A Song that Found Me and Oceans of Grace

The song Rescue by Lauren Daigle popped up on my playlist yesterday (6/21/25 for context).

I had to pause.

It’s a song that reminds me of a time when I was desperately searching for hope—when I was in need of grace, and a bit of rescuing.

It’s been six years to the day since the girls and I saw her in concert. We had VIP seats and sat in on her soundcheck and Q&A. It was early in her rise, and she was warm and gracious. The up close view felt so personal and intimate. What my heart needed as the crowd fill the seats behind us. That night, when she sang Rescue, the tears came quickly, it felt like the words were meant only for me.

What we didn’t know at that concert was how much the songs we heard that night had already been carrying us—less than a year after losing my dad, their G-Pa. The kids and I listened to her album and a few others on repeat throughout that year.

But that night at the concert became a much-needed reprieve. A breath of light and laughter. Dancing in our seats, as the sun set across the city on a beautiful summer evening soaking in the kind of music that holds your soul steady when the world feels upside down.

The next day—after the concert—was my dad’s first birthday in heaven. He had been gone just 11 months. His absence hit hard and unexpectedly, and this song—this particular song—carried me through so many of those aching months. My heart still so tender.

I wasn’t in a place to say much back then when grief was still an undercurrent I hadn’t fully named or understood. But this song? It met me in the silence. It reminded me that God wasn’t absent in the many storms or the unraveling…and that rescue doesn’t always mean being pulled out. Sometimes, it means being carried through.

Rescue doesn’t always mean being pulled out. Sometimes, it means being carried through.

Heather Lebano

And just a week before the concert, while kayaking and paddle boarding on vacation on the Gulf, our vessels flipped. Jon and I were pulled out to sea—and had to be rescued, along with a very young friend. I sent my youngest back to land by herself, praying she wouldn’t get caught in the rip current. Talk about trust. I never looked back.

The young friend and I clung to the paddle board as it drifted farther from land. She prayed the Hail Mary aloud. I was too tired to keep going, too spent from paddling toward shore. So I whispered under my breath—like an SOS, “Mary (Our Lady of the Sea), please show up for me—like you always do.”

Then I just sat in silence, my legs dangling in the warm Gulf waters, where sharks likely swam beneath. I trusted. And waited.

From out of nowhere came a wave that pushed us forward. We still had a distance to go, but we were no longer drifting away.

A few minutes later, after getting Jon to safety, a feisty jet skier arrived—more bark than help—and helped us back to shore. Safe. Shaken. Rescued.

That day, I felt like I had been swallowed by the sea. But somehow, instead of drowning, I found myself surrounded by oceans of grace—waves of mercy that carried me when I was too tired to carry myself.

I was wearing my dad’s Eagles’ 2017 NFC Champs Hat that day, in honor of Father’s Day. I didn’t sink that day, but my heart did as I watched my dad’s Eagles’ hat float out of reach as I jumped off the jet ski to swim ashore to safety.

But the “army” came in different ways. Somehow even as I sadly watched that hat float away, I felt my dad’s protection and presence in a way I had not in a long time—not since he got sick. Not since he died. Maybe not even long before that. It was as if he was swimming next to me wearing that hat. The veil was lifted in the midst of a storm.

There are things about that moment I still hold quietly. Things that are too heavy to share here. And things I believe the Lord allowed me to see—moments I know prepared me for even deeper waters I didn’t yet know I’d face.

Lessons in trust. In surrender. About sinking into oceans of mercy and grace. In the God who doesn’t always just calm the sea but teaches us how to float when we think we’ll sink. And about the only One who can truly rescue us from it all.

“When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you.“—Isaiah 43:2

Talk about needing to be rescued. I was grieving deeply while also trying to care for my mom as she faced her own sorrow—adjusting to life without her husband. I was carrying so much—for my kids too, including my daughter whose hearing was now forever altered. She was now completely and naturally deaf—a loss that added its own weight to an already heavy season.

I remember how often I’d cry the moment the first few notes of Rescue played—usually in my car, where the grief had space to spill over.

“I hear your SOS, your SOS
I will send out an army to find you
In the middle of the darkest night
It’s true, I will rescue you.” (Lauren Daigle)

Those lyrics reminded me of the God who stays. Who hears the whisper of our grief. Who sends what we need when we least expect it. And during that time, He did.

He sent many helpers—including Our Blessed Mother. Not just on the day I flipped off my kayak and was pulled out to sea. But again and again.

One of the greatest gifts our good and faithful Father sent me—long before the storm—was Jon. His steady, tender presence carried me through the loss of my dad, and later, through the loss of my mom—even while he was sick himself. He grieved the loss of my dad too. He was patient, present, and gentle—not just with me, but also with my mom.

I won’t ever forget how he showed up for her.
I won’t forget how beautiful it was to visit her together in those final days.
It was hard for him—he knew his own life was hanging in the balance. But he still entered into the sorrow. He honored her and the mother he knew she was to me. That’s who he was.

I could use that steady guy right about now, as I continue to face the biggest loss of my life…him.

But that’s the thing about grief—especially layered grief. When the person—my husband—who once held you through sorrow is no longer here to hold you through the most painful loss. It’s a quiet ache only the heart can measure.

And still, somehow, I believe the promise remains:
You are not alone.
You are not hidden.
You are not forgotten.
Your SOS is heard.
You will be rescued.
He will send His army.
He never leaves us.

He sends an ocean of grace—even when He calls us out onto the waters, even when the rescue feels far away.
My faith will stand.

“I will never stop marching to reach you,
In the middle of the hardest fight,
It’s true, I will rescue you...” (Lauren Daigle)

What about you?
Has a song ever found you again—just when you needed it most? A song that gave you hope, or held your heart? A song that rescued your heart?
Is there a lyric or melody that’s wrapped around your story, reminding you that you’re not alone?

“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” — Psalm 34:18

You can hit reply and share if you’d like. Or leave a comment below. I’d be honored to hear the song or songs or stories that are carrying you right now.

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