The rain had come down all night, hard and unrelenting, as if the sky itself was grieving. I remember sitting by the window, watching the wind wrestle with the trees, leaves flying like scattered prayers. Inside, everything felt just as wild. My heart was tossing with fear I couldn’t name and questions I didn’t have the strength to answer.

That was the night I clung to Psalm 46:1 like a lifeline. Not because I felt strong or brave or certain — but because I didn’t. My faith in that moment wasn’t some grand display of confidence. It was a whisper, a thread, a quiet reaching for the God I believed was still there, even when I couldn’t feel Him.

Storms come in all shapes. Sometimes they’re actual disasters that shake our foundations. Other times, they’re the quiet, creeping ones — the diagnosis, the betrayal, the financial collapse, the inner despair. Whatever their form, they leave us stripped down, raw, searching.

But it’s in those very storms that the truth of Psalm 46:1 becomes more than just words. It becomes breath. Refuge isn’t found in our ability to control the storm but in our willingness to trust the One who holds us through it. Strength isn’t in pretending we’re fine but in knowing that God’s presence never leaves — not even for a second. He is ever-present. Not occasionally. Not conditionally. Always.

I’ve learned that sometimes faith looks like standing still in the wind, not running from it. It looks like crying out, not with polished prayers but with guttural ones. It looks like holding on to hope when everything around you says, “Let go.”

When life feels overwhelming, remember that God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble. Trusting Him allows peace to replace fear. And He meets us there — in the rubble, in the roar, in the rawness. That’s where His strength shines.