The Voice in the Flood

The rain had not stopped for six days.

At first, it had come softly, like a whispered confession on the rooftops of the small Tennessee town, and people welcomed it. April had been too dry. But by the second day, the wind had sharpened, the river swelled, and by the fourth, basements were filling and roads were drowning beneath the brown water. On the sixth day, it became clear that this was no ordinary flood.

Martha stood at her kitchen window, watching the trees across the yard bow beneath the sheets of rain. The glass was fogged with the dampness of unspoken things — old regrets, forgotten prayers, the silence between her and her husband, Paul.

Their house sat on a small rise, a gift from her father before he died. In the twelve years they’d lived there, no water had ever reached the porch. But now the creek had turned wild, licking at the steps, and Martha’s heart thudded in time with the rain.

She moved through the kitchen, gathering towels and candles, the battery radio that still picked up static-laced broadcasts. Somewhere, a voice was saying roads were closed, bridges gone. They were cut off.

Paul was in the cellar, moving the last of the boxes to higher shelves. He’d said nothing to her when he went down. He hadn’t said much of anything in weeks.

It had started with the miscarriage. Their third. This one had lasted longer than the others — seven months. A daughter. Martha had named her quietly, in her heart: Ruth. Paul hadn’t wanted to speak the name aloud.

After the funeral, the house had become a cave, damp with silence and shadow. They moved past each other like ghosts, sharing space, but not breath.

Now, the rain was relentless, and the creek had become a monster with a voice of its own.

That night, the power failed. Martha lit the candles and set them in jars. Their flickering light softened the edges of the room, made the silence less cruel. Paul sat in the corner, staring at the radio.

“She would’ve been three months old today,” Martha said softly, not looking at him.

Paul didn’t respond. He just turned the dial.

She wanted to scream. Or cry. Or break the lamp on the floor. But instead she whispered the name: “Ruth.”

Paul’s hands clenched on his knees. The wind howled through the eaves.

“I still talk to her,” Martha said. “In the mornings, when I wake up. I pretend she’s lying beside me, making those little baby sounds. It helps.”

Paul stood up suddenly, the chair scraping loud against the floor. He crossed the room and stood at the window, arms crossed.

“The barn’s going under,” he said after a moment.

She joined him. Through the darkness and the downpour, they could barely make out the shape of it — the old red structure sagging beneath the weight of the storm. A piece of the roof had torn loose.

“We should go,” Paul said. “If the road to town’s still open—”

“It’s not. They said so. We’re stuck here.”

“Then we need to get to higher ground.”

Martha looked at him. “And leave everything?”

He met her gaze for the first time in days. “There’s nothing here that matters more than you.”

But the way he said it — not tender, but with the desperation of a man who had watched too much slip through his fingers — made her throat tighten.

They packed quickly. A change of clothes each. Cans of food. A flashlight. Martha reached for the little box in her nightstand — the one with Ruth’s hospital bracelet, the ultrasound photo, the tiny knit hat. She tucked it into her coat.

The river reached the front steps by midnight.

They left on foot, sloshing through the yard, flashlight beam flickering against the rain. The only high ground was the church on the hill. It had stood for a hundred years — white steeple like a finger pointing toward heaven, even in a storm like this.

They didn’t speak as they climbed the road. Their breath came fast and sharp. Trees leaned in, heavy with water. Once, Martha slipped, and Paul caught her — his hands firm, familiar.

“I’ve got you,” he said.

Three words. And somehow, they meant more than any sermon she’d heard in that church.

The sanctuary was dark and quiet when they reached it. Someone had left the door unlatched. They pushed inside, soaked and shivering.

Martha sank onto a pew, cradling the box in her arms. Paul moved through the space, checking for signs of others. It was empty.

A gust of wind rattled the stained glass. Thunder cracked overhead.

Martha began to hum, low and broken — a tune she remembered from childhood. “Jesus, Savior, pilot me…”

Paul sat beside her, his eyes fixed on the cross at the front. It gleamed faintly in the candlelight from the altar.

“We should pray,” he said, surprising her.

She looked at him.

“I haven’t known how,” he admitted. “Not since she… Not since we buried her. I come in here sometimes, when you’re asleep. Just sit. But I haven’t said a word.”

Martha reached for his hand.

“You don’t have to know how,” she whispered. “Just speak.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Then, slowly, a few broken words spilled out.

“God… I don’t know what to say. But we’re here. And we’re listening.”

The wind quieted. The rain softened to a hush. And somewhere in that silence, a voice began to speak — not out loud, but deep within. A voice older than the flood, gentler than sorrow.

Martha heard it too. A stillness in her soul. Like a whisper through the storm: You are not alone. I am here.

She didn’t know how long they sat there. But when the dawn came, pale and trembling through the clouds, it touched their faces like grace.

The flood had receded. The road home would be muddy, broken. But it was still there.

As they stepped back into the morning, Martha looked once more at the steeple. A verse came to her mind — not shouted, but remembered like a lullaby: “When you pass through the waters, I will be with you.”

They walked together, hand in hand, the voice in the flood still echoing quietly between them.