When the Storm Has Passed

This week, I read a passage from Proverbs 10 that gripped me:

“What the wicked dreads will overtake him; what the righteous desire will be granted. When the storm has swept by, the wicked are gone, but the righteous stand firm forever” (Prov. 10:24–25).

That final line wouldn’t let me go:

“The righteous stand firm forever.”

There is profound prophetic wisdom in those words. So much of righteousness comes down to this: what can endure the storm. What can still stand when all else is shaken. What doesn’t wash away when the winds rise and the floods rage.

This kind of righteousness is not just moral—it is durable. It is marked by vigilance, diligence, sensitivity, perseverance, and above all, staying power. It lasts.

Built on the Rock or on the Sand

Jesus taught this same truth with startling clarity:

“Therefore everyone who hears these words of Mine and acts on them, may be compared to a wise man who built his house on the rock. And the rain fell, and the floods came, and the winds blew and slammed against that house; and yet it did not fall, for it had been founded on the rock. Everyone who hears these words of Mine and does not act on them, will be like a foolish man who built his house on the sand” (Matt. 7:24–26).

Both hear the Word. Both build something. But one acts—and one does not.

The man who builds on sand doesn’t ignore the Word. He hears it. He may even love it. He may quote it. He builds something—a house, a form of safety. But it’s a structure without substance. It lacks weight. It lacks decision. It lacks obedience.

And so—when the storm comes—it all collapses.

“When the storm has swept by, the wicked are gone, but the righteous stand firm forever” (Prov. 10:25).

Sometimes only the storm can reveal the difference.

Not slogans.
Not arguments.
Not carefully crafted narratives.

Storms expose foundations.

They are God's final word on what was real—and what was not.

The Oak Tree and the Voice of Vigilance

Perseverance is at the heart of so many of Jesus’ parables. Endurance isn’t a side issue—it’s the test of true faith.

God isn’t looking for fearfulness. Nor is He fooled by complacency. He’s not impressed by those who imagine some invisible safety net will always catch them, regardless of how they live.

Instead, He looks for people who act on what He speaks.

People who are awake, responsive, and vigilant.

That kind of responsiveness once saved my family’s life.

It was Sunday morning, February 28—nine years ago. I was in my office preparing for church: reading, praying, jotting down preaching notes. Meanwhile, in our little cabin across the way, my wife Rebekah—pregnant with our fifth child—and our four children were doing the usual: breakfast, clean faces, brushed hair, Bibles in hand.

Our rhythm was set. I’d leave ten minutes before service, and Beck would have the kids loaded up and waiting by a quarter till—engine running, everyone buckled in, ready for me to join them.

That morning, I looked up from my Bible and saw the car parked outside the cabin, beneath a towering live oak. Not just any tree—a giant. Eighty feet tall. Two massive trunks at the base, each over three and a half feet thick. It spread wide over the home, completely over where the car was parked.

But that day, we weren’t in our usual SUV. Our 2014 Santa Fe had been recalled for an update, and the dealership had loaned us a tiny silver Hyundai Elantra. A much smaller car—low to the ground, narrow, compact.

From her perspective, Rebekah later told me what she saw: she stepped out with the diaper bag, Aviva beside her, Sean, Connie, and Tina toddling behind. As she stepped onto the little porch, she heard a squeaking sound.

She glanced up.
The branch above the roof—normally a few inches clear—was brushing against it.
That’s odd, she thought. Annoying . . . but probably nothing.

She got the kids into the back seat, climbed into the passenger seat, and occasionally glanced toward my office window, watching for me, checking the clock.

Then she heard it again.
Squeak.
And again.
Then—
Pop. Pop.
A sound she couldn’t place.

Something inside her snapped to attention.

Without thinking, she leapt across the console, threw the gear into reverse, and floored the accelerator.

From my office, I heard a deep roar and a loud crack—and looked out just in time to see that little silver car lurch backward and race up the road . . . as the entire oak tree came crashing down.

Seconds from Death

Thousands of pounds of timber—wood, bark, branch, and root—came down like a mountain falling from the sky.

The whole weight of the tree slammed into the gravel driveway right where the car had been sitting. It crushed a main power pole at its base, took out three smaller trees, and sent live electrical lines whipping and sparking into the wet grass.

A transformer exploded. Strange chemicals spilled across the yard. The power went out for over a mile in both directions.

I bolted out the door, heart pounding.

Down the road, I saw the silver Elantra—branches scattered across the hood—but safely clear of the tree’s path. Rebekah had pulled out just in time.

I turned and looked at where the car had been—where my wife, our four children, and our unborn fifth child had been seconds earlier.

Now, only shattered wood. Splintered trunks. A void of devastation.

We drove out into the field, white-knuckled, wide-eyed. Hearts racing. Kids whimpering. Power lines crackling behind us. Once we reached the road, I finally turned to Rebekah.

“How did you . . . ?” I choked. “How did you know? What made you . . . ?”

She shook her head.

“I didn’t think about it,” she said. “It wasn’t conscious. I just heard the squeaking, and then the popping, . . . and something in me just moved. The next thing I knew, I was halfway back up Abraham’s road.”

We wept. We prayed. We thanked God for sparing our family. And I thanked Him for a wife who’s attentive—who’s alert—who doesn’t need to be told twice when it’s time to move.

And yes—you can guess what story made it into the sermon that Sunday.

But I’m thinking of it again today—not just as a memory—but as a warning.

The Real Danger Isn’t the Storm. It’s the Sleep.

This world is full of things designed to lull us to sleep. Distractions that muffle the warning creaks before collapse.

And hindsight is always 20/20. Survivors stand in the rubble, asking how they missed the signs.

But I want to raise a different kind of people:

• People who don’t put their hope in illusion or inertia
• Who don’t mistake comfort for safety
• Who don’t confuse normalcy with assurance

I want to walk with those whose safety lies in awareness, responsibility, vigilance, and a holy readiness to act—even when the whole world is asleep.

Oak trees fall every day. And so do families.
So does faith. Especially in the young.

But God bless the parent—the believer, the leader—who doesn’t wait to be told.

Who doesn’t need a collapse to confirm what discernment already whispered.

Who knows when it’s time to throw the car in reverse and get out of the path that God is no longer blessing.

That warning might come in different forms:

• A prompting about your child’s exposure to something wrong
• A discomfort with how social media is shaping family attitudes
• A conviction about your own ambitions—”There is a way that seems right to a man, but its end is the way of death” (Prov. 14:12).

You don’t have to crash to wake up.

We’re not here to build the fastest house.
We’re not here to find the prettiest view.
We’re here to build something that can outlast the storm.

And storms will come. They always do.

The Test of What Remains

Everything will be tested—by fire, by flood, by wind.

Whether it was built on sand or stone, it will be revealed.

Not by our slogans.
Not by our intentions.
But by what still stands when the shaking is over.

Storms are the end of the argument.
They silence the spin.
They reveal what was real.

And I, for one, want to be part of a house whose builder and maker is God (Heb. 11:10).

I want to walk with people like my wife—and others like her—those who don’t just hear, but respond.

Who aren’t lulled by the anesthetizing tunes of complacency.
Who don’t sing, “Peace, peace,” when there is no peace (Jer. 6:14).

People who speak faith—

But settle for nothing short of obedient action in response.

When God convicts you—act.
When He corrects your heading—act.
When He shows you danger—act.

When He whispers, “This is the way, walk in it”—act. When He says, “Come out from among them and be separate”—act.

Otherwise, you’re just enjoying the Word . . . while building on shifting sand.

But if you obey—

That is rock.

And that, my friends, is our only safety.