perseverance in trials

The Reason behind the Storm

~ Observant Servant

There was a season recently when someone very close to me was walking through something that didn’t make sense.

It wasn’t just a hard week. It wasn’t ordinary stress. It was wave after wave — physical symptoms with no medical explanation, emotional strain, tension in relationships, strange opposition from directions that felt almost coordinated. It lasted for months. She eventually had to step away from work because it became so overwhelming.

And what made it heavier was not just the battle itself, but the commentary surrounding it.

She would reach out for prayer and be met with the same well-meaning counsel: pray more, examine your heart, close doors, renew your mind, forgive again — really forgive. The implication, subtle or not, was that somewhere she must be missing something. Somewhere she must be failing.

But I knew her. I watched her cling to the Word. I saw her fast, pray, seek God with sincerity. If effort alone could have resolved it, it would have.

Not long after, I went through something similar — though not to the same intensity. My health was hit. There were unsettling moments in the house I manage. Car trouble. Disturbances in my sleep. I wasn’t gripped by fear, but I was puzzled. I remember asking quietly, “Lord, what is this?”

When I reached out for prayer, I received the same responses she had. Pray harder. Have more faith. Search for hidden sin. Forgive deeper. It was offered with sincerity. But when that is the only lens applied to suffering, it can become heavy. The enemy is quick to twist it into condemnation.

I began to wrestle with a deeper question: Is protection always the absence of attack? If I am doing what I know to do — renewing my mind, guarding my heart, walking uprightly — does that mean hardship cannot touch me?

Scripture doesn’t support that conclusion.

Job lived righteously, and yet God permitted Satan to test him. His friends were certain he had done something wrong. They searched for hidden fault. But the text makes it clear: this was not punishment. It was permitted for reasons beyond human logic.

In Luke 22:31, Jesus tells Peter, “Satan has asked to sift you as wheat.” The sifting was allowed. But so was the prayer. “I have prayed for you, that your faith may not fail.”

That detail steadies me. Sometimes the attack is not evidence of failure — it is an arena for faith to be strengthened.

In John 9, when the disciples saw a man born blind, their first instinct was to assign blame. “Who sinned?” Jesus answered, “Neither… but that the works of God should be revealed in him.”

That passage has changed the way I look at suffering in others. Not everything is a consequence. Not every storm is self-inflicted.

Sometimes God permits what He intends to redeem.

That realization softened something in me. It made me slower to diagnose, slower to assume, quicker to pray.

In both my friend’s story and mine, there came a moment of breakthrough. For her, it came through prayer offered by someone who carried quiet discernment rather than accusation. For me, it came through a dream where I sensed clearly that the Lord had heard me. From that point forward, the intensity lifted. In my case, something I had struggled with for years finally shifted.

It truly can feel darkest before the dawn.

Looking back, I see that the trial revealed more than weakness. It revealed perseverance. It exposed how quickly we can turn suffering into a checklist of spiritual failures instead of a mystery held in God’s sovereignty.

His thoughts are higher than ours. His ways are not ours.

Sometimes hardship is refining. Sometimes it is revealing. Sometimes it is preparation. And sometimes the reasons are known only to Him.

What I carry forward from that season is this: when someone comes to you in the middle of a storm, offer presence before prescription. Offer prayer before diagnosis. Ask the Lord for wisdom before drawing conclusions.

Their trial may be shaping them. But it may also be shaping you.

Will you respond with compassion? Will you speak gently? Will you trust that God may be doing something far deeper than what is visible?

I am learning that faith is not proven by the absence of attack, but by steady trust in the middle of it.

And when breakthrough comes, it reminds us that He was present the entire time.

Father,

Give us discernment when others are suffering. Guard our tongues from quick conclusions and our hearts from subtle judgment. Teach us to sit with the hurting without rushing to explain what only You understand.

If You allow sifting in our lives, strengthen our faith in the process. If You permit storms, anchor us in Your peace. Help us persevere without self-condemnation and trust that Your purposes are higher than what we see.

Make us gentle helpers. Wise intercessors. Steady friends.

And when the night feels long, remind us that dawn is not delayed — it is appointed.

In Jesus’ name,
Amen.

Baptism Do-over

~ Observant Servant

When I was a teenager, I was baptized more than once.

If I’m honest, I don’t remember much about it other than standing in line with a group of other kids, walking up one side of the baptismal, being dunked, and climbing out the other side while everyone watched. It was something our youth group was doing. It felt expected. Almost routine. I remember the t-shirt afterward more than I remember the meaning.

Years passed.

By December 2020, my relationship with Jesus was no longer casual or borrowed from a group. I loved Him. I understood what baptism represented — death to the old life, resurrection into the new. This time it wasn’t about fitting in. It was about surrender.

And yet, in the days leading up to it, something strange happened.

Instead of excitement, I felt dread.

I couldn’t sleep. Panic attacks surfaced. Anxiety wrapped around me like something alive. On December 13, 2020, I stood on the steps of the baptismal shaking. I remember gripping the railing so tightly my hands hurt. Waves of dizziness hit me. I nearly passed out more than once.

When my name was called, I walked into the water trembling.

I fully expected that when I came up from the water, the fear would be gone. Wasn’t that how it worked? Public declaration. Obedience. Fresh start.

But when I rose from the water, the fear was still there.

I left that service confused and ashamed. I couldn’t understand why something that looked joyful for everyone else felt like torment for me. I replayed it in my mind for months. Then years. I would watch other baptisms — tears, laughter, celebration — and feel a quiet ache inside.

What was wrong with me?

Was I broken? Had I failed somehow? Why did others seem to encounter peace while I encountered panic?

Over time, the memory became something I avoided. I stopped wanting to be present for baptisms. It stirred too many questions.

Then, years later, I found myself at another baptism service. I had no intention of participating. I was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt. No extra clothes. No preparation. I planned to quietly observe and leave.

As I watched someone else step into the water, I felt both joy for them and that familiar longing rise up in me again.

And then I remembered Acts 8 — the Ethiopian eunuch asking Philip, “What hinders me from being baptized?” There was water. There was opportunity. He seized it.

When the invitation was given, I initially declined. The old fear stirred. So did shame. I was part of the ministry team. I should have had it together. What would people think? The thoughts were rapid, accusatory, sharp.

But something deeper in me knew this was a moment.

When I stepped into the water, the fear tried to rise again. It felt familiar — like a script attempting to replay itself. My body tensed. I could feel the resistance inside me. But this time, there was discernment where there had once only been confusion.

Prayer began.

And what had been hidden surfaced.

I won’t dramatize it. I will simply say this: it was a battle. And then it broke.

I felt it leave. Not emotionally. Not imaginatively. Tangibly.

When I went under the water that day — June 22, 2024 — I came up into something I had longed for years earlier. Peace. Lightness. Joy that stayed.

The difference was not my sincerity. I had loved Jesus deeply in 2020. The difference was understanding. There had been fear rooted deeper than I realized, and it had never been addressed. It manifested when I obeyed publicly. And because no one recognized it for what it was, it remained.

Hosea 4:6 says, “My people are destroyed for lack of knowledge.”

That verse feels personal to me now.

I was saved. I loved God. But I did not understand spiritual oppression or deliverance. I thought anxiety was just something I had to manage. I didn’t know it could be confronted and expelled.

Looking back, I don’t feel anger toward the past. I feel gratitude for growth. God did not abandon me in that first baptism. He allowed the process to unfold in its time. He exposed what needed to be addressed when I was ready to face it.

And what I carry now is not embarrassment — it is testimony.

Freedom sometimes comes in layers. Obedience does not always erase struggle instantly. But when the Lord brings light to what has been hidden, it changes everything.

If you have obeyed and still feel bound, do not assume you are defective. If you have declared your faith and still wrestle internally, do not conclude that God is disappointed.

Sometimes the first step is obedience.
Sometimes the next step is deliverance.
And sometimes the breakthrough comes years after the surrender.

But it does come.

Father,

Thank You for Your patience with my process. Thank You for not leaving me in confusion. Where there is fear hiding beneath obedience, expose it gently. Where there is oppression disguised as personality, bring clarity. Give Your people knowledge, discernment, and courage to pursue full freedom.

And for those who feel ashamed that their journey has not looked like someone else’s, remind them that You are writing their story uniquely and carefully.

Let every act of obedience lead not to condemnation, but to deeper liberty.

In Jesus’ name,
Amen.

baptism