<25/8/25

I remember one morning showing up to school early, before the corridors filled with the usual noise and chatter, and seeing one of my friends sitting alone with a book. But something was off. Her calm, focused face - the one I always knew - was gone. Instead, it was twisted in pure horror. Confusion. Honestly, it looked like she’d just seen a ghost.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

She handed me the book. As soon as I looked at it, I understood. The story was written in second person future tense. Every sentence reached forward into something that hadn’t happened yet, speaking directly to the reader as if they were living someone else’s life. The words themselves were strange, almost alien, and disorienting. Reading it made your own mind spin. Your sense of balance wobbled as if reality itself had shifted, and you had no choice but to try to keep up, even though you didn’t really understand what was happening.

It’s funny, later we laughed about how confusing it was. But that exact feeling - the dizzying, spinning confusion - is exactly what life feels like sometimes. Like standing in a snowstorm with no compass. Snowflakes swirl so thickly around you that you can’t tell left from right, up from down. Every step feels uncertain. Every direction seems wrong. Your breath comes in shallow, sharp gasps. The cold sinks deep into your bones. And at some point, all you want to do is stop moving, stop trying, let the storm carry you wherever it wants.

Faith can feel the same way. One moment, everything feels solid. You know what you believe, who you are in God, and the path seems clear. The next moment, it’s like the ground disappears under your feet. Prayers that once felt steady suddenly feel empty. Convictions that seemed permanent feel fragile. What you thought you knew now seems foreign, even impossible. Questions arise faster than answers. Doubts whisper louder than anything else. You feel lost, alone, disoriented. Like you’ll never find your footing again.

And yet - even in the storm - God is near. James 4:8 says, “Draw near to God, and He will draw near to you.” Even when your steps falter, when your mind spins, when everything familiar feels upside down, He doesn’t leave. Psalm 34:18 reminds us, “The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit.” His presence doesn’t depend on our understanding or our clarity. He is there whether we feel it or not.

The weird, counterintuitive part is that the moment you feel most lost might be the moment you need Him most. It’s not about getting immediate answers. It’s not about the storm magically disappearing. It’s about leaning in. Step by careful step, even when every direction looks wrong. Word by word, even when the story of your life seems twisted. Breath by breath, even when doubt feels overwhelming. That’s how you find your footing in the blizzard. That’s how faith works when everything seems upside down.

I think about that morning with my friend. The book was so confusing that she had to put it down for a minute, take a breath, process it. Life can feel the same way - sometimes so strange and disorienting that the only thing you can do is pause. Take a breath. Lean into God. Don’t try to force understanding. Don’t try to untangle every confusing detail. Just step closer.

Hebrews 13:5 says, “I will never leave you nor forsake you.” The storm doesn’t mean God has abandoned you. It doesn’t mean you’ve done something wrong, or that your faith has failed. The blizzard isn’t proof of absence; it’s proof that trust isn’t about comfort. It’s about leaning into Someone who doesn’t move when the world does. Step after step, even when it’s cold, even when it’s confusing, even when it hurts. That’s how you navigate the storm.

I’ve been there. Staring at questions I couldn’t answer. Watching friends drift into things I didn’t understand. Wondering if everything I believed was fragile or even fake. It’s terrifying. Makes you feel upside down, like the world itself has betrayed your sense of balance. Like you’re walking through something that isn’t meant to be understood. But even then, God is still there. Still steady. Still near. That presence - the quiet, invisible, unwavering presence - is enough to take the next step.

Sometimes, the disorientation lasts longer than you think. You stumble. You fall. You want to give up entirely. But the invitation doesn’t change: draw near. Lean into Him even when your world feels chaotic, when the snow blinds your eyes, when the path disappears. Micah 6:8 reminds us that God doesn’t demand perfection from us in these moments: “What does the Lord require of you but to do justice, to love mercy, and to walk humbly with your God?” Even when everything feels impossible, the small, faithful act of drawing near counts.

And that’s what this book is trying to capture - the rawness of confusion, the dizzying spin of trying to make sense of a world that doesn’t make sense, and the strange, steady invitation to draw near to God when everything else feels upside down. You might feel like you’re lost in a blizzard, unsure if you’ll ever see clearly again. But leaning in, step by careful step, breath by breath, keeps you from being swept away. Keeps you moving, even when the path isn’t visible. Keeps you anchored, even when the ground feels unstable.

Some days, it won’t make sense. Some days, you’ll stumble again. But every time you pause, every time you breathe, every time you turn toward Him in the storm, you’re taking the next step. You might not know where you’re going, and you might still feel the cold and confusion, but you’re not alone. And that is enough.