I loved hearing my father’s sweet, honest tenor voicing the words as my mother played hymns on her scrollwork-heavy Bush and Gerts upright antique piano, singing alto to accompany him. I loved hearing him because he was gifted, but just as much because he meant every word.

My absolute favorite was “’Til the Storm Passes By,” because it comforted me during my storms — and I’ve had many.

The Storms

From a very early age, I began to suffer from depression and then anxiety. At the tender age of 12 I held my father’s .22 under my chin and prayed for the courage to pull the trigger. It didn’t come.  I cried, but I didn’t cry out to God. The depression would plague me for years.

When I was 17 I was engaged to a man I met through our singles class at church. I’d already purchased a beautiful wedding dress, selected the location for the ceremony and picked out invitations. Then came the day when I discovered that he had been paying prostitutes for their services for months. We had an agreement that we would save ourselves for marriage. I’d kept my side of the bargain; he had not.

My bones were visible through my clothing, but I didn’t cry out to God.

The church we attended at the time and through which we received pre-marital counseling did not address his behavior or my hurt. It was as if nothing traumatic had happened. I took this as a sign that the church condoned his actions and for years to come bounced from relationship to relationship, thinking, “If he’s going to heaven, then I’ve got nothing to worry about.” I was angry and filled with hurt, but still I didn’t cry out to God.

Several years later, after I married and had one child, I discovered I was pregnant with a second. The time came for the ultrasound and I brought along my older son and mother-in-law for the joyous occasion. But there was no joy. There was no heartbeat, and they ushered my family out of the room quickly as I began to sob.

I was so angry, so hurt. I began to detest my body. I ran miles per day and ate next to nothing for months. I quickly shed close to 90 pounds and ended up getting very sick, all because I was angry that I’d lost my child, whom I named Leah Naomi. My bones were visible through my clothing, but I didn’t cry out to God. I hated myself.

As time went on, my depression grew. I did the right thing, or so I thought. I went to church and prayed. But there came a day when, once again, I tried to take my life. I tried more than once. But I still relied on my own strength — and therapists’ instructions to practice “mindfulness techniques,” or some such — to get me through. I didn’t do so well. I still didn’t cry out to God.

Biggest Storm Yet

Then I met my husband. To his credit, he revealed very early on that he was an alcoholic — sober for two years at that point. I’d never been around alcohol, and I trusted that he was done with drinking. We fell in love and our son was born in early 2014. Of all the storms I’ve encountered, the worst was yet to come.

Shortly after our son’s birth, my husband relapsed. It wasn’t one drink. He went out to several bars, including some very unsavory establishments. I was devastated. The drinking didn’t stop that night, either.

I learned very quickly the difference between a functional alcoholic and a nonfunctional alcoholic. My husband was the latter. He lost his job and was admitted, multiple times, to rehab facilities and hospitals over the next few months.

As for the storms, they will someday pass by. It may be years in the future or it could be tomorrow. I don’t know, but I trust the One Who does know.

I struggled to keep my head above the water, both financially and emotionally. I had to be there for my son, but I was so engrossed in what was happening with my husband that it was difficult to just get up and get ready for work. I played Christian music as I prepared for work, but didn’t cry out to God.

Then I was hospitalized. My husband promised to visit me, but I spent almost a week there with no word from him. When I learned that he had begun to drink while I was in the hospital, I started making phone calls for family or friends to get the baby. Sadly, no one did. My husband was arrested for driving while intoxicated the day I was released from the hospital.

He went to jail. Since he was watching our son while I was in the hospital, Child Protective Services opened an investigation. I was devastated. I knew I was a good mom, and I loved my son dearly. CPS said that I shouldn’t have gone to the hospital, something that didn’t make sense even to my doctor.

That’s when I fell to my knees.

Love Your Husband

At first I could only cry out, “God help me!” But as time went on, I began to cultivate a relationship with Him. I would go to my patio to talk to my Father, as I would tell friends. I told Him I would do whatever He wanted me to do. I was His. I was done living my life in my control. My life as I’d lived it was such a mess and I had no idea what to do to clean it up. “Father,” I would say, “Good morning! You just tell me what to do and I will do it.”

And, contrary to what everyone else in my life was saying, I heard Him say, “Love your husband.” Love my husband? After the DWI? After prison time? After leaving me multiple times? “Love your husband.” “Lord,” I prayed, “I will leave him if you say. I will get a divorce, just say the word. I will do whatever you say.” But every single time, I heard “Love your husband.”

He was in jail and prison for about nine months out of about 15 months. During that time, I lived my life as normally as possible with my son, prayed constantly, went to Celebrate Recovery at church, did planned activities with friends, and worked. As the time neared for him to be released, friends and family continued to tell me to divorce him. I continued to get into the Word, cry out to God, surround myself with Godly friends and prayer warriors and pray for strength to do God’s will.

My husband returned home and for the most part, things went well. But not perfectly. He relapsed once again, and once again I had to lean hard on the Lord. But the beauty in that storm was that as I relied on the Lord instead of my own strength, the sorrow lifted and I began to feel joy. I knew that, no matter what, God was in control and I was not.

Joy in the Storm

I don’t know why God has allowed me to go through all of this and more. Maybe it’s because I’m hard-headed. Sometimes it’s only in the storm that we lift our head and reach for the Shelter. As the Psalmist says, “I would hurry to my place of shelter, far from the tempest and storm” (Ps. 55:8).

As I’ve trusted the Lord with my life and decisions — everything — I’ve experienced real transformation. Not only do I have His peace that passes understanding, but I haven’t struggled with depression for the longest period of time in my life.

My husband has exhibited a sincere desire to stay sober, stay with his family and love the Lord. We read the Bible and pray together daily. He attends AA meetings and Celebrate Recovery as well. But I still take life day by day, trusting the Lord to take care of us, whatever may happen.

There is not one thing I can do to control my husband or his addiction. I leave that in God’s hands. But I will do whatever He tells me to do as the storms come. I know that with Him, the storms will pass by.

‘Til the storm passes over, ’til the thunder sounds no more, ’til the clouds roll forever from the sky; hold me fast, let me stand in the hollow of thy hand, keep me safe ’til the storm passes by.

Watch the Statler Brothers performing “‘Til the Storm Passes By”: