Nothing was Breaking
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I stepped onto the porch the morning after a recent ice storm and was struck by the deep quiet that settled over everything. Our power was still on - something we hadn’t expected. No branches or trees lay scattered across the yard. No damage or loss. The scene before me was quietly beautiful - a light dusting of snow blanketing the ground, trees coated in ice that looked almost like glass.
I thanked God - for protection, for provision, for how gently this storm had passed us by.
Then the wind moved, and the silence was broken.
As it whirled through the trees, a sound rose that both terrified and amazed me. Frozen branches swayed overhead - towering trees, stiff and burdened, danced back and forth beneath the weight of ice. The sound was unfamiliar and haunting. A low, eerie creaking. Not snapping or shattering, just… straining. (Gosh, I wish I could have captured it for you to hear - I haven’t heard a sound quite like it.)
Nothing was breaking.
But everything was bearing weight.
In that moment it wasn’t the chaos of the storm that moved me - it was the aftermath. The way the trees stood under the weight they did not choose, holding ice that wasn’t theirs to carry, responding to the wind the only way they could.
I thought to myself…there are seasons of life that feel exactly like that.
The storm has passed. The crisis didn’t take you out. The prayer was answered - at least partially. From the outside, everything looks intact. You’re still standing. Still functioning. Still faithful. And yet weight still remains.
Life grows quiet again, but not light. Gratitude mixes with unease. Relief walks hand in hand with exhaustion. You thank God for what didn’t happen, even as you feel the strain of what still is.
I was thinking of quite a few people in my life walking through this and realized, it is a strange place to stand.
It’s not the raw fear of the storm.
It’s not the peace of resolution.
It’s the in-between - where faith feels less like confidence and more like endurance.
Then I realized, the Bible doesn’t shy away from this space.
Esther stood in it - carrying the weight of a people’s survival on shoulders she never asked for. “For such a time as this” (Esther 4:14) wasn’t a triumphant slogan. It was a trembling invitation into obedience.
Joseph knew it too - betrayed, forgotten, imprisoned. Years passed before the promise made sense. He wasn’t breaking, but he was bearing weight.
David wrote psalms from caves long before he wore a crown. Anointed, yet hunted. Chosen, yet strained.
Even Paul carried a “thorn in the flesh” he pleaded to have removed. God did not take it away. He said, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness” (2 Corinthians 12:9). Not removal, but sustaining.
And Jesus Himself - in Gethsemane - sweat like drops of blood beneath the crushing weight of what was coming (Luke 22:44). Not breaking. But bearing.
Scripture is full of people who were not falling apart - but were under pressure.
“We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; struck down, but not destroyed.”
2 Corinthians 4:8–9
“Hard pressed, but not crushed...” Those words feel like the sound of those icy trees.
Pressed.
Weighted.
Strained.
But still rooted.
We often measure faith by how calm we feel, how certain we are, how steady our voice sounds when we pray. But faith isn’t always the absence of strain. Sometimes faith sounds like creaking under pressure; it sounds unfamiliar - even unsettling - to our own ears.
The trees didn’t fight the ice. They didn’t panic in the wind. They didn’t snap to prove their strength. They simply stood, flexing where they could, groaning where they had to.
I found wisdom in observing their practice of endurance.
So much of our spiritual formation happens in quiet, heavy seasons. Seasons where God feels close but not loud. Where prayers are answered but bodies are tired. Where nothing is technically wrong, yet everything requires effort.
These are the moments we’re tempted to question ourselves.
Why does this still feel hard if God is good?
Why do I feel fragile when nothing is falling apart?
Why does peace feel so… strained?
But scripture reminds us that weight does not mean weakness.
“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”
Psalm 34:18
Sometimes we are not broken - we are burdened. And God is no less present in that.
That morning on the porch, I felt God speak to me through those trees.
They reminded me that standing is holy work.
That holding on matters.
That endurance can be worship.
They reminded me that God does not only meet us in the calm, silent snowfall - but also in the eerie, unfamiliar noises of a world bearing weight and still remaining upright.
Maybe you’re in a season like that now. Hope feels quieter than usual. Joy feels more tender. You’re still rooted, but you can hear the strain when the wind blows. If that’s you, hear this:
Faith does not always roar. Sometimes it creaks. Sometimes it trembles. Sometimes it sounds strange even to the one carrying it. And still, it holds. (again David’s psalms are a beautiful example of this)
God is not disappointed by your weariness. He is not surprised by the weight you feel. He is not measuring your faith by how unbothered you appear.
He sees the ice on your branches.
He hears the sound you make when life shifts, but your eyes stay focused on Him.
He calls it standing.
Not just in the storm - but after it.
Not just in the breaking - but in the bearing.
“I know what it is to be in need, and I know what it is to have plenty. I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation... I can do all this through him who gives me strength.”
Philippians 4:12-13
