Otterly Loved: Held Together by His Faithfulness
Finding Strength in God’s Promises When Life Leaves Us Broken and Apart
Yesterday, I found myself in one of the most challenging seasons of my life as a mother. Over the past two weeks, I’ve had to drop both of my pre-teen daughters off at a Psychiatric Residential Treatment Facility—first Cordelia, my youngest, and last night, Althea, my oldest. They will be there for about six months, and with each goodbye, it feels like a piece of my heart is being left behind.
In these moments, when the ache feels too deep for words, the Lord gently reminds me of His invitation to “seek first the Kingdom and God’s righteousness.” Sometimes, I’ll admit, that Kingdom feels distant, especially in a world where we lock doors and brace ourselves against unseen storms. Yet Jesus calls us to a way of life where we lean on God’s provision and live with open hands, even when the future is hazy. Seeking His Kingdom isn’t about finding security in earthly things—it’s about surrendering our striving and letting God’s hand be our anchor, even when we feel adrift.
Since leaving a traumatic relationship when the girls were just small toddlers, this journey has been one of holding on to faith and relearning how to trust in God’s love and protection, especially in the hardest moments. Seeking His Kingdom now means resting in the truth that He holds each of us—me, Cordelia, and Althea—and that He’s crafting a new story in our lives, one woven with grace and purpose. Even when it doesn’t make sense in the here and now, I hold on, believing that His promises are unfolding and inviting us to step into a Kingdom that offers peace, love, and ultimate security.
In the ache, in the uncertainty, I find comfort knowing He’s not done yet.
The Lord gently reminded me of a post I made back in 2020, in another difficult season, when I cried out to Him about being like otters. I cried out to Him earlier this week, remembering how He had promised that we were like otters. “You promised we were otters, how can we hold hands if we are apart!?!” I reminded Him, thinking of how otters hold hands when they sleep to keep from drifting apart. In that post, I’d written about feeling “drifted,” overwhelmed by high anxiety, separated from those I loved, and burdened with responsibilities. I’d prayed and pushed through, but at the end of that day, I felt completely alone and broke down. I remember telling my kids that I just needed a moment to cry and that I’d be okay. I clung to the truth of Jesus as Immanuel—God with us. It was my reminder that I wasn’t alone, even when it felt like it.
That day, my mom, brother, and grandpa were miles away, and my brother Travis was undergoing a long-awaited shoulder surgery—a testament and another “but God” moment in our lives, showing His love and grace. I was at work, holding things together and tackling a mountain of tasks, with snow and ice making things even harder. My mom later commented on that post with a memory that still brings tears to my eyes. She shared how, at 5 a.m. before the surgery, she, my brother, and my grandfather held hands and prayed for Travis’s doctor. After the surgery, the doctor not only shared how it went but asked about the family, then took their hands and said, “Let me say a prayer for your family!” God’s love reached across the miles that day, weaving us together with His presence.
Held in His Hands: A Season of Remembrance and Faith
Now, standing in this season, the Lord has been gently reminding me of those twelve stones of remembrance. In Joshua 4, after the Israelites crossed the Jordan, each stone was set as a testament to God’s miraculous faithfulness. He made a way where there was no way, doing the impossible, a story of deliverance and a memory of His unwavering love. Reflecting on those stones isn’t just about looking back; it’s about re-anchoring ourselves in the steadfastness of God’s promises. These stones, these memories, invite me to remember that God hasn’t changed. The God who delivered us then will deliver us now.
As I pause to reflect, I feel Him drawing my heart deeper, calling me not only to remember His faithfulness but to examine the parts of my heart where I have resisted, where I have tried to carry my burdens on my own. He is patient, reminding me of Proverbs 3:5-6: “Trust in the Lord with ALL YOUR HEART and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways submit to Him, and He will make your paths straight.” My natural instinct has been to brace myself, to navigate these valleys with my own strength. Yet, God is teaching me that true strength comes in surrender, in loosening my grip, and allowing Him to guide every step.
He has also reminded me of the beautiful meaning woven into the names of my family, like a tapestry of His promises. My name, Elizabeth, or Beth, from the Hebrew letter Bet, means "house" or "dwelling." It calls me to create a sacred space for His presence, to make my life a home where He resides. This foundation of faith is the house He has called me to build—not only for myself but for my children.
My daughter Althea's name carries a beauty of its own—she is the Rose of Sharon and Lily in the Valley, names symbolizing Jesus as our Healer, the One who brings beauty and comfort in the lowliest places. And Cordelia, whose name means Heart of the Ocean, reminds me that it is okay to go deeper with Jesus, to explore the vastness of His love. He is the One who calms the mightiest storms and comes to us when our hearts cry out. He turns ashes into beauty and bids us to seek His face with the pure devotion of a sunflower, always looking to Him.
Together, we are reminded that Yahweh, the Creator of heaven and earth, the Lord of Lords and King of Kings, is worthy of our trust. Holy is His name, the Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace, and Almighty God! He invites us to journey from glory to glory, transforming us through every trial and test. Hallelujah, Hallelujah! King of Kings and Lord of Lords, forever and ever. Amen.
Just as those stones marked God’s faithfulness for future generations, I’m reminded that we, too, are “living stones,” each of us bearing witness to His ongoing work in our lives. We are part of His spiritual house, built on His unwavering love, our lives becoming visible testimonies—modern-day “stones of remembrance”—of His goodness and power. In every season, as living stones, we reflect the legacy of those twelve stones, our lives declaring that God still dwells with His people, still makes a way, and still transforms every impossibility into a story of deliverance.
Isaiah 35:6 paints a vivid picture of hope and renewal: “The lame will leap like playful deer, and the tongue-tied will sing songs of praise and triumph. Gushing water will spring up in the wilderness and streams will flow through the desert.” In this verse, I see a promise that speaks to my deepest need—that God can bring forth rivers in the desert of my heart, that He can turn our brokenness into joy-filled strength.
The enemy tries to overshadow God’s goodness, whispering lies of doubt and despair, tempting me to believe that our struggles are too great. But God calls me to remember. He knows how easily we forget, how quickly we let our present pain drown out His past faithfulness. In these hardest moments, each memory becomes a “stone,” a declaration of hope that God hasn’t abandoned us. His promises remain, and His love endures.
So, I stand in awe of the King of Kings and Lord of Lords, the One who will reign forever and ever. Hallelujah, Hallelujah!
As I look back on my own “twelve stones,” I see moments when He held me up when I was weak, opened doors I thought were closed, and carried me when I had no strength left. In each memory, I hear the echo, “But God… He will make a way.”
And as a writer, every line I pen becomes part of this story. Each word is a piece of my soul, a whispered prayer, an echo of the unshakable need to be seen and understood. It’s my offering, my “yes” to God’s calling, poured out in ink and words. Writing is more than a passion; it’s a mission, a way to connect my earthly experience with His eternal purpose. Like NF says, “All I ever wanted was somebody to get this.” But honestly, it’s more than that—it’s about obedience. It’s about trusting that even if no one else reads my words, He sees every effort, every tear, and honors each step.
Obedience, I’m learning, isn’t about knowing the full picture; it’s about trusting Him enough to keep going when I can’t see the way. With every breath, I’m choosing to focus, to fix my heart on Jesus alone. I’m asking Him to lift my eyes beyond the struggle of this moment to the bigger picture He’s painting.
I had to resign from my job at the school district to help my children with their needs, stepping into the unknown without the security of a steady income. Now, I’m waiting to see if disability will come through, trusting God to provide as I lean into this season of faith. In all of this, I hold on to the promise that He’s guiding each step, even when the path ahead is hidden.
God has a plan for us here on earth, yes, but it’s part of something grander—His ultimate plan to be united with us forever. Every word I write, every story I tell, is an invitation to know Him more deeply, not just to do things for Him but to know Him. I’m reminded that He’s not just my Creator but my closest friend, the One who lets me lay out every fear, every hope, with the honesty I’d share with a lifelong friend. In this journey, it can feel like driving in an endless ocean, like I’m trying to swim from something bigger than me, kicking off my shoes and letting myself be carried by waves that seem too strong. But He meets me there, gentle and steady, reminding me that I don’t have to swim on my own.
Sometimes, I feel like I’ve been roaming around in a black suit, carrying the weight of grief and brokenness, holding pieces of my heart hidden away. But God sees each one, taking these broken hearts, holding them, and guiding me even as the road runs out. In the moments where I feel like diving into the depths, He invites me instead to let go and trust, to swim good—to swim in His grace, in His love, where there are “no flares, no vest, and no fear,” just the reassurance that He’s got me, even when the waves feel overwhelming.
He is gentle, approachable, and ready to meet me in every moment, even when I feel like I’m swimming alone. His presence reminds me that I’m not abandoned or lost. He’s always close, walking with me through it all, inviting me to rest in Him rather than fight against the currents. In that, I can find peace, knowing that I am held in the heart of something grander than I could ever understand.
I pray, “Your Kingdom come, Your will be done, on earth as it is in Heaven,” letting that be the rhythm of my heart every day. I’m learning that obedience isn’t about striving or performing; it’s about trusting His vision, letting my soul’s deepest longing be to walk in step with Him. This is all I have, and it’s enough because He makes it so.
Some days, the Hallelujah flows freely from my lips, but other days, it’s a hard-fought, storm-tossed Hallelujah. It’s that “been-through-hell” kind of praise, where my torn sails and bruised heart still say, It is well with my soul. I’m reminded that faith isn’t proven like gold until it’s been through the fire. So I bring Him my broken, battle-worn Hallelujah—because He’s been patient, gracious, faithful through it all.
So as I walk through this season, separated but held, broken but loved, I know that my girls and I are in His hands. We may feel adrift, but in Him, we are together. Today, I choose to live for my King, lifting my hands a little higher, even when they’re heavy. If He’s the only one who reads the lines of my heart, then that’s enough. His approval is my purpose, His presence my prize. Hallelujah, Hallelujah.
Your Bestie, Beth 🌿
https://linktr.ee/catscradleblog
So, I keep holding on, even as I walk through this season, separated but held, broken but loved. I may not have all the answers, and the path ahead might feel dark and uncertain, but I choose to believe that joy is on the horizon. Like the song says, "If it's not good then He's not done," and I trust that He's still at work, even in the places where I can’t see it yet. There will be joy in the mourning, new mercies that rise with the dawn, and hope that carries us forward.
I cling to His promise that weeping may endure for a night, but joy is coming, and I’ll keep holding on until that day comes. His presence is my prize, His approval my purpose, and His joy my strength. He’s not done, and neither am I.
Elizabeth thank you for sharing. You are so loved and so are your girls🙏🏾