The Lighthouse Keeper Who Never Left

In 1989, Hurricane Hugo barreled toward Sullivan's Island, South Carolina, with 140-mile-per-hour winds. Most residents evacuated. But the old Charleston Light — a triangular steel tower built to withstand exactly this kind of fury — stood unmoved at the island's edge. When the storm surge swallowed the beach and ripped houses from their foundations, the lighthouse never shifted. Families who had sheltered in its shadow emerged to find destruction all around them, yet the tower itself bore only scratches.

David knew something about storms. By the time he sang the words of 2 Samuel 22, he had survived Saul's javelin, years of hiding in desert caves, Absalom's betrayal, and the grief of burying children. His life was not a calm sea. It was Hugo — relentless, category-four, and personal. Yet in the final chapters of his story, David does not catalog his own cleverness or military strategy. He sings. And what he sings is a list of nouns: rock, fortress, deliverer, shield, stronghold, refuge, savior.

Notice — every noun points to the same Person. David stacks metaphor upon metaphor not because one image is insufficient, but because no single word can contain what God had been to him across decades of chaos.

When your own storm surge rises, you do not need seven different rescuers. You need the One who has already proven, through every wind and wave, that He does not move. The Lord is your rock. He has always been your rock.