Jehovah Jireh in My Darkest Year

 

1991 was the year my world came crashing down. I had just gone through a bitter divorce followed far too quickly by a horrible automobile accident—one that would leave me in a wheelchair for years. I was broken physically, emotionally, and spiritually. And in the middle of all that pain, I had four young children depending on me. My oldest was just about to turn sixteen. My youngest still needed help with shoelaces. And there I sat, unable to walk and unsure how to keep our lives from unraveling.

We had no income. No savings. No plan. One day I opened the cabinets and realized the only food in the house was a package of saltine crackers. I remember staring at that little red box as fear washed over me—fear so heavy I could hardly breathe. I wheeled myself into my bedroom, fell forward onto the floor, and sobbed before the Lord.

“God,” I whispered, “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to feed my children. I don’t know how to keep the lights on. Please…help us.”

I had no idea how God would answer—but He did.

Before the divorce and the wreck, the kids and I had joined a small country church in Gainesville—Harmony Hall Baptist. We had only visited a few times, but the people there were warm and kind, the kind of folks who loved you without asking for anything in return. At the time, I didn’t understand how deeply that love would matter.

After the accident, when my days were equal parts pain and worry, I received a phone call I’ll never forget. The voice on the other end was a man I didn’t know. He said he felt the Lord had instructed him to pay our electricity bill—for an entire year.

I almost hung up on him. I honestly thought it was a cruel prank. But it wasn’t. He meant every word.

Not long after that, boxes of groceries began appearing on our doorstep. Bags of vegetables. Pantry staples. Sometimes even treats for the kids. No notes. No explanations. Just provision—quiet, steady, miraculous. Members of the church offered to drive me to doctor’s appointments, pick up the children from school, and help with things I could no longer do on my own. They became hands and feet when mine weren’t working.

It was embarrassing. Humbling. And holy.

During those long years, God taught me lessons I could never have learned any other way. I realized I didn’t have to pretend to be strong. I didn’t have to hold everything together. I only had to trust the One who promised He would never leave me nor forsake me (Hebrews 13:5).

I learned firsthand that He truly is Jehovah Jireh—the Lord who provides (Genesis 22:14).
I saw that He knows our needs before we even ask (Matthew 6:8).
I discovered that when we are at the end of ourselves, “His strength is made perfect in weakness” (2 Corinthians 12:9).

God didn’t want me to be anxious about anything, though I certainly was at times. Instead, He gently taught me what Philippians 4:6 says: “…in everything, by prayer and supplication, with thanksgiving, let your requests be made known unto God.”

And He supplied—again and again.

Looking back now, I can trace His fingerprints across every part of that painful season. Every box of groceries. Every anonymous gift. Every ride offered. Every bill paid. Every small kindness extended toward my children. All of it was Him working through the compassion of others.

That’s why I feel so strongly about mercy and grace today. You never know what someone is holding silently inside—how close they may be to breaking. No one chooses to be down on their luck. None of us wakes up expecting our life to fall apart. But hardship comes, and when it does, we depend on the compassion of those who choose to love like Jesus.

If you are struggling today, wondering how you’ll make it through your own difficult chapter, please hear me: God sees you. God loves you. And God will provide for you. He works all things—all things—together for the good of those who love Him (Romans 8:28). You can trust that even now, even here, He is already moving on your behalf.

And if life is steady for you right now, may I gently encourage you to look around? Someone near you may be praying the same desperate prayer I prayed in 1991. Someone may have nothing but a box of saltines and a heart full of fear. You could be the answer to their prayer.

Let’s be people who show mercy.
Let’s be people who offer compassion.
Let’s be people who love like Jesus loved me—through the hands of strangers who became family.

Heavenly Father,
Thank You for being Jehovah Jireh—the God who sees, who knows, and who provides. When life feels overwhelming and the road ahead looks impossible, remind us that You are already at work, meeting needs we haven’t even spoken aloud. Teach us to trust You more deeply, to rest in Your promises, and to remember that Your faithfulness never fails.

Lord, for anyone walking through a hard season right now, wrap them in Your peace. Strengthen their weary hearts and remind them that they are not alone. And help each of us to be instruments of Your compassion, offering kindness, mercy, and love to those who are hurting. May our lives reflect Your grace in every circumstance.

In Jesus’ precious name,
Amen.