Growing up in Bruce, Wisconsin, life felt as steady as the change of seasons. My days revolved around helping on our small dairy farm, attending church every Sunday with my family, and the quiet comfort of knowing everyone in town. Faith, for me, was something familiar, like the scent of hay in the summer – always present, always comforting, but not something I actively thought about much. It was just… there. Then came the year the rains wouldn’t stop. Our fields became waterlogged, the cows grew restless, and a gnawing worry settled in my parents’ eyes. For the first time, the rhythm of our predictable life was broken. I remember one particularly dreary afternoon, staring out at the flooded fields, a feeling of helplessness washing over me. I prayed, a quick, almost rote plea, but it felt like my words were swallowed by the relentless downpour. Where was the comfort I’d always associated with my faith?
One particularly stressful evening, Mom asked me to run over to Mrs. Olson’s for a cup of her famous chamomile tea – said it would help calm Dad’s nerves. Mrs. Olson lived a few farms down, a woman known for her gentle spirit and unwavering faith, even after losing her husband years prior. As I sat in her cozy kitchen, the rain drumming softly on the windowpane, I confessed my anxieties about the farm and my wavering sense of peace. Mrs. Olson listened intently, her kind eyes never leaving mine. When I finished, she didn’t offer a quick fix or a sermon. Instead, she reached for her worn Bible and read a passage from Matthew about not worrying about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Then, she shared a story about a time her farm faced a similar hardship. She spoke not of a miraculous clearing of the skies, but of the unexpected kindness of neighbors who came to help, of the strength she found in prayer, not for the storm to cease, but for the courage to endure it. She showed me a small, intricately carved wooden bird her husband had made during that difficult time, a tangible reminder that even in the darkest storms, beauty and hope can still take flight.
Leaving Mrs. Olson’s that night, the rain hadn’t stopped, but something within me had shifted. Her story wasn’t about a fairytale ending, but about finding grace in the midst of struggle. It wasn’t about demanding the storm to pass, but about seeking strength to weather it. Over the next few weeks, the sun finally peeked through the clouds, just enough for a late but crucial harvest. More importantly, just as Mrs. Olson had shared, our community rallied around us, offering help in ways we hadn’t expected. I realized that faith wasn’t just about the good times; it was the anchor that held us steady when the waves crashed. It was in the kindness of our neighbors, the quiet resilience of my parents, and the unexpected wisdom shared over a cup of chamomile tea. The storm taught me that faith isn’t always a feeling of unwavering certainty, but often a quiet trust in something bigger than ourselves, a trust that manifests in unexpected gifts and the strength found within community.
