The quiet before the storm
I lift up my eyes to the mountains—
where does my help come from?
My help comes from the Lord,
the Maker of heaven and earth.
—Psalm 121:1–4
Another beautiful day began as I sat quietly with my old, well-loved Bible. The leather cover was worn, and the pages curled at the edges from years of turning, but the truth inside was timeless. As the morning light poured in, it felt like God was inviting me to behold His creation. The sunrises in my mountain town were breathtaking—each one a new brushstroke on His ever-changing canvas. No two were ever alike. God is the greatest artist I know.
Let me introduce myself: my name is Faith Bosley. I’m thirty years old and live in a quiet little town tucked away in the mountains. I have long brown hair that falls in soft waves around my shoulders and pale skin that burns easily in the high altitude. My most distinctive feature? Striking blue eyes that people always seem to comment on.
Most folks would probably feel isolated up here—especially since the nearest store is three hours away—but I love the solitude. It has taught me how to listen, not just with my ears, but with my heart. Here, in the stillness, I’ve learned to hear God more clearly.
It wasn’t always like this. When I was eight years old, I lived a typical city life. I went to public school, rode my bike through busy streets, and came home to the delicious smell of my parents’ bakery. They were amazing bakers, and I can still remember the scent of warm bread and sugar cookies drifting through the air.
But everything changed the day of the accident. A car crash took them from me in an instant, leaving me an orphan.
That’s when my grandpa stepped in.
He brought me here, far from the noise, far from the memories, and raised me with quiet strength, patience, and love. He became my teacher, my father figure, and the most faithful man I’ve ever known.
One of the most magical things he ever did was build me my very own treehouse. It’s my sanctuary—a hidden nook high above the ground, wrapped in the arms of old pine trees. It’s decorated with an array of colorful pillows—deep blues, soft aquas, and hints of lavender. The walls are adorned with hand-painted artwork, and string lights dangle like stars, casting a gentle glow when night falls. Sometimes I sleep up there, cradled by the sounds of crickets and the twinkling constellations above me.
Just as I was about to turn the page in my Bible, I heard a gentle voice call from below.
“Faith, could you come down for a minute? I need to talk to you,” Grandpa said softly.
“Coming, Papa!” I called back with a smile.
By the time I reached the porch, the sun had fully risen. I must’ve lost track of time again—God always seems to draw me into another story.
But my smile faded when I saw the concern etched across my grandpa’s face. He held his Bible in one hand, his fingers gently gripping the cover like a lifeline.
“Faith,” he said with quiet seriousness, “I don’t want you to worry, but I need to go to the city tomorrow. The bakery... it’s been losing money. A lot of money.”
My heart sank.
That bakery was more than just a business—it was a memory, a legacy, a connection to the parents I barely had time to know. I hadn’t visited it in years, but the thought of losing it brought a lump to my throat.
“Are we going to have to sell it?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady even as my heart quivered.
He reached out and gave my hand a reassuring squeeze. “Whatever happens, don’t worry, Faith. God will provide. He always does.”
His eyes, filled with wisdom and faith, never wavered. I admired him so deeply in that moment. No matter how uncertain things became, his trust in the Lord never faltered.
Still, something stirred in me—a quiet, persistent nudge I’ve learned not to ignore.
“I want to go with you,” I said suddenly. “I know I usually avoid the city, but I feel like I need to be there this time. We can make the trip a time of worship. Praying and praising on the road. No matter what happens with the bakery... we’ll give glory to God.”
Grandpa’s eyes lit up with gentle pride. “That’s a wonderful idea, Faith.”
I smiled, feeling peace settle over me like a soft blanket. “Well then,” he said with a playful grin, “are you ready for today’s chores?”
Chores might sound boring to some, but when you do them with someone you love, even the mundane becomes joyful. We spent the rest of the day gathering wood, cooking meals, and laughing over who could finish tasks faster. It was simple, sacred, and full of life.
As the sun dipped behind the mountains that evening, we ended the day the way we always did—with a prayer of thanksgiving, unafraid of what tomorrow may bring.
Because no matter what...
Our help comes from the Lord.
