I Prayed For Flowers; God Gave Me Rain

My Faith Journey

As I wrote previously, it took me decades to realize that many of the prayers I had whispered as a scared, broken boy had been answered.

Not in the ways I begged for at the time. There were no lightning-bolt rescues, no sudden healings, no dramatic turnarounds. The pain didn’t vanish. The darkness didn’t lift overnight. But looking back now, with older eyes and a quieter heart, I can trace the thread. I see how each step, even the missteps—maybe especially the missteps—carried me toward something sacred. Every heartbreak redirected me. Every dead end taught me. Every delay protected me from something I couldn’t yet understand. What I once mistook as silence or absence from God was, in fact, His presence—hidden in the slow, stubborn unfolding of grace.

Meeting my wife was the first crack of light through that old pain. She was everything I didn’t believe I deserved—kind, patient, unwavering in her love. Where others saw the rough edges, she saw possibility. She didn’t flinch at the mess of my past. She stepped into it with me. Loving her and being loved by her began to chip away at decades of internal damage. She didn’t just tolerate my wounds—she helped me heal. Her belief in me challenged the narrative I’d been telling myself for years: that I was too broken, too much, too far gone. For the first time in my life, I felt fully seen. Not as a disappointment. Not as a failure. But as a man capable of love, worthy of love.

And then we became a family.

Adopting my sons wasn’t just the fulfillment of a dream—it was a collision with everything unresolved in me. Fatherhood forced open doors I’d kept locked for years. It exposed the fears I had hidden, the anger I hadn’t named, the ache of not being fathered well. I didn’t want to pass that on. I wanted to break the cycle. So I made a promise—to them and to myself—that I would fight for their hearts, not just their behavior. That I would give them presence over perfection. That I would protect them not just from the world, but from the silence and confusion I once lived with every day.

There were moments I was terrified. Haunted by the question: “What if I mess this up?” Sometimes that old voice-the one I learned to believe in childhood—whispered, “You’re not enough.” But something stronger rose in me. Every bedtime story, every skinned knee, every morning school run became another line in a new story. One not defined by my wounds, but by love freely given. I thought I was changing their lives. The truth is—they were saving mine.

Professionally, the journey was slow and quiet. I didn’t have the degrees. I didn’t come with the pedigree. I carried the shame of being a dropout like a scarlet letter. For years, I watched others pass me by. And I told myself stories: that I wasn’t smart enough, that I’d missed my shot, that the best I could hope for was survival. But grace kept nudging me forward. I worked hard. I learned on the job. I took the low road when others took shortcuts. Eventually, I wasn’t just showing up—I was leading. Not because I had all the correct answers, but because I had walked through fire and learned how to listen. How to serve. How to stand when it would’ve been easier to quit.

None of this was luck.

It was preparation. Formed in the hidden years. Forged in pain.

The blessings came slowly and quietly, like seeds planted long ago that finally broke through the soil: a stable home, the deep peace of a good marriage, the privilege of watching my boys grow into strong, kind young men. Real friendships that don’t flinch when things get hard. A sense of purpose that isn’t tied to performance.

And through all of it, a steady, growing realization: I was never abandoned. Not once. God didn’t answer my prayers the way I asked—but He answered them better.

He didn’t take away the storms. He taught me how to walk through them.

He didn’t erase the wounds. He turned them into wisdom.

And in doing so, He gave me something deeper than I ever asked for—character, clarity, calling.

I used to think faith meant getting the outcome you prayed for. Now I know: real faith is trusting that even when the answer is “not yet” or “not this way,” you’re still being guided. Still being held. Still being shaped.

God’s fingerprints are all over the broken places. And sometimes, what feels like a detour is just the scenic route to a better ending than we could’ve imagined.

The boy who once cried in the dark didn’t get the escape he wanted.

He got the strength he needed.

And that has made all the difference.