When the Thunder Spoke Over Lake Michigan

On August 10, 2020, a derecho — a massive inland hurricane — tore across the Midwest at over 100 miles per hour. In Cedar Rapids, Iowa, trees that had stood for a century snapped like matchsticks. Power lines twisted into knots. The sky turned green, then black. Sara Phelps, a pastor at a small church on the east side, huddled in her basement with her two daughters and listened to the roar overhead. "It sounded like a freight train that wouldn't end," she later told reporters. In forty-five minutes, the storm reshaped the entire city.

When Sara emerged, her neighborhood was unrecognizable. Ancient oaks lay across roads. Roofs were peeled back like tin cans. And yet, standing in the wreckage, she felt something she didn't expect — not terror, but awe. "I kept thinking, if a storm can do this, how much greater is the God who commands the storm?"

David understood this. In Psalm 29, he doesn't flinch from the raw violence of nature. The voice of the Lord breaks the cedars. It shakes the wilderness of Kadesh. It strips the forests bare. But David isn't writing a weather report — he's writing worship. Every crack of thunder is an invitation to see the Almighty as He truly is: vast, untameable, sovereign over every force we cannot control.

And then comes the stunning final verse. This same God who thunders over the floodwaters sits enthroned forever — and gives His people peace.