Sting of the Jellyfish
Even paradise has teeth.
Today, Leo and I swam with ghosts—jellyfish we couldn’t see, just feel. Little demons in the water, silent as guilt and just as sharp. A man from Georgia pulled two from the sea, cradled them in a net like they were enjoying a hammock in tropical paradise.
I looked him dead in the eye and said, “For every one you caught, there’s a hundred you didn’t.”
He nodded, slow and southern. “Oh, yeah... no doubt.”
The sting? Somewhere between a bee bite and a burn from the devil’s skillet. He told me it wasn’t too bad.
Yeah? Tell that to my skin. Tell that to the scream my nerve endings let out. Pleasure’s a con artist. It draws you in, real pretty, and then slices you across the mouth when you lean in to kiss it. I didn’t get stung. But I could just imagine the pain, remembering my Dad fifty-years-ago hoping on one foot fifty-feet to the lifeguard station in Miami, holding his other foot, shouting, “I’m stund… I’m stung!”
Ask Bruce Wayne. His parents left a movie full of laughter and capes and popcorn, took a shortcut through a shadow-filled alley—and found the sharp end of Gotham. Blood on pearls. That sting didn’t fade. It turned a boy into a bat.
It happens all the time. The sting shows up where the smile used to be. It shows up at dinner. At midnight. At the altar. On vacation. In the nursery. In the ICU.
Imagine these scenarios, for example:
The young bride who dreams in lace and wakes up to betrayal—her groom’s kiss still wet on another woman’s mouth. That sting? It lasts longer than the marriage.
The kid with a scholarship in hand and hope in his chest… until the drunk driver ran the red light and turned his legs into a funeral.
The pastor who preaches love on Sunday, only to bury his child on Monday. No sermon ever softened that sting.
The mother who held her baby for the first time—and the last time—on the same day.
The veteran who made it home in one piece but lost his mind somewhere in the sand. The sting? Every time the fireworks explode and he dives for a war that ended ten years ago.
The addict who tasted freedom for a year… and then one more hit, and the sting pulls him back to the gutter.
The man who climbed the ladder of success, only to realize he leaned it against the wrong wall—and now he’s at the top, alone–divorced, with his kids living on the opposite coast and his wife married to another man.
The sting comes dressed in silk. Whispering promises. Offering beaches, rings, diplomas, and dreams. But it’s always got a needle tucked in its sleeve. And when it hits… oh, it hits.
Just like today. Sun shining, waves rolling, laughter echoing—and then the invisible whip of a jellyfish wraps around some unfortunate person’s leg like a preacher’s conviction.
What if it happens to you?
You scream. You burn. You remember:
Pleasure is temporary.
But the sting?
The sting rewrites your whole story.
Just ask the Bible.
Joseph wore a robe of many colors—until the sting of his brothers’ envy ripped it from his back and threw him into a pit. Sold for silver. Forgotten in a dungeon. But that sting forged a prime minister.
Moses was royalty—until the sting of justice sent him running after killing an Egyptian. Exile. Wilderness. Forty years with sheep. But that sting made him ready for fire from a bush that wouldn’t burn.
John the Baptist baptized the Son of God—and still, the sting found him in Herod’s dungeon. No miracle. No rescue. Just a blade, a platter, and silence. Heaven didn’t flinch.
Jesus turned water into wine. Healed the blind. Raised the dead. And still the sting came—Roman nails, a crown of thorns, and a cross planted between two thieves.
Why?
Because sin has a sting. And someone had to take it.
Peter walked on water—then sank in doubt.
Elijah called fire from heaven—then ran from a woman.
David danced before the Ark—then wept over a child born of adultery.
Samson flexed with God’s strength—then laid his head in the wrong lap and felt the sting of blindness and betrayal.
Judas kissed Jesus… and still couldn’t escape the sting of his own regret.
The Bible is a blood-soaked book of stings.
But here's the twist—
The sting doesn’t get the last word.
Not in the pit.
Not in the prison.
Not at the tomb.
Not even on a hill called Golgotha.
But oh… it feels like the end when it hits, doesn’t it?
But here’s the twist in the tale:
God wastes nothing.
Not the sting.
Not the heartbreak.
Not the sleepless nights where you clutch the sheets and scream into your pillow because nobody’s listening.
Not the funeral. Not the failure. Not the betrayal. Not even the years you thought were lost.
Romans 8:28 wasn’t written in a coffee shop.
It was carved into the hearts of those who had tasted dirt, betrayal, and the inside of prison walls.
“And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to His purpose.”
Read it again.
All. Things.
Not just the church services and the answered prayers.
All. Things.
The sting.
The pit.
The cross.
The grave.
God doesn’t erase your scars.
He repurposes them.
He doesn’t hide the wound.
He resurrects it.
He turns graves into gardens and ruins into revival.
Ask Joseph.
The pit made him powerful. The prison gave him wisdom. The sting made him ready for the crown.
Ask Jesus.
The Cross looked like Hell's victory—but it was Heaven’s ambush.
What felt like the end was just the doorway to redemption.
So if you’re feeling the sting right now—
If the waves are warm but the pain is real—
If life lured you in with promises and then lashed you with jellyfish tentacles of heartbreak and regret—
Don’t quit. Don’t curse. Don’t drown.
God is still writing.
And when He’s done, even the sting will bow down and serve His glory.
What once hurt you…
Will one day heal others.
Because the God who bled on the tree
Can turn every sting
Into a testimony.