Seeing Through the Storm

This past Saturday, I corralled our five children into the car along with bags of brightly-colored beach towels, water bottles, snacks, and all kinds of miscellaneous kid stuff. A few minutes later, I picked up my sister from her house and we continued the nearly two-hour drive in the jam-packed mini-van to the Atlantic coast for an afternoon in the sun.

It was a beautiful plan until the billowing clouds grew taller and darker and about two-thirds of the way to our destination, the heavens opened and deluged us so relentlessly that the cars passing me on the left sprayed such an abundance of white water onto my windshield that it was all I could see. The flash-flood waters were rising, and we pulled into a parking lot to check weather radar on the phone.

We could call it a wash and simply turn around and drive home. Or, we could hope against hope and keep driving. Yes, I was a crazy lady and chose the second option.

One of my optimistic sons reassured me from the backseat that by the time the storm cleared, the sand would be fabulous for sculpting!

We’d come this far, and there was a likelihood that the skies would clear, although nothing was certain. We reached our beach destination, but the rain still poured and lightning cracked and thunder  boomed and even my optimistic son bemoaned a wasted Saturday from the backseat.

Was I being stubborn or persistent? The radar indicated that there would be a let up, but the timing kept changing. We ended up waiting at least two more hours in the parking lot before being allowed on the beach, but…

When we stepped on the warm, wet sand, the whole gorgeous ocean stretched in front of us. The entire beach was empty except for my family, the life guards, and a handful of other tourists. The kids settled into sculpting and swimming, and I sighed, “Thank you, God,” with heartfelt gratitude mixed with relief.

It was a picture to me of hope. There was no guarantee that the skies would clear or that the storm would cease, but for a time it did. We pressed in and waited, hoping for what we couldn’t see, and for our four hours of stormy weather we were rewarded with a delightful two hours of sunshine and calm seas.

We don’t see through the storms of life to the other side with our physical eyes. We press in, and we often want to give up and turn around. There’s no guarantee that the clouds will clear or that we’ll see the sunshine again. 

Sometimes, though, we catch a glimpse of glory. On the drive home, we saw one in the towering clouds. Piled on top of one another with rays of sunlight streaming through them, I imagined the throne room of heaven and thought, if what I see is this breath-taking, how much more incredible is what I don’t yet see!

We hope for what we do not see. This is what hope is. And we pray that God would open our spiritual eyes to see more of what is unseen in order to build and strengthen our faith and our hope for the inevitable storms of life. We see through the storms of life with spiritual eyes of faith and hope.

By the time we pulled up in front of our house, the dark front of a new storm swept in behind us, and in front I saw another one forming in the distance. We gathered what we needed from the car, and the kids and I made a run for the shelter of home. Refuge. Sanctuary. Safety.

God is my refuge. He is my shelter in the storm. He is my safe place. And he will lead me through the storms and all the way home.


For more about Katie's book, Loving My Children, click here. 

Email Katie at lovingmychildrenbook@gmail.com.