Heat, Humility, and the Ascent
The trail wasn’t long, just 3.6 miles on paper but under a heavy sun and 90% humidity, it might as well have been 200 miles. I was guiding a group of kids, teaching them to climb. But before we ever touched the face, the mountain tested our mettle. Every step tested our grit. It was the kind of hike where every step pulls more from your lungs and legs than you expected.
We sweat. We staggered, but we kept going.
Upward. Always upward.
Toward the summit.
Once we crested the ridge, I got to work anchoring the ropes. This was the whole reason we were here. The climb. The rock. The challenge. As I clipped carabiners in, I looked out across the valley, and I saw it.
An unexpected storm. Thunder rolling low like a drumbeat of warning; or maybe invitation. It wasn’t fast. It wasn’t violent. But it was coming.
We managed a few climbs before the rain made its entrance. At first, it was just a whisper, barely enough to notice. We packed up and started the descent.
And that’s when the storm met us.
But not in a way that punished or panicked. No lightning strikes. No rushing winds. Just a steady rhythm; the kind that silences chatter and slows your breath. The rain fell like a song on the leaves. The trail turned to a stream, and our feet sloshed through what felt like baptism.
For me, it felt like something holy. Like the storm had washed away the sweat, the strain, and even the invisible residue of what we’d carried into the morning. It felt cleansing. Healing, even.
That descent became the most sacred part of the day. Not the climbs. Not the summit. The storm.
What Storms Do for Us
We don’t often invite storms. Not on the trail, and certainly not in life. But storms reveal things sunshine can’t.
They strip away the illusion of control. They bring us face-to-face with discomfort, with dependency, with grace. And they wash away more than sweat. They cleanse the soul.
Psychologist Carl Jung once said,
“Only the paradox comes anywhere near to comprehending the fullness of life.”
That’s the truth of a storm. It can be both disruptive and healing. Both feared and needed. These paradoxes help us hold the tension of real life. They don’t give easy answers, but they bring us closer to the truth.
Dr. Brené Brown echoes this when she writes,
“You can’t get to courage without walking through vulnerability.”
Storms don’t just make us wet; they make us real. They peel back the layers we hide behind.
Sometimes the storm is the only thing honest enough to break us open.
Faith on the Trail
There’s a lie we sometimes believe in spiritual circles. It suggests that if we’re doing life right, the skies will stay clear. The path will be smooth.
But Scripture tells another story.
Romans 8:28 reminds us that “all things work together for good.” Not just the mountain highs, but the thunderheads too. The soaked socks. The plans that wash away. The descent that didn’t go the way we drew it up.
Faith isn’t about comfort. It’s about connection.
To God, the journey, and to each other.
And sometimes, connection comes not through certainty, but through surrender.
Re-framing the Rain
If you’ve lived long enough, you’ve hiked through a few storms. And maybe you’ve come to see what I saw that day descending the mountain:
The storm didn’t ruin the climb.
It completed it.
Because what we needed most wasn’t just the view or the victory.
We needed…
The water.
To be undone a little.
The grace that only comes when we stop trying to manage the moment and just move through it.
The thing is, the storm gives life.
It may feel like an interruption. It may soak your gear and wash away your plans.
But rain doesn’t just fall to the earth. It feeds it.
Without the storm, the forest withers.
The trail dries and cracks.
The flowers stop blooming.
And our hearts? They grow hard and brittle when the rain stays away too long.
Psychologist and author Dr. Sue Johnson writes,
“In relationships, we don’t need to fix the storm. We need to hold each other in it.”
Maybe that’s what God does, too.
He doesn’t always part the clouds.
Sometimes, He lets the storm fall, so that something deeper can grow.
Final Descent
The mountain didn’t change that day.
We did.
Not because of the summit.
Not because of the climbs.
But because we walked down the trail drenched and whole, shaped by something bigger than us.
So the next time the clouds roll in—don’t rush for shelter.
Breathe.
Listen.
Let the rain fall. Because sometimes, the storm isn’t in the way. Sometimes, the storm is the way.
