Rain peppered the worn porch, blurring the garden beyond into a watercolor of greens and browns. Eva gripped her chipped mug tighter, steam curling into the chilly air. Another panic attack had left her hollow and raw, her heart still fumbling in her chest for steady ground. She closed her eyes against the worsening rain, wishing—no, pleading—for a life that didn’t feel like drowning every time the world spun too fast.
She thought she had built something solid—a career, relationships, a future. But when anxiety crept in, it tore through everything like a swift storm, leaving only shambles behind. Eva curled her legs beneath her, a bitter laugh catching in her throat. Build her life? Through anxiety? Scripture? She barely managed to get out of bed some mornings.
The old leather-bound Bible her mother gave her years ago rested beside her on the bench, its spine cracked, a ribbon of dried wildflowers pressed between the pages. Eva stared at it, a heavy ache swelling inside. Was this what trusting God was supposed to feel like? Silent and unseen while she shattered?
A tremor passed through her, from cold or fear, she wasn’t sure. She pulled the blanket tighter and nudged the Bible open. The flowers spilled out—tiny purple and yellow traces of a long-forgotten summer. Her gaze fell on the words there. Not carefully chosen, not underlined. Just there, breathing quietly into the rain:
"Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid."
A breath shuddered out of her, slow and shaky. She read it again, then again, letting the words soak into all the jagged places. Peace. Not as the world gives. A different kind of peace—one not tied to circumstances or her ability to keep everything from falling apart.
For the first time in what felt like years, Eva sat still with the discomfort. She didn't try to fix or flee or hide. She just let God sit with her in the rain and the worn-out fear. Tears welled up—not from despair this time, but from the strange, inexplicable sense that maybe she wasn’t fighting alone after all.
Across the street, a neighbor's golden retriever barked joyfully, chasing raindrops. A small laugh escaped her, caught between tears. The absurdity and the wonder of it. Life still shimmered, even in the storm.
Eva pressed her hand against the page and whispered, “Okay, Lord. I trust You. Even when I can’t see. Even when my hands shake.”
It wasn't a grand act of transformation. No sudden bolt of bravery. But a seed planted in ground soaked by rain and tears. A seed of trust.
The days didn't magically get easier. But something had shifted. Each morning that she opened her weary heart to Scripture, she found a little more light, a little more room to breathe. She still trembled sometimes. But she wasn’t trembling alone.
In time, Eva found herself building again—not from control or fear, but from trust. Trusting that God's promises were stronger than her anxiety, that His peace didn’t require perfect days, just an open heart.
Years later, Eva would look at the worn pages of that Bible, still pressed with tiny wildflowers, and smile. A life built not by muscling through the fear, but by resting—daily, stubbornly—in the promises of a God who had never let her fall unseen.
And even now, when storms came, when anxieties whispered like old ghosts at the edges, Eva knew. The rains only watered the life she had built in Him.
—
Bible Verses for Reflection:
Rain peppered the worn porch, blurring the garden beyond into a watercolor of greens and browns. Eva gripped her chipped mug tighter, steam curling into the chilly air. Another panic attack had left her hollow and raw, her heart still fumbling in her chest for steady ground. She closed her eyes against the worsening rain, wishing—no, pleading—for a life that didn’t feel like drowning every time the world spun too fast.
She thought she had built something solid—a career, relationships, a future. But when anxiety crept in, it tore through everything like a swift storm, leaving only shambles behind. Eva curled her legs beneath her, a bitter laugh catching in her throat. Build her life? Through anxiety? Scripture? She barely managed to get out of bed some mornings.
The old leather-bound Bible her mother gave her years ago rested beside her on the bench, its spine cracked, a ribbon of dried wildflowers pressed between the pages. Eva stared at it, a heavy ache swelling inside. Was this what trusting God was supposed to feel like? Silent and unseen while she shattered?
A tremor passed through her, from cold or fear, she wasn’t sure. She pulled the blanket tighter and nudged the Bible open. The flowers spilled out—tiny purple and yellow traces of a long-forgotten summer. Her gaze fell on the words there. Not carefully chosen, not underlined. Just there, breathing quietly into the rain:
"Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid."
A breath shuddered out of her, slow and shaky. She read it again, then again, letting the words soak into all the jagged places. Peace. Not as the world gives. A different kind of peace—one not tied to circumstances or her ability to keep everything from falling apart.
For the first time in what felt like years, Eva sat still with the discomfort. She didn't try to fix or flee or hide. She just let God sit with her in the rain and the worn-out fear. Tears welled up—not from despair this time, but from the strange, inexplicable sense that maybe she wasn’t fighting alone after all.
Across the street, a neighbor's golden retriever barked joyfully, chasing raindrops. A small laugh escaped her, caught between tears. The absurdity and the wonder of it. Life still shimmered, even in the storm.
Eva pressed her hand against the page and whispered, “Okay, Lord. I trust You. Even when I can’t see. Even when my hands shake.”
It wasn't a grand act of transformation. No sudden bolt of bravery. But a seed planted in ground soaked by rain and tears. A seed of trust.
The days didn't magically get easier. But something had shifted. Each morning that she opened her weary heart to Scripture, she found a little more light, a little more room to breathe. She still trembled sometimes. But she wasn’t trembling alone.
In time, Eva found herself building again—not from control or fear, but from trust. Trusting that God's promises were stronger than her anxiety, that His peace didn’t require perfect days, just an open heart.
Years later, Eva would look at the worn pages of that Bible, still pressed with tiny wildflowers, and smile. A life built not by muscling through the fear, but by resting—daily, stubbornly—in the promises of a God who had never let her fall unseen.
And even now, when storms came, when anxieties whispered like old ghosts at the edges, Eva knew. The rains only watered the life she had built in Him.
—
Bible Verses for Reflection:
