Faith Through Storms

The Wreck

The November wind howled across Lake Superior like a living thing—cold, relentless, merciless. The kind of wind that makes grown men tighten their collars and check their ropes twice.

It was November 10, 1975, when the Edmund Fitzgerald—a massive ore freighter, proud and trusted—faced a storm that would etch her name into history.

Somewhere out on that black expanse of water, the Fitzgerald fought for her life. The ship’s captain, Ernest McSorley, radioed another vessel that they were taking on water but holding their own.

Then, not long after, a final transmission crackled across the radio: “We are holding our own.” Moments later—silence. No mayday. No cry for help. Just radar screens gone blank.

And as Gordon Lightfoot would later sing:

> “Does anyone know where the love of God goes,

when the waves turn the minutes to hours?”

That lyric still hangs in the air like fog on a November lake. Because that’s not just a question about sailors—it’s a question about us.

Where does the love of God go when the storm keeps raging and we can’t see the shore?

Where is He when faith runs out of light?

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Faith in the Fog

The Great Lakes can act like inland seas—vast, unpredictable, and deadly when the autumn storms roll through. Every sailor on Superior knows that beneath her beauty lies danger, and beneath that danger, mystery. But so does life.

Faith isn’t built in calm water. Faith is what keeps you afloat when the compass spins and the map dissolves.

Some storms hit like waves from nowhere: a phone call, a diagnosis, a betrayal, a loss.

You think you’re ready—but then comes the gale.

Like the Fitzgerald, our faith can sound strong one minute—“We are holding our own”—and vanish into silence the next.

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Trust in the Silence

It’s in that silence that faith does its deepest work.

The disciples once knew a storm like that. Mark 4 says Jesus was asleep in the boat while the wind and the waves raged. “Master, don’t you care that we perish?” they cried.

We’ve all prayed that same prayer.

“Lord, do You see me out here? Don’t You care that I’m going under?”

But sometimes, God is quiet—not because He’s absent, but because He’s anchoring us deeper than the waves can reach.

That night, Jesus stood and spoke three words: “Peace, be still.”

And the wind obeyed.

The disciples marveled—not just that He could calm the storm, but that He had been calm within it.

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The Real Miracle

Here’s the truth that every sailor and saint must learn:

The real miracle isn’t that the storm stops—it’s that faith endures while it still rages.

The song says the “lake never gave up her dead,” but Heaven will. Every life, every sorrow, every prayer that sank beneath the waves of this world will one day rise again.

Faith doesn’t keep us from storms—it keeps us through them.

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Anchor Before the Storm

Every sailor knows that an anchor isn’t just for when the storm hits—it’s for before the storm hits.

You don’t start building faith in the middle of a gale. You build it on calm days, when skies are blue, when Scripture is open, when prayer feels effortless.

That’s why Jesus said, “Whoever hears these words of Mine and puts them into practice is like a man who built his house upon the rock.” (Matthew 7:24)

The time to drive that anchor deep is before the wind begins to rise.

We live in a world of instant everything—instant connection, instant outrage, instant news. But there’s nothing instant about trust. Trust grows in quiet places. It grows in still water before the storm ever comes.

Faith that lasts isn’t built in adrenaline; it’s built in attention.

When the Fitzgerald left port that morning, the skies were gray but not dangerous. The crew was experienced, the vessel seasoned. They expected rough seas, not ruin. But sometimes life gives no warning before it tests the strength of what we’ve built.

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When the Wind Turns Against You

You’ve had those moments too.

When you’ve done everything right—followed the chart, checked your bearings—and suddenly, the wind turns against you.

You pray for calm, but the waves grow higher. You ask God to fix the storm, but He’s silent. And in that silence, the enemy whispers, “You’re alone. God’s forgotten you.”

But that’s where faith stops being an idea and becomes a lifeline.

Faith isn’t the absence of fear; it’s the refusal to let fear have the final word.

Faith doesn’t mean the waves won’t crash; it means the waves won’t win.

Because Jesus didn’t promise smooth sailing—He promised safe arrival.

That’s why Hebrews 6:19 says, “We have this hope as an anchor for the soul, firm and secure.”

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The Savior in the Swell