Some of the deepest freedom in my life didn’t come after the storm, it came because of it.

I was working in my garden this week where Jasper snapped this picture. I was pulling weeds after days of heavy rain, and I hear the sweetest garden lesson whisper: 

“This is just like the storms in your life. The years when the rain seemed endless. They weren’t just hard, they were holy. They softened the soil of your heart until the weeds that once held on so tightly could finally be pulled free.”

The rainiest chapters of my life weren’t wasted, they loosened roots that comfort never could.

The rain gave me a desperation so deep that freedom became more valuable than familiarity.

The rain made me willing to surrender what I once fought to keep.

The rain exposed the weeds I had learned to live with.

The rain taught me that healing is often found in the hard work of uprooting.

The rain stripped away the illusion that I could grow while holding onto what was choking me.

The rain revealed what comfort had quietly concealed.

The storms made room for roots that could actually bear fruit.

The storms taught me that growth often begins with letting go.

The storms became the place where God redeemed what the enemy meant to bury me with.

Those torrential rains didn’t just change my circumstances, they changed my heart.

They became the very ground where freedom took root.

So, sometimes, the purpose of the rain isn’t what it grows, but what it prepares us to release.

And for that…. 

I’m grateful for every torrential rain. 

I’m grateful for every storm. 

They didn’t just change my life, God used them to heal it. 

No matter how hard the pruning  was as the storms circled and the rains beat. 

I truly didn’t even know what needed releasing until the storms gave me no other choice. 

No more running.
No more hiding.
No more numbing.

No more stuffing. 

No more ignoring.
No more burying.

Just one root after another, lifted into the light by the hands of a faithful Gardener.

He prunes because He loves us. 

And so I’ve learned through all of this that God has a way of turning painful seasons into holy opportunities, if we’re willing to do the weeding.

We have a choice in the storm. 

When the rain finally lets up, you can step into the garden and do the difficult work of pulling what doesn’t belong… or you can leave it where it is.

But weeds never remain content to stay small.

Says my garden right now 😂

They spread.
They multiply.
They steal the nutrients meant for healthy growth.

Before long, they begin choking the very life God intended to flourish.

Our hearts are no different.

God often allows the rainy seasons to soften the soil of our hearts, not to harm us, but to reveal what has quietly taken root beneath the surface. 

In His mercy, He exposes what needs to be surrendered.

The rain doesn’t do the weeding for us. It simply makes the roots easier to reach.

It offers the invitation to partner with Him in the pruning. Or will we leave the weeds to grow deeper?

I still have to remind myself constantly of this.

The weeding is worth it.

It’s messy.
It’s uncomfortable.

It’s painful.

Sometimes you miss a root, only to find it pushing through the soil again.

Sometimes new weeds appear before you’ve caught your breath.

Sometimes the weeds you’ve ignored don’t just affect your own garden, they spill into the lives of those you love.

Still…

It’s worth every blister.
Every muddy knee.
Every tear shed in the process.

Because I can say this with my whole heart:

I’d walk through every hurricane again if it led me to the freedom I know today.

Every storm.
Every tear.
Every hard season.

Not because I loved the rain…

But, because I love who God grew in it and the God I know because of it. 

Because I love the hope I get to share with humans that need the same that God gave to me.

And if enduring another storm meant that one more person could find hope, I’d gladly stand in the downpours again. 

Once you’ve seen what the sunshine feels like, you can’t help but spend your life pointing others toward the light or the pruning.