My boots crunch on the gravel of the same farm path I’ve walked for seven decades. The sun dips low, painting the sky in hues of fire and gold, just like it did 70 years ago when I, a scared 15-year-old girl, first looked at a failing crop and whispered, “God, if you’re real, you’ll have to carry me.”
He did.
And He never stopped.
But here’s the surprise they never tell you in Sunday school: He didn’t carry me out of the hard places. No, He carried me through them—through valleys so deep and shadows so long I sometimes forgot what the sun felt like. The loss of a child. The terror of war. The aching silence of widowhood.
If you’re in a valley right now, if the shadows are stretching and your strength is waning, let me tell you a secret I learned on this very path: The valley is not your tomb; it’s your training ground.
Over a lifetime walking with God, I’ve gathered five breathtaking lessons from the lowest points. This isn’t just my story; it’s a map left behind by an 85-year-old friend, a testament that even when you can’t see Him, God is mapping a way through your wilderness.
“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me.” (Psalm 23:4)
Let’s walk together.
Chapter 1: The Seed (Age 15, 1940s)
Lesson 1: God Waters Dry Seasons
The Oklahoma dust was a third guest at every meal in 1947. It coated your tongue and filled your lungs with despair. Our farm was dying, and with it, our hope. Pa’s face was a roadmap of worry. One evening, staring at the cracked earth, a desperation rose in me. It wasn’t a polished prayer. It was a raw, guttural plea: “God, if you’re there, we need rain. Carry us.”
My pa, a man of few words, saw me praying. He put a calloused hand on my shoulder and said, “Faith ain’t free, Ethel. It costs you your pride. It costs you the right to say you did it yourself.”
The miracle wasn’t immediate. For three days, nothing. Then, on the fourth, the sky didn’t just cloud over; it bruised. The wind picked up, not with a gentle sigh, but with a roar. And the rain didn’t sprinkle; it fell in sheets, a deafening, glorious symphony on our tin roof.
We ran outside, arms wide, drinking it in. The smell of wet earth—petrichor—was the sweetest perfume I’d ever known. In that moment, I didn’t just believe in God; I knew He listened.
The Lesson: In the driest seasons of your life—be it finances, health, or a parched spirit—God is preparing a downpour. He makes a way in the wilderness (Isaiah 43:19). Your job is not to command the rain, but to plant the seed of faith in the dust and wait with an expectant heart. The first lesson He ever taught me was that He specializes in resurrection, starting with dead soil.
Chapter 2: The Storm (Age 25, 1950s)
Lesson 2: Storms Build Strong Roots
I married my Tom in a whirlwind of hope. But within a year, the Korean War ripped him from my arms. I was alone, pregnant, and terrified. Then the blizzard came. For three days, the world was a howling white monster. And in the heart of that storm, in the lonely silence of our farmhouse, I went into labor.
There was no doctor. No midwife. Just me and the shrieking wind. And when my son was born, still and silent into that cold world, my soul shattered.
This is the part of faith we don’t talk about enough: the rage. I shook my fist at the heavens. “Why, Lord?! Why give me a child just to take him? Where were you?!” My prayers felt like they hit a ceiling of brass. I was buried in a valley of grief so profound I wanted to lie down in the snow beside my son’s tiny grave and never get up.
But God’s surprises often come in whispers.
Days later, as I sat numb in my rocking chair, a sound drifted through the wall. It was my elderly neighbor, Mrs. Gable, singing a hymn as she hung her laundry in the freezing air.
“What a friend we have in Jesus, all our sins and griefs to bear…”
Her frail, off-key voice was a lifeline. It didn’t fix anything. It didn’t bring my son back. But it reminded me that God was still there, even in my rage, speaking through the kindness of a neighbor. In that moment, I surrendered. Not my grief, but my need to understand. A quiet voice in my spirit whispered, “I am enough.”
The Lesson: The storms of life—devastating loss, betrayal, crippling fear—don’t prove God’s absence; they prove your foundation. They force your roots to dig deep into the bedrock of “I am enough” (James 1:2-4). The strongest trees are the ones that have weathered the fiercest winds.
Chapter 3: The Climb (Age 40, 1960s)
Lesson 3: Valleys Forge Family Altars
Tom came home from the war a quieter man, but we were whole. We built a life, raised three wild and wonderful children on his factory wages. We were climbing out of the valley. Then, in 1968, the river swelled its banks and a flood swallowed our first floor.
We huddled upstairs, watching the brown water carry away our furniture, our photo albums, our car. It was everything we had worked for, gone.
But here’s the surprise: that was the night our family found its soul.
With the kids crying and Tom looking defeated, I did the only thing I knew to do. I gathered them in a circle on the damp floor, held their hands, and said, “The water can take our things, but it can’t take us. Let’s talk to the One who calms the seas.”
In those nightly Bible huddles by lantern light, something miraculous happened. Our ten-year-old, Sarah, looked up from the story of Jesus calming the storm and said, “Mama, if God’s our builder, we don’t need to worry about the house, right?”
Out of the mud, we built an altar. We rebuilt the house, yes, stronger and higher. But we also built a family faith that became our true home (Joshua 24:15). We even laughed, making “mud pies” from the ruined flour. The valley of disaster became the very place where we learned to worship.
Chapter 4: The Shadow (Age 60, 1980s)
Lesson 4: Shadows Can’t Outshine His Light
The word “cancer” in the 1980s was a death sentence. For five years, I was Tom’s caregiver. I learned to bathe him, to manage his pain, to read his favorite Psalms aloud as he drifted to sleep. “The Lord is my shepherd…” became our nightly mantra.
The night he left me, he squeezed my hand. His breathing was shallow, but his eyes were clear. He looked past me, and a smile I hadn’t seen in years graced his face. “Ethel,” he whispered, “it’s so… bright. I’ll see you in glory.”
And he was gone.
The valley of widowhood is a unique shadow. It’s not the sharp pain of sudden loss, but a long, slow ache of absence. The empty side of the bed. The silence at the breakfast table. The first sunrise I watched alone, wondering if the colors were just as brilliant for him.
But in that profound loneliness, I made a discovery. The Shadow proved the Light. You can’t have a shadow without a light source. The deeper the shadow, the brighter and more persistent the light must be. The promise of Psalm 23:4 became real: He was with me in the shadow. His presence didn’t take the pain away, but it filled the emptiness with a companionship that defied explanation.
Chapter 5: The Harvest (Age 70+, Now)
Lesson 5: Late Harvests Are Sweetest
At 85, you’d think God would be done with me. A recent hip replacement seemed to confirm it. Another valley. But God’s greatest surprises are often saved for the final act.
Confined to a recliner, my fiery, cynical 16-year-old grandson, Leo, was forced to spend time with me. He saw my well-worn Bible. “You still believe all that stuff, Grams?” he asked, not unkindly.
“It’s not stuff, Leo,” I said. “It’s the story of how I survived. It’s my love letter from God.”
I didn’t preach. I just told him stories. The story of the rain. The story of his great-uncle, the baby I never held. The story of his grandpa’s glorious homegoing.
Weeks later, after I’d recovered, Leo came to see me. He shuffled his feet, unable to look me in the eye. “Grams,” he mumbled, “I… I think I want what you and Grandpa had. That peace.”
We prayed together on my porch swing. The harvest of a 70-year walk with God wasn’t just my own peace; it was the soul of my grandson.
The Lesson: Never believe the lie that your best days are behind you. The harvest of your faithfulness may just be ripening in the life of someone you love (Galatians 6:9). The sweetest fruit often comes latest in the season.
Conclusion: Your Path Awaits
So here I am, back on my sunset path. Seventy years. It feels like both a lifetime and the blink of an eye.
Let me leave you with the five lessons from my valleys:
- In Dry Seasons, Plant Anyway: God is preparing a downpour.
- In Storms, Hold On: The wind is strengthening your roots.
- In Disaster, Build Altars: Your family’s faith is the only home that can’t be washed away.
- In Shadows, Look for the Light: The darkness is proof He is near.
- In the Late Seasons, Expect a Harvest: Your greatest impact may be just ahead.
Your path is different from mine. Your valleys have different names. But the God who walks with you is the same. He was with me in the dust of 1947, and He is with you in the uncertainty of today. Your 70-year walk starts with a single, faithful step.
God walks with you still.
