The Night the Oaks Bowed Down

On the evening of October 15, 2018, Hurricane Michael's eyewall tore through Marianna, Florida, with sustained winds of 155 miles per hour. Pastor Demetrius Harlan huddled with thirty-seven members of his congregation in the basement of First Baptist Church while the world above them roared.

When they emerged at dawn, Harlan stood speechless in the parking lot. Century-old live oaks — trees that had shaded church picnics for generations — lay splintered across the road like matchsticks. Steel light poles were bent in half. The steeple had been ripped clean off the sanctuary roof. One of his deacons, a retired Marine who had served two combat tours, was weeping.

"I've heard artillery," the man said quietly. "This was louder."

Yet here was the strange thing Harlan noticed: every person who walked out of that basement was alive. Thirty-seven people, including four infants, without a scratch. The building that sheltered them had held.

The psalmist understood this paradox. In Psalm 29, the voice of the Almighty splinters cedars, shakes the wilderness, and strips forests bare — yet the final verse says, "The LORD gives strength to His people; the LORD blesses His people with peace." The same God whose voice flattens oaks is the God who shelters His children in the storm's very center. His power is not something we merely survive. It is the reason we can.