“He will swallow up death in victory; and the Lord GOD will wipe away tears from off all faces; and the rebuke of his people shall he take away from off all the earth: for the LORD hath spoken it.” Isaiah 25:8 (KJV)
I woke up already tired. Not the kind of tired a nap fixes, more like the weight of the world had been waiting at the edge of my bed. The news was heavy. The bills were heavier. Grief had a quiet way of resurfacing, and uncertainty sat on my shoulder like it belonged there. I moved through my morning doing what I always do: show up, pray, serve, keep it together. But inside, I felt like I was bracing against a storm I didn’t ask for.
Later, I opened my Bible and landed in Isaiah 25. I expected something gentle, something that would smooth the edges. Instead, the chapter looked straight at reality. It didn’t pretend the world was soft. It spoke of strong cities, proud powers, and threats that sounded loud and untouchable. Then right there in the middle of all that, Isaiah started praising God. Not because everything was fixed. Not because the danger disappeared. But because God was still God.
As I read, it felt like Isaiah was pulling my face upward. He kept naming what God would be: a shelter, a refuge, a shadow from the heat. Not a distant observer with advice, but a covering. A present help. Then the words widened into something bigger than my day: God was preparing a feast. A table for the weary. A future where tears wouldn’t keep returning like unwanted mail. A promise that sorrow would not reign forever. And then the line that caught in my throat: God would swallow up death in victory. I paused there, because it sounded beautiful and impossible.
That’s when another scene came to mind: John 11. Jesus standing at Lazarus’ tomb. A house full of grief. Two sisters full of questions. The air thick with “If You had been here…”, the language of waiting that hurts. I used to think faith meant you didn’t say those words out loud. But Jesus didn’t correct them. He didn’t rush them. He didn’t preach over their pain. He wept.
With tears still on His face, He spoke to the grave like it was an object that could obey. “Lazarus, come out.” And death had to let go. It wasn’t just a miracle, it was a preview. A glimpse of what Isaiah was singing about. A declaration that death isn’t sovereign. Sorrow isn’t permanent. The tomb doesn’t get the final word.
I thought about my own life, the long stretches where the heat feels relentless. Where you keep moving, but your strength is thinning. Like running a race under a blazing sun, mouth dry, legs heavy, carrying worries you didn’t train for. Then Isaiah’s image landed with tenderness: a shadow from the heat. I pictured a cooling tent on the course, shade, water, someone calling my name, helping me breathe again. Not an escape from the race, but enough covering to keep going.
That’s what Isaiah 25 began to feel like to me: not denial, not a perfect-life promise but presence. God stepping into the middle of the hard and saying, “You are not alone here.” God whispering, “This is not the ending.”
Because the chapter doesn’t stop at shelter. It moves toward celebration. It insists the finish won’t be survival mode forever. There will be a table. There will be joy. There will be a day when tears are wiped away, not managed. When shame is removed, not endured. When death is defeated, not merely delayed.
I closed my Bible and asked myself a gentle question: Where do I need God to be shade from the heat right now? Where have I been living like the tomb is the conclusion, like the loss gets the final sentence?
And I could almost hear Isaiah 25 answering back, steady, quiet, certain: Wait for Me. I’m not late. I’m faithful. And I’m writing a finish that looks like joy.
Prayer
Lord God, You are holy, and You are faithful. When life feels loud and uncertain, anchor me in who You are. Be my refuge from the storm and my shadow from the heat. Strengthen me where I feel weak, and hold me where I feel exposed.
Father, I bring You to the places where grief lingers, where fear has been speaking, where disappointment has tried to define my outlook. Teach me to wait with hope, not because everything is easy, but because You are trustworthy.
Thank You for the promise that You will wipe away tears and swallow up death in victory. Let that future certainty shape my present courage. Help me praise You in the middle, trust You in the waiting, and walk forward as a woman covered by Your care and called into Your joy.
In Jesus’ name,
Amen.
