Confident Through the Storms

My right lung felt like it carried a boulder inside—a weight pressing against every breath. The doctors said the fluid buildup wasn’t just pneumonia; it was cancer cells, settling in and refusing to budge. Every week they drained it, and every week it came back.

I whispered, “God, it’s just You and me now.” My voice cracked, barely audible. “I can’t do this without You. I don’t know how I’m going to get through today, much less next week. But I know you’re here. You promised me you would never leave me.”

In that moment, something shifted. It wasn’t a dramatic sudden burst of strength or a voice from heaven, but it was peace. That evening, I prayed again with confidence. “Thank You, Lord. I don’t know what tomorrow will look like, but I know you’ve got it covered.”

Tomorrow came with the weather reports of severe storms, then hurricane advisories, and finally evacuation orders. Hurricane Michael wasn’t just coming; it was roaring toward us, promising destruction like nothing we’d ever seen.

I stood in my small trailer, my hands shaking as I stuffed clothes, keepsakes, and medications into a duffel bag. It wasn’t much, but it was all I could take. My doctor had been firm: “You need to evacuate. Find somewhere with good hospitals, somewhere safe.” Safe. It felt like a foreign word.

I slid into the driver’s seat of my car, gripping the wheel tightly. My chest tightened—not from cancer this time, but from the ache of leaving. I glanced back at my little home, the place that had sheltered me through countless storms of life and whispered a prayer. “Lord, it’s in Your hands now. Keep it safe—or if not, keep me steady.”

Days later, I sat in my friend’s living room, glued to the TV. The footage was horrifying homes flattened, trees uprooted, neighborhoods I recognized reduced to debris.

When it was safe to go back, I made the drive and when I pulled into my neighborhood, my worst fear was confirmed. The roof of my trailer was gone.

This wasn’t the first time I’d lost everything. I’d been homeless before, and God had carried me through. He’d shown me, time and again, that no matter how bad it got, He wouldn’t leave me stranded.

I salvaged what I could and as the days passed, that peace grew, reminding me that this storm, like all the others, was temporary.

Weeks turned into months, and the reality of rebuilding settled heavily on my shoulders. Once, I found myself standing in my friend’s yard, praying. “God,” I said, “I’m trying, are You even listening? Because I’m about to lose my faith here, and I don’t know what to do!”

My friend must have heard me. “You can’t lose your faith,” she said firmly, “We’re leaning on you. Your faith keeps the rest of us going. You can’t give up now.”

Her words hit me like a jolt. I hadn’t realized how much others were watching, how much my faith—fragile as it felt—was holding them up too.

As I stood on my lot weeks later, watching the foundation of my new place take shape, I thought back to that night in the yard. My faith hadn’t been perfect, but God hadn’t needed perfect faith to move. He’d just needed me to hold on, even if by a thread.

Looking back now, I see it clearly: God was there the whole time, piecing things together in His way, in His timing. He hadn’t left me, not for a moment, even when I felt lost.