The wind was howling outside the hospital window, tapping the autumn rain against the glass in a steady rhythm. Inside, the silence wrapped around Jordan like a heavy blanket. One hand clutched a worn Bible, the other trembled as it rested on the edge of the bed. His daughter lay still, hooked up to machines that blinked and beeped but offered no answers.
The doctors had said, “We’ve done all we can.” And now it was up to time, prayer, and—if you’d asked someone at church last Sunday—faith.
Faith. The word echoed in Jordan's mind as he stared at her pale face. What did that even mean now?
He thought about Hebrews 11:1, a verse he’d memorized in Sunday school but never truly understood until desperation made the words feel urgent: “Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.”
Substance. Evidence. Those aren’t shadows or ideas. They’re solid words. Tangible. But his hope didn’t feel solid. It felt shaky, like walking across a rickety bridge in the dark, unsure if the next step would hold.
Maybe you’ve felt that too. Like faith is supposed to be this rock you stand on, but yours feels more like wet sand slipping beneath your feet.
We often think of faith as belief—believing hard enough, believing the right thing, believing without doubt. But Scripture paints a fuller picture. Romans 10:17 tells us that “faith comes from hearing, and hearing through the word of Christ.” Faith doesn’t appear out of thin air. It grows with every whispered prayer, every moment spent in the Word, every reminder that God is who He says He is—even when the circumstances scream the opposite.
But then, James pushes us further. “Faith by itself, if it does not have works, is dead” (James 2:17). As if to say, faith isn’t only what you feel or what you believe—it’s what you do because of what you believe.
Jordan didn’t feel heroic that night. He didn’t feel like a man of massive faith. But he stayed by her bed. He prayed. He whispered Scripture over her, even when it hurt to say the words. He went home and packed a snack bag for her favorite nurse. He smiled at other parents in the hallway, offering a kind word when their worlds were unraveling too.
And there, in all of that, he was living faith.
Faith doesn’t always look like Moses parting the sea. Sometimes it looks like showing up to the hospital for the hundredth day in a row with hope still tucked inside your heart. Faith isn’t the absence of fear—it’s choosing to walk into the unknown anyway, because you know who walks with you.
God never asked us to feel brave—He asked us to trust Him. And trust often looks like action. Like boarding the ark when the sun still shines. Like stepping onto the sea when the storm hasn’t stopped. Like believing He hears when the silence goes on for days.
Faith is a way of living that reflects a heart settled on who God is, even when life is unsettled.
It's writing a grocery card to someone you haven't spoken to in months… because God nudged you. It's tithing when the checking account says “maybe not this month.” It’s forgiving when your heart still aches. Faith moves. Faith breathes. Faith acts.
There’s a kind of faith that sings louder than fear not because the singer is strong, but because the song is true.
Jordan didn’t get a miracle that night. Not a dramatic one, anyway. But in the quiet of 3 a.m., his daughter stirred. Just a flutter. An eyelid tremble. Enough to make the next nurse gasp and run for help. Enough to make Jordan fall to his knees—not in triumph, but in worship. Because in that fragile moment, it wasn’t about what God did. It was about who God still was.
Maybe faith isn’t about clinging tightly to certainty. Maybe it’s about loosening your grip just enough for God to take your hand.
Faith is the substance of things hoped for. And sometimes, its evidence is a weary father whispering Scripture in a sterile room, believing that every word carries more power than the ventilator.
That’s faith. Not a feeling. A choice. A step. A whisper in the dark.
And God meets us there—every single time.
The wind was howling outside the hospital window, tapping the autumn rain against the glass in a steady rhythm. Inside, the silence wrapped around Jordan like a heavy blanket. One hand clutched a worn Bible, the other trembled as it rested on the edge of the bed. His daughter lay still, hooked up to machines that blinked and beeped but offered no answers.
The doctors had said, “We’ve done all we can.” And now it was up to time, prayer, and—if you’d asked someone at church last Sunday—faith.
Faith. The word echoed in Jordan's mind as he stared at her pale face. What did that even mean now?
He thought about Hebrews 11:1, a verse he’d memorized in Sunday school but never truly understood until desperation made the words feel urgent: “Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.”
Substance. Evidence. Those aren’t shadows or ideas. They’re solid words. Tangible. But his hope didn’t feel solid. It felt shaky, like walking across a rickety bridge in the dark, unsure if the next step would hold.
Maybe you’ve felt that too. Like faith is supposed to be this rock you stand on, but yours feels more like wet sand slipping beneath your feet.
We often think of faith as belief—believing hard enough, believing the right thing, believing without doubt. But Scripture paints a fuller picture. Romans 10:17 tells us that “faith comes from hearing, and hearing through the word of Christ.” Faith doesn’t appear out of thin air. It grows with every whispered prayer, every moment spent in the Word, every reminder that God is who He says He is—even when the circumstances scream the opposite.
But then, James pushes us further. “Faith by itself, if it does not have works, is dead” (James 2:17). As if to say, faith isn’t only what you feel or what you believe—it’s what you do because of what you believe.
Jordan didn’t feel heroic that night. He didn’t feel like a man of massive faith. But he stayed by her bed. He prayed. He whispered Scripture over her, even when it hurt to say the words. He went home and packed a snack bag for her favorite nurse. He smiled at other parents in the hallway, offering a kind word when their worlds were unraveling too.
And there, in all of that, he was living faith.
Faith doesn’t always look like Moses parting the sea. Sometimes it looks like showing up to the hospital for the hundredth day in a row with hope still tucked inside your heart. Faith isn’t the absence of fear—it’s choosing to walk into the unknown anyway, because you know who walks with you.
God never asked us to feel brave—He asked us to trust Him. And trust often looks like action. Like boarding the ark when the sun still shines. Like stepping onto the sea when the storm hasn’t stopped. Like believing He hears when the silence goes on for days.
Faith is a way of living that reflects a heart settled on who God is, even when life is unsettled.
It's writing a grocery card to someone you haven't spoken to in months… because God nudged you. It's tithing when the checking account says “maybe not this month.” It’s forgiving when your heart still aches. Faith moves. Faith breathes. Faith acts.
There’s a kind of faith that sings louder than fear not because the singer is strong, but because the song is true.
Jordan didn’t get a miracle that night. Not a dramatic one, anyway. But in the quiet of 3 a.m., his daughter stirred. Just a flutter. An eyelid tremble. Enough to make the next nurse gasp and run for help. Enough to make Jordan fall to his knees—not in triumph, but in worship. Because in that fragile moment, it wasn’t about what God did. It was about who God still was.
Maybe faith isn’t about clinging tightly to certainty. Maybe it’s about loosening your grip just enough for God to take your hand.
Faith is the substance of things hoped for. And sometimes, its evidence is a weary father whispering Scripture in a sterile room, believing that every word carries more power than the ventilator.
That’s faith. Not a feeling. A choice. A step. A whisper in the dark.
And God meets us there—every single time.
