The rain started gently, almost rhythmically, tapping against the windshield as the road stretched out ahead of us. It was late—the kind of night when the world feels smaller and quieter, as if everything important has narrowed down to the stretch of road in front of you.

At first, my hands rested easily on the steering wheel. The hum of the tires and the steady glow of the headlights felt familiar, even comforting. But the storm didn’t stay gentle.

The wind picked up suddenly, pushing against the car just enough to make me lean forward, my grip tightening without thought. Rain fell harder now, blurring the lines of the road, distorting the distance between where we were and where we were going. My shoulders tensed, my jaw set, every sense alert.

I glanced into the rearview mirror.

He was asleep.

Hood pulled up, head tilted slightly toward the window, breathing slow and steady. Completely still. Completely calm. While the storm pressed in from every direction and my thoughts raced ahead to everything that could go wrong, he hadn’t even stirred.

And something inside me shifted. Not out of anger, not even fear exactly, but disbelief.

How could he sleep through this?

As the rain battered the windshield, my mind stayed several steps ahead of the moment. Slick roads. Sudden stops. Responsibility pressing heavier with every mile. I stayed awake because it felt necessary, because surely someone had to be paying attention, had to stay braced for whatever might come next.

He hadn’t missed the signs. He’d seen the sky darken, heard the rain begin. But somewhere between then and now, he had trusted enough to rest. And I wondered if that was how the disciples felt.

Scripture tells us they were crossing the sea when the storm rose suddenly and violently, waves crashing into the boat, water spilling over the sides. These were not inexperienced men. They knew storms and they understood danger. Yet fear took hold as the boat was tossed by the wind.

Meanwhile, Jesus slept.

“And he was in the hinder part of the ship, asleep on a pillow.”

— Mark 4:38

I imagine them glancing toward the back of the boat the way I glanced into the mirror. My hands were frantic, my heart raced, wondering how anyone could remain so calm when everything felt so close to breaking. I wondered if His stillness felt confusing, even hurtful, as though rest in the face of danger must surely mean indifference.

Did they think He didn’t understand the storm?

Did they fear He didn’t care?

The storm outside my car grew louder, the rain relentless, the wind insistent. I stayed alert because resting felt irresponsible. Letting go felt unsafe. Vigilance felt like faith. And yet, He slept.

Not because He was unaware of the storm, and not because He underestimated it, but because His peace was anchored somewhere deeper than the waves.

When the disciples finally woke Him, Scripture tells us it was fear that moved them more than the storm itself.

“Master, carest thou not that we perish?”

— Mark 4:38

Jesus did not scold them for noticing the danger. He did not deny the storm. Instead, He questioned why fear had replaced trust.

“Why are ye so fearful? how is it that ye have no faith?”

— Mark 4:40

That question lingers.

Peace does not mean pretending the storm isn’t real. It does not mean ignoring danger or dismissing responsibility. It means knowing Who is present with you when control slips through your fingers.

For many of us (especially in a world that never quiets down) rest feels risky. Stillness feels like failure and sleep feels like surrender. We believe we must stay alert at all times, because letting our guard down means something terrible will happen if we’re not watching closely enough.

But Scripture offers a different picture.

Sometimes faith looks like staying awake and watching the road. And sometimes faith looks like resting, because you trust that God does not sleep even when you do.

If you are in a season where everything in you feels tense and braced, waiting for the next wave or the next impact, this is not a lack of faith. It is a human response to uncertainty.

And still, peace is possible.

“Peace, be still.”

— Mark 4:39

Those words were spoken to the storm, but they echo into moments like this as well.

And it’s okay. You are allowed to loosen your grip and allowed to breathe, to rest, even when the road ahead feels unclear.

The storm may still be raging, but you are not alone in the car. And you were never meant to carry the outcome by yourself.

A Gentle Invitation

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Your support helps make space for stories that meet people in the middle of their storms—especially those learning, slowly and gently, how to trust again.

Thank you for reading.

May peace meet you, even here. 🌧️🚗