Desperation,
raw and unfiltered,
crashes like waves against the fragile ribs of a boat.
Fishermen, seasoned by salt and storm,
shake in terror.
A storm that silences courage,
a darkness that devours hope.
And yet—
He sleeps.
Not indifferent,
but unshaken.
“Don’t you care if we drown?”
They cry out,
as I have cried out,
when the winds rise and the waters rise and I rise
only to sink.
Be still.
He speaks,
and the storm obeys,
as if it always knew its Master.
A man, bound by more than chains,
cutting himself on the edge of the world.
A Legion of tormentors howling in his mind,
drowning him in voices.
A name stolen, a soul shattered.
And yet—
He runs.
Runs to the only One
who could silence the chaos.
Thousands against One,
but the battle was never even.
A word is spoken,
and the sea swallows the darkness.
And the man—
dressed,
in his right mind,
free.
Twelve years of waiting,
of bleeding,
of being unseen.
A woman, unnamed,
living on the edges,
reaching not for recognition,
but just for the hem.
And yet—
He stops.
Stops for the forgotten,
for the one who dared to believe
that even His garment held mercy.
“Who touched me?”
She trembles,
ready for rebuke,
but He calls her—
Daughter.
Twelve years of shame undone in a single word.
A father waits,
heart clinging to hope,
feet racing time.
But time is cruel.
“She is dead.”
And yet—
He speaks.
Not in past tense,
not in mourning,
but in command.
“Little girl, get up.”
Death has no defence
against the One who holds life.
The child breathes,
laughs,
lives.
Four stories.
Four ruins.
Four restorations.
The storm, the demons, the sickness, the grave—
each a monument to despair.
Each transformed,
rewritten,
made new.
And so am I.
Original message by Andrew West & Bridonie Nicholson
The Bridge Church Macquarie Park Nsw
The Afterword 
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