Praising Through The Storm

I was sure by now that God would have reached down and wiped our tears away. That He would have stepped in and saved the day, that the weight of this season would have lifted, and we would have found our way back to the life we once knew. But here we are, and it’s still raining.

Tim’s battle with PNES has taken us down a road we never expected to walk. It has tested our strength, our patience, our faith. It has left us exhausted, worn, searching for answers that don’t come easy. Some days, I feel like I’m standing on shifting ground, trying to hold us steady while the world tilts beneath my feet. I’ve prayed—oh, how I’ve prayed. I’ve whispered desperate pleas in the quiet of the night, begging for healing, for relief, for something to make sense again. I’ve cried out to God, asking why, asking when, asking if He even hears me.

And yet, the storm still rages.

There are moments when the weight of it all presses so heavily on my chest that I struggle to breathe. Being the sole provider, the caregiver, the one who has to be strong when I feel anything but—it’s a burden I never imagined carrying. Some days, I want to scream at the sky, demanding an answer, demanding a miracle. Other days, I am simply too tired to ask anymore. It’s in those moments that the silence feels the loudest, when the storm feels unrelenting, when it feels like God is nowhere to be found.

But as the thunder rolls, as the chaos of this journey surrounds us, I listen closely. In the midst of the fear, in the exhaustion, in the heartbreak, I hear a whisper through the rain: “I’m with you.”

And maybe that’s the mercy I’ve been missing. Maybe the miracle isn’t the storm ceasing—it’s the presence of God within it. It’s the strength to stand when I feel like falling, the love that holds us together when everything else feels like it’s breaking apart. It’s the gentle reminders in the smallest of moments—the touch of Tim’s hand, the comfort of his voice, the quiet understanding between us that even in our struggle, we are not alone. It’s in the way we keep pushing forward, even on the hardest days, even when the road is long and uncertain.

I’ve come to realize that faith is not about the absence of storms, but about learning to trust in the midst of them. It’s about raising my hands, even when they feel too heavy. It’s about choosing to believe that God is still good, even when life feels anything but. It’s about understanding that He is not absent just because I can’t always feel Him—He is in the very breath I take, in the moments of peace that somehow find their way into the chaos.

So I lift my hands, not because the storm is over, but because I know He is still God—no matter where I am, no matter how strong the winds may blow. Every tear I’ve cried, He has seen. Every fear I’ve carried, He has held. And though my heart is torn, though this journey feels so much heavier than I ever imagined, I will praise Him in this storm.

Because even in the rain, even in the uncertainty, I know we are not forsaken.

And that is enough to keep going.