Today, I take my text from the opening verses of a song that I believe God brought my way nearly ten years ago. It is by Karrie Roberts, titled Keep Breathing.

The song begins:

You wait in darkness
For answers that you can’t see
You know what you deserve
And you’re wondering why your life is
Not what you thought it should be

There are moments when those words describe our lives with painful accuracy—moments when answers refuse to come, when expectations collapse, when life no longer looks like what we prayed for, planned for, or believed for.

The song continues:

When the knife breaks
Your heart still aches
How can you face the day?

That is an honest question. How do you face the day when the pain is still fresh, when the wound is still open, when nothing makes sense?

And then comes the refrain, the sermon in a sentence:

Keep breathing
You’ll make it
Don’t give in
You’re not done yet

Sometimes, all that you can do is keep breathing and believing.

This song has become a sermon I have preached to myself time and again, because the kind of life I have chosen has placed me in situations where all I could do was breathe.

Have you ever been in a place where you needed God to come through so badly that you could not even imagine the alternative? Where you could not contemplate otherwise, because the “otherwise” was too frightening to hold?

Moments when your faith is not dramatic, not loud, not poetic, but fragile, quiet, and bare.
Moments when all you can do is breathe.

My relationship with God is anchored on three fundamental convictions drawn from Scripture, especially 1 Corinthians 10:13:

“There has no temptation taken you except what is common to man. And God is faithful; He will not allow you to be tempted beyond what you can bear. But with the temptation He will also provide a way of escape.”

Over time, I came to understand this Scripture in three simple truths:

1. My situation is not unique: others have been here before.
2. I can bear it: even when I do not feel strong.
3. There is a way out: even when I cannot see it.

I once read a rendering that said: what you are facing today is someone else’s history.

But here is the truth I must confess: this Scripture is easier read than lived.

There are moments when Scripture does not leap off the page. When prayer does not flow. When words fail. When even faith feels exhausted.

And I have lived those moments.

One of them came during the pregnancy and birth of our son.

We had been married fifteen years before we conceived, our first pregnancy, our first child. An elderly consultant obstetrician, a man in his seventies, studied our file and said gently but firmly:

“This is a very delicate and very expensive pregnancy. It must be guarded jealously.”

As the due date approached, labour was induced. We were told delivery would happen within twenty-four hours.

Twenty-four hours became forty-eight.
Forty-eight became seventy-two.

By the first night, Scripture no longer resonated. I was not praying eloquently. I was advocating, negotiating, pressing the doctors.

They kept saying, “The baby is fine. The mother is fine.”

But nothing felt fine.

I had heard too many stories. Stories of loss. Stories of prolonged labour with lifelong consequences. After fifteen years of waiting, I could not imagine the other side.

At some point, I became completely helpless.

No Scripture.
No prayer.
No words.

Just breathing.

Then, late that night, a senior consultant reviewed the file and asked one question:

“How long has labour lasted?”

“Three days.”

She paused and said, “If this baby does not come out tonight, I am bringing him out tonight.”

She did.

The next day, she told us the truth: she had been dealing with an emergency. The baby was getting tired. Weak. Time was running out. It was a risk, but it was the only way.

She said quietly, “It was a miracle.”

In that moment, I understood something deeply.

There are times in life when you cannot quote Scripture.
Times when you cannot pray.
Times when faith is not loud, but desperate.

Times when all you can do is breathe.

And sometimes, that is enough.

I have been close to death more times than I can count, some as a child, some as an adult. In many of those moments, survival was not strategy. It was mercy.

So today, my homily from the pew is simple:

There are seasons when Scripture must be lived before it can be understood.
Seasons when faith is not declaration, but endurance.
Seasons when obedience looks like breathing.

If you are in a place today where you cannot imagine the other side…
If prayer feels heavy…
If words have left you…

Keep breathing.
You are not done yet.
God is not done yet.

Sometimes, the most powerful act of faith is staying alive long enough for grace to speak.

Keep breathing.

Amen.

Do have an INSPIRED week ahead with the family.