This isn’t one of those pieces that ties everything up in a neat spiritual bow. It’s not filled with pat answers or hollow clichés. It’s born out of pain, prayer and the unshakable truth that — even in the flood — God is still present.
The recent flooding in Texas has left so many of us reeling. The loss of lives, especially the lives of children at Camp Mystic, is beyond comprehension. Our hearts crack open with sorrow, and the question rises like a tide: Where was God? How could He have allowed this?
It’s not a new question. It echoes through the ages, from the psalms of David to the suffering of Job, from the groans of the prophets to the cries of Jesus Himself: “My God, My God, why have You forsaken Me?” (Matthew 27:46). There is a sacred honesty in that cry. And it’s OK to ask it.
Because here’s the truth – God could have stopped the flood. He could have redirected the storm clouds, held back the rushing waters and saved every life. With a word, He could have prevented every ounce of heartache.
So why didn’t He?
We often ask, “Why didn’t God act?” But maybe the deeper, more haunting question is: Why does He sometimes choose restraint, even when it breaks His own heart?
That’s not an easy question to answer. It brushes up against mystery, sovereignty and the aching limits of our human understanding. But I believe the cross gives us a glimpse – a lens through which to view suffering.
Jesus, the Son of God, faced the ultimate injustice. He was mocked, beaten and crucified. And yet, at any moment, He could have stopped it. As He told Peter in the garden, “Do you think that I cannot appeal to my Father, and he will at once send me more than twelve legions of angels?” (Matthew 26:53).
But He didn’t call for angels.
Not because He was powerless. But because He saw the purpose. A redemptive plan was unfolding – not one that delighted in pain, but one that used suffering to defeat sin and death forever.
We want God to intervene the way we think He should. And sometimes He does. Miracles happen. Storms pass. Healing comes. But other times, He chooses the path that seems unbearably quiet.
Not absent. Not indifferent. Just restrained.
Why?
Maybe because there’s more going on than we can see. Maybe because eternity is longer than this life, and what breaks us now will somehow, someday, be made right. Maybe because He’s weaving a story we won’t fully understand until heaven, when every tear is wiped away and every “why” is finally answered.
Still, that doesn’t make today’s pain any less real.
This flood did not take God by surprise. But let me be clear: Nor was it His delight.
God is not some cruel puppeteer orchestrating tragedy for fun. He is a Father. A Healer. A Savior. His heart breaks with ours. Scripture says He is “near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit” (Psalm 34:18).
So, if you’re asking today, “Where is God when it hurts?” – I believe He’s closer than you think.
He’s in the arms of the parents who are holding each other through the night, unsure how to keep breathing. He’s in the prayers of a community that can’t find the words. He’s in the hands of rescue workers, the voice of a pastor offering comfort, the quiet faith of those who keep trusting even when nothing makes sense.
He’s present. Not always in the way we want, but always in the way we need.
God is still good. That hasn’t changed. His goodness isn’t based on our circumstances. It’s rooted in His character. The same God who walked with Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego in the fire walks with us through the flood. The same God who wept at Lazarus’ tomb weeps with those who mourn today.
God is still sovereign. That means He is not out of control. We are not abandoned to chaos. Though the earth gives way and the mountains fall into the sea, “God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble” (Psalm 46:1).
And yes — God is just. There will come a day when everything wrong will be made right. A day when death is swallowed up, and mourning turns to dancing. Injustice doesn’t get the last word. Neither does grief. Jesus does.
If we could see the whole picture, we would understand. But we don’t. Not yet.
So, what do we do in the meantime?
We grieve. We cry. We hold one another. We stop pretending we have all the answers. And we trust — not blindly, but deeply — that God is still with us, still for us, and still working all things (even the awful things) together for good.
One day, we’ll see the whole story. One day, what now feels like silence will make sense. Until then, we walk by faith. Not because it’s easy, but because it’s the only path that leads to peace.
If you’re hurting today, know this: You’re not alone.
God sees. God knows. And God stays.
Even in the flood.
Tony Martin is editor of the Mississippi Baptist Record.