Clara pressed her forehead against the cool windowpane, watching raindrops race down the glass as the gray afternoon swallowed up the little light left in the sky. Her apartment, usually filled with the gentle murmur of worship music, was painfully silent. There was a time, not long ago, when trust had come easily—before the layoff, before the unanswered prayers, before the letter from her landlord.
She slid down onto the floor, wrapping her arms around her knees. "Lord," she whispered, the word barely a breath, "how am I supposed to trust You when everything keeps falling apart?"
There was no lightning bolt answer. No booming voice from heaven. Just the patter of rain and the ache of waiting.
Hours passed that way, the world outside dimming into evening, when an old memory floated to the surface unexpectedly—her grandmother’s garden. Clara could still see her there, kneeling in the spring mud, cooing at the tiny, stubborn shoots of green poking through the earth. Her grandmother had always said, "We trust the seeds we’ve planted — we know they’ll grow, even when they’re hidden in the dark for what feels like forever."
Clara closed her eyes and let herself remember the sun-warmed afternoons, the scent of moist soil, the way her grandmother laughed like she carried sunlight in her chest.
Maybe faith was like that, she thought. Not the absence of fear, but the decision to water what’s hidden, believing God would do what He promised—even before she could see it.
A tiny flicker of hope sparked in her chest. It wasn't a solution to her problems, but it was something better—a small, stubborn belief that she wasn’t sitting here alone. God was still weaving her story, even in this quiet chapter.
Still hugging herself, Clara rose slowly to her feet. She grabbed her Bible from the coffee table and let it fall open without thinking. Her eyes landed on Proverbs 3:5: "Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding."
Tears welled, but this time, they didn’t feel like defeat. They felt like surrender.
Clara lit a candle on the windowsill, its golden glow fighting the gloom. She whispered again—not desperate this time, but softly, like a conversation between old friends.
"I’ll trust You, even here."
A few days later, the letter arrived—not an eviction notice as she feared, but a handwritten note from her landlord. He had heard about the layoffs, he wrote, and wanted to offer her a reduced rent for the next few months to help her get back on her feet. Along with it was a small envelope with a gift card to the grocery store.
In the middle of her stunned laughter, Clara looked up, heart swelling with wonder. She hadn't been abandoned. She'd been carried.
She wasn’t sure what the next months would hold, but she knew this: God's promises weren't empty. And even when all she could see was darkness, He was at work beneath the surface, preparing gardens she could not yet imagine.
—
Scripture Support:
Clara pressed her forehead against the cool windowpane, watching raindrops race down the glass as the gray afternoon swallowed up the little light left in the sky. Her apartment, usually filled with the gentle murmur of worship music, was painfully silent. There was a time, not long ago, when trust had come easily—before the layoff, before the unanswered prayers, before the letter from her landlord.
She slid down onto the floor, wrapping her arms around her knees. "Lord," she whispered, the word barely a breath, "how am I supposed to trust You when everything keeps falling apart?"
There was no lightning bolt answer. No booming voice from heaven. Just the patter of rain and the ache of waiting.
Hours passed that way, the world outside dimming into evening, when an old memory floated to the surface unexpectedly—her grandmother’s garden. Clara could still see her there, kneeling in the spring mud, cooing at the tiny, stubborn shoots of green poking through the earth. Her grandmother had always said, "We trust the seeds we’ve planted — we know they’ll grow, even when they’re hidden in the dark for what feels like forever."
Clara closed her eyes and let herself remember the sun-warmed afternoons, the scent of moist soil, the way her grandmother laughed like she carried sunlight in her chest.
Maybe faith was like that, she thought. Not the absence of fear, but the decision to water what’s hidden, believing God would do what He promised—even before she could see it.
A tiny flicker of hope sparked in her chest. It wasn't a solution to her problems, but it was something better—a small, stubborn belief that she wasn’t sitting here alone. God was still weaving her story, even in this quiet chapter.
Still hugging herself, Clara rose slowly to her feet. She grabbed her Bible from the coffee table and let it fall open without thinking. Her eyes landed on Proverbs 3:5: "Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding."
Tears welled, but this time, they didn’t feel like defeat. They felt like surrender.
Clara lit a candle on the windowsill, its golden glow fighting the gloom. She whispered again—not desperate this time, but softly, like a conversation between old friends.
"I’ll trust You, even here."
A few days later, the letter arrived—not an eviction notice as she feared, but a handwritten note from her landlord. He had heard about the layoffs, he wrote, and wanted to offer her a reduced rent for the next few months to help her get back on her feet. Along with it was a small envelope with a gift card to the grocery store.
In the middle of her stunned laughter, Clara looked up, heart swelling with wonder. She hadn't been abandoned. She'd been carried.
She wasn’t sure what the next months would hold, but she knew this: God's promises weren't empty. And even when all she could see was darkness, He was at work beneath the surface, preparing gardens she could not yet imagine.
—
Scripture Support:
