As a child, I was riddled with several unique phobias. I battled “merinthophobia”—the irrational fear of being restrained, held down, or tied up. I suffered from “basophobia”—the fear of falling, specifically from ladders or stairs (this is actually still a trial!). The greatest phobia I encountered in my youth was “astraphobia”—the fear of thunder and lightning. I cringed when storms would come through because of the sudden flashes and crashes that invaded my ears. I especially hated to be awakened in the night by the violent rumbles of a storm.
One afternoon when I was around six or seven, a summer thunderstorm began to roar through our county. Dreading what was to come, I summoned my family to join me in our living room to pray the storm away. After joining our hands together, I prayed as fervently as ever. Within moments, the clouds began to break and the sun began to shine. What appeared to be a traumatic experience turned into a joyous occasion of celebration.
As I have grown older, I have realized that not all storms come with rain and thunder. Some arrive quietly either through a phone call, a doctor’s report, or an unexpected loss. The same dread that once made me hide under blankets as a child now tries to whisper its way into my adult life. Fear may look different with age, but its voice is familiar. It is the same tremble of uncertainty that wonders, “What if this does not pass? What if I cannot handle this one?”
Through the years, I’ve learned that storms serve a purpose. They remind us that we are not in control. They push us to look upward and remember Who is. Just as the skies can clear in an instant, seasons of difficulty can give way to peace just as suddenly. The God who spoke light into darkness still calms storms today whether those storms are around us or within us.
While I can testify to a personal “Peace, be still” moment, there have also been times I’ve prayed for the storm to stop and it did not. The thunder still rolled, and the rain still fell. But even in those moments, I began to sense something deeper—the presence of peace that does not depend on the weather. It’s the same assurance the disciples felt when Jesus stood in their boat in the middle of that storm and declared, “Peace, be still.” That storm did not catch Him by surprise, and neither do ours.
Life will always have storms, but faith gives us shelter. It does not promise a life without lightning, but it promises a steady hand to hold until the clouds break. Hope is not found in escaping the storm, but in discovering the One who rides it out with us.
