Healing never is. There were setbacks and long nights and hard truths. But I walked it knowing I had not been abandoned on that beach.

Someone once asked me if it was an angel—or Jesus Himself.

I don’t pretend to know.

I only know this: Love stepped in when I could no longer stand on my own.

by Julie and Laisa. Thank you, Laisa, for sharing your angel story!