Breathing Again at Merritt Island: A Moment of Stillness After the Storm

Late September 2024 is a time I won’t soon forget. Hurricane Helene swept through Western North Carolina with a fury that left our mountains and towns in ruins. Western North Carolina, the place I called home, was hit especially hard. Trees ripped from the ground, homes torn apart, power lines tangled in the streets—it was devastation at every turn. What the storm didn’t physically destroy, it strained emotionally. Our community was hurting, and like so many others, I felt helpless but determined to do something.

With little hesitation, I packed up the truck, grabbed my ex-wife Ruby and our youngest son Christian, and headed south to Florida. It wasn’t a vacation—it was a mission. We were heading to my sister Charlotte’s neighborhood, where her community had come together to host a supply drive for the victims of Helene. The response was incredible. Boxes of food, water, clothing, hygiene products—neighbors opened their hearts in a way I’ll never forget. We filled the truck to the brim and headed back to Asheville with hope packed into every corner.

But the need was so great, we turned right around to make a second trip.

That second run, though, was when the emotional weight of it all began to catch up with me. Between loading, unloading, making calls, organizing volunteers—it felt like I hadn’t taken a deep breath since the storm hit. So I gave myself a moment, just one, and drove over to Merritt Island National Wildlife Refuge.

Something in my soul told me it was the place I needed to be.

When I arrived, the change was instant. The sanctuary was calm, quiet, and untouched. It was like stepping out of chaos and into a cathedral of creation. The sun was just cresting the horizon, casting gold across the still water. The air was heavy with salt and silence, and for the first time in days… I could hear myself think.

Then I saw it.

A white egret gliding through the shallows, as if time moved differently for it. No rush. No panic. Just focus. It was fishing, its eyes locked on the water, every step slow and purposeful. I raised my camera gently and waited.

And then it struck.

In one lightning-fast motion, the egret plunged its beak into the water and came up with its prize. I snapped the shutter at just the right moment, catching the glint of its catch and the ripple of water cascading from its beak. A single second of nature’s brilliance frozen in time.

I can’t fully explain the peace that washed over me in that moment. It was as if God had carved out that instant just for me. Amid all the heartbreak and loss, there was still beauty. Still grace. Still evidence of His artistry, reminding me that even after the worst storms, life finds a way to continue.

That egret was more than just a bird on a morning hunt. It was a symbol of resilience. Of stillness in the middle of a storm. It reminded me that sometimes, in the middle of doing everything for others, we have to give ourselves permission to pause. To breathe. To see.

I left Merritt Island with more than just a photo—I left with renewed strength.

Then it was back to the truck. Back to Ruby and Christian. Back to the mission. But now I carried a piece of peace with me, tucked in the frame of a photo, ready to remind me why we fight to rebuild.

Because even when everything feels lost, there’s still beauty waiting to be found.