What if the storm is the blessing?

Sometimes the storms we beg God to stop may be the ones that save us.

I was driving the other day, heart heavy with prayer, when a song came on the radio that stopped me mid-thought.

It was “Blessings” by Laura Story.

Maybe you know it.

It starts soft—almost like a lullaby—and then it asks a question that pierces straight through:

“What if your blessings come through raindrops?What if Your healing comes through tears?”

I instantly thought of you.

Of us.

The Hope Holders.

The mamas who have prayed for healing, and instead watched the storm clouds roll in.The ones who’ve begged God to break the chains of addiction in their children’s lives…and found themselves instead holding shattered expectations and tear-streaked pillows.

What if the answer is in the breaking?

What if the rain is actually mercy falling?

I don’t ask that lightly. I know how cruel that question can feel when your child is spiraling and your soul is tired.

But I also know this: there is a kind of beauty that only blooms in storm-soaked soil.There is a kind of faith that only rises when everything else has fallen away.

Like the song says:

“What if trials of this life—the rain, the storms, the hardest nights—are Your mercies in disguise?”

I don’t believe God causes addiction.

But I do believe He meets us there.

I’ve seen Him sit beside a weeping mother in the ER waiting room.

I’ve heard His whisper in the silence after another broken promise.

I’ve felt His presence wrap around a mother who finally—finally—let go, not out of despair, but out of holy surrender.

And if I’m being honest…

Had God given me the choice of whether or not to go through the storms of my life—before they came or even now- my answer would’ve been a resounding no.

I would never have chosen the path of suffering I’ve walked.

And I certainly wouldn’t have chosen it for my children.

None of us would.

But I can say this now, with the quiet confidence of someone who has weathered many storm-tossed nights:

I wouldn’t trade what I’ve found in the depths of those dark waters for anything.

The intimacy I’ve discovered with my Savior…

The spiritual grit He’s forged in me…

The wisdom He’s whispered when all other voices went silent…

They are treasures I never would’ve found on calm seas.

In Isaiah 55:8-9, the Bible says, ““For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways,” declares the Lord.  As the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts.”

In our humanness, it’s hard to see beyond our own comfort and happiness.

We long for a life smoothed out and struggle-free, and when things get painful, we start to question God’s will… even His goodness.

But God isn’t working to keep our comfort levels high or our approval ratings of Him soaring.

His ways are higher than ours, and His goals are eternal.

He’s shaping us to look more like Jesus.

He’s drawing us nearer to His heart.

And He’s filling us—not with fleeting ease—but with spiritual gifts our souls couldn’t hold any other way.

And yes… that often means we walk through some dark, disorienting days.

So, to you—my fellow Hope Holder—can I remind you?

The rain does not mean you’re forgotten.

The waiting does not mean you’ve failed.

The storm does not cancel the promise.

Maybe, just maybe…

It’s in these very storms that God is growing something deeper in us.

Not the answer we asked for.

But the one our hearts truly need.

A deeper trust.

A firmer hope.

A soul that knows how to praise in the dark.

Surrendering what I love most—my children—to God’s care and control was the scariest thing I’ve ever done.

Looking back, I can see how tightly I clung to the illusion of control.It had become an idol in my life, deeply rooted and deceptively comforting.

I see now how fruitless it was—like the Israelites trading the favor and protection of the living God for a lifeless golden calf.That’s what I had done.I had no more power to save my child than that statue had to save theirs.

When I finally opened my hands to Jesus, I realized they were empty. They always had been.

I had been gripping tightly… to nothing.

Fighting fiercely… for control I never had.

But when I let go—really let go—He filled those same hands with peace.

With strength.

With wisdom.

With every good gift my weary soul had been starving for.

And then… He did more.

He began restoring my daughter, setting her feet on a path back to wholeness.

And He gave me a second calling—this calling—to walk alongside other mamas in the storm, and remind them:

You are not alone.

If today feels heavy—like the rain won’t stop—I’m praying for you.

That you’ll see the mercies, even in disguise.

That you’ll hold on, even if it’s just by a thread of faith.

That you will loosen your grip on control, even if it’s only by a smidge of hope.

So let me leave you with this, dear Hope Holder:

You are not alone.

God sees you—and He sees your son or daughter too.

You all belong to Him.

He is walking every step of this journey with you, even when the path feels hidden in the shadows.

And so are we—your fellow Hope Holders—standing shoulder to shoulder in prayer and perseverance.

Together, we are fighting a war the enemy thought he could win…

a war for the hearts and souls of our children.

But here’s the truth that steadies us:

The victory already belongs to Jesus.

We don’t have to strive.

We don’t have to save.

We only have to surrender… and hang on.