I gave my heart to Jesus during a West Texas thunderstorm. Twelve and terrified, I just knew the hundred-year-old lumber of my great-grandfather’s farmhouse provided little shelter from the imagined tornado that threatened to sweep me up at any moment.
But over the clamor of rain pelting the tin roof, my heart heard the whispers of God.
Through the years, I’ve become more “mature” in my approach to God and Scripture. I’ve come to understand that prayer is more than just asking for things or expecting God to be my personal genie. Prayer has become more than crying to God in a storm and experiencing His quiet, gentle comfort.
Years of Bible studies, lay-seminary programs, and church services provided helpful training in learning how to approach the throne of God. Structured ACTS (adoration-confession-thanksgiving-supplication) formats and half-days in prayer with meditation and long Scripture memory have strewn my path to Him.
But I have to confess—tears, anger, questions, and accusations have been hurled His way in some of my less mature darker moments.
And I still find that just as He heard the terrified cries of a twelve-year-old, He hears the whimpers, whines, and wails of a grown woman groping for a God she barely understands–but with the assurance that He is God, even over the storm.
And He delights in the cries of His children when they’re reaching for Him. He wants us to ask. He wants the relationship. He welcomes our conversation.
In different storms today, my heart listens for His still quiet voice. The storms may take the form of a disabled child, a difficult circumstance, or an unending pain. But I still find comfort in knowing that He is good, and He always hears my cries, holds me in my storm, and whispers to my heart.
