The storm does not ask permission. It arrives with the weight of inevitability, tearing through the careful architecture of our days, reducing our plans to scattered leaves. We stand in its path, small and exposed, feeling the first drops strike our upturned faces like accusations. This is where faith ceases to be theory.
In the howling darkness, when the foundations shake, and the waters rise, we discover what we are made of. Not in the sunshine of our victories, not in the comfortable hours when all goes according to design—but here, in the chaos that strips away pretense.
The storm reveals us. It shows whether we built upon rock or sand, whether our convictions were rooted deep or merely superficial.
Yet here is the mystery that confounds the comfortable: miracles do not wait for calm seas. They are born in the tempest. The very winds that threaten to destroy us become the canvas upon which the divine paints its most stunning works. When we have exhausted our strength, when our hands can no longer grip the wheel, when we finally surrender the illusion of control—this is precisely when the impossible becomes possible.
Consider: the seed must be buried in darkness before it breaks toward light. The metal must pass through fire before it becomes the sword. The soul must be pressed beyond its limits before it discovers it had no limits at all. Suffering is not the absence of grace; it is often grace’s most effective messenger.
We endure not because we are strong, but because endurance itself forges strength. Each wave that crashes over us and fails to drown us teaches us something profound about our capacity to breathe underwater. Each night that seems endless eventually surrenders to dawn. The storm that seemed designed to break us becomes, in retrospect, the very thing that made us unbreakable.
This is not optimism. This is something harder, truer. It is the ancient knowledge that the universe bends toward meaning, even when that meaning remains hidden. It is the certainty that our trials are not random cruelties but refining fires. We do not merely survive the storm—we are transformed by it, emerging with eyes that can see in the dark and hands that know how to hold on when everything says let go.
The miracle is not that the storm ends. The miracle is who we become while it rages.
Stand firm. The thunder is not your enemy. It is the sound of your becoming.
Miracles in the storm ~Turning Defeat into Victory