Let It Rain

There comes a point in every life when the sky darkens—when what used to feel steady starts to shake, when joy turns quiet, and the light you counted on fades into clouds. Maybe it happens all at once, or maybe it creeps in slowly, until one day you realize the sunshine you used to live under has turned to rain. The laughter that once filled your days now feels distant, and the blue skies that made you feel alive are covered in shades of gray.

For many of us, that’s where faith becomes real. It’s easy to praise when the sun is shining. It’s easy to trust when the road is smooth. But when the storms come—and they always come—that’s when you learn what you’re really standing on.

Is there anybody’s sunshine been turned to rain? Is there anybody’s blue sky been turned to gray? Those words hit deep because we’ve all been there. We’ve all had seasons where the joy we once knew turned into pain, where what was supposed to be good turned out to be hard, where the happiness we thought would last forever faded into something we never expected.

I’ve lived through that kind of rain. Watching Tim battle PNES, seeing the way anxiety and fear can trigger seizures that leave him drained, powerless, and hurting—it’s the kind of storm you can’t prepare for. There are good days where hope shines bright, and then, without warning, the clouds roll in again. It’s hard not to feel helpless sometimes, standing in the rain with no control over when it will stop. But somewhere in that storm, I’ve learned that even when everything around me feels uncertain, God’s presence is the one thing that never changes.

All I know, He’s at work, and He’s working on me. Those words are everything. Because sometimes, faith doesn’t mean God stops the storm. Sometimes it means He works through it. He uses it to shape us, to deepen us, to remind us that our strength was never the foundation—He was. The rain that feels like ruin is often the very thing that brings growth.

So let it rain, let it pour. Lord, I need You more and more. There’s a strange kind of peace that comes when you stop fighting the rain and start trusting what it can do. When you stop begging for control and start believing that even this storm has purpose. The truth is, we don’t grow in the sunshine. We grow in the rain. It’s in the dark, quiet places—where our hearts are stretched and our faith is tested—that roots take hold.

When I look back over the past months and years, through every seizure, every hospital visit, every night spent worrying about what’s next, I can see it now—He’s been working. Not just in Tim, but in me. He’s been teaching me how to let go of fear, how to rest in His timing, how to believe that even when life doesn’t make sense, He still does.

Every day, whatever You want, not my will but Yours, Lord. Let it rain, rain down on me. That’s not an easy prayer to pray. Surrender rarely is. But there’s something freeing about it—acknowledging that I don’t have to fix everything, that I don’t have to hold the sky up myself. Letting go of my plans, my expectations, my need to control—it’s terrifying, but it’s also where peace begins.

We’re so quick to see rain as something bad, something to escape. But what if it’s actually a blessing in disguise? What if the downpour is washing away the things that were never meant to stay? What if the storm is the only way God can clear the air, water the ground, and prepare us for something new to grow?

Is there anybody’s mountain too tall to climb? Is there anybody’s faith feel like you’re running dry? Yes—probably every one of us at some point. We all have our mountains. For some, it’s illness. For others, it’s loss, addiction, loneliness, or fear. And when the mountain looms large, faith can feel small. You start to wonder if God really sees you, if He’s really listening. But then, just when you’re at your weakest, He reminds you—He’s still able. He’s still moving. He’s still God.

He can make every mountain, He’ll throw that mountain into the sea. I’ve seen Him do it—not in a way that always makes the problem disappear, but in a way that changes how I face it. He gives courage where there was once fear. He gives endurance where there was once exhaustion. He gives peace where there was once panic. The mountain may still stand, but suddenly it doesn’t look so impossible anymore.

I think sometimes God allows the rain and the mountains not to punish us, but to remind us that we were never meant to walk this life alone. We were never meant to carry it all by ourselves. He invites us into the storm—not to drown, but to learn how to trust the One who commands the waves.

And trust doesn’t mean you won’t cry, or doubt, or question. It means that even in those moments, you keep turning toward Him instead of away. You keep saying, “Lord, I don’t understand this, but I still believe You’re here.” That’s what real faith looks like. It’s not perfect—it’s persistent. It keeps showing up, rain or shine.

Maybe that’s what this song is really about—not pretending the storm doesn’t exist, but learning how to stand in it differently. To say, “Yes, it’s raining. Yes, I’m hurting. Yes, I’m scared. But Lord, I need You more and more. Let it rain if it must, because I’d rather be soaked in Your presence than dry in my pride.”

There’s beauty in that kind of surrender. There’s strength in admitting weakness. There’s peace in knowing that the same God who sends the rain also sends the rainbow. The same hands that allow the storm are the ones that hold you steady through it.

I don’t know what your rain looks like right now. Maybe it’s loss. Maybe it’s illness. Maybe it’s uncertainty about what tomorrow will bring. Maybe you’re standing in the middle of it, drenched in fear, tired of waiting for the sun to break through. But hear this—you’re not alone in the storm. God is not absent. He is in the rain. He is working in ways you can’t yet see, writing redemption into every drop.

And one day, you’ll look back and realize that the rain you once feared was the very thing that nourished your soul. You’ll see that every tear, every struggle, every unanswered question was part of a process that led you closer to Him.

So, let it rain. Let it pour. Not because the storm isn’t painful, but because even in the pouring, there’s purpose. Even in the thunder, there’s truth. Even in the flood, there’s faithfulness.

The sunshine will return—maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow—but it will. And when it does, you’ll see that the same God who was with you in the storm is the one who painted the sky afterward. You’ll feel the warmth of His presence in a new way, because you’ll know—He never left you. Not for a second.

So when the rain falls again, as it always will, don’t run from it. Lift your face toward Heaven and whisper, “Lord, whatever You want—not my will, but Yours. Let it rain.”

Because sometimes, it’s in the rain that we find the clearest view of the Light.