After the Storm: Finding Faith Again
- ZC Admin
- Nov 12
- 4 min read
Updated: Nov 12
Sometimes the storms set us on new paths ~ The Good Simple Life
The Night It Hit
The night was long, dark, and loud. Winds howled like something ancient, and the house groaned with every gust. My mother, my five-year-old son, and I huddled downstairs—the safest part of our home—knowing that if the roof gave way, at least the center might hold.
It did, but not without loss. Parts of the roof tore away; drywall collapsed upstairs. Then the room where my son had been playing earlier caved in. We moved into the kitchen, laid out soggy couch cushions, and tried to rest—though rest was impossible.
At one point the storm stilled, tricking us into thinking it was over. But it was only the eye. Six more hours of fury followed—ferocious, deafening, alive.
Morning Light
When the sun finally rose, the stillness was eerie. No wind. No signal. No sound except the stunned voices of neighbours stepping into what was left of our community. Roofs gone. Trees uprooted. Water tanks overturned.
And yet—even in the shock—people moved with quiet purpose. There was no time to be heartbroken. Survival mode had begun.
For eight days, we lived like that—filling bottles to flush toilets, drying what could be saved, clearing debris from our home and others’. Some neighbours were off-island, so we swept glass, boarded doors, mopped flooded rooms. Every night I prayed that the next day would bring light, connection—something.
The Contrast
Eventually, we reached Kingston.
The contrast was almost unbearable: Three hours away, power hummed, stores glowed, and Mariah Carey’s “All I Want for Christmas Is You” floated through a pharmacy while people shopped.
Meanwhile, parts of the island still had no roofs, no water, no way to call for help.
The differences hit hard. My body shut down. For days, I couldn’t move. Just rest. Grieve. Breathe.
The Unseen Wounds
Even here in Kingston—where everything looks perfect—there’s an invisible heaviness. People are walking around, going through the motions, but no one is untouched. There’s a quiet guilt that comes with safety. When you have power, water, Wi-Fi, and your roof intact, you carry the weight of knowing so many don’t. People did not just lose their homes and belongings, their savings are gone like that, in order to survive. Their on-tack futures and goals. Their assets. Their livestock. Their livelihoods.
A friend was just saying to me, it’s a kind of survivor’s ache—the dissonance of comfort beside catastrophe.
Every Jamaican, no matter where they were when the storm hit, feels it. Those with family in the worst-hit parishes wait for word, replaying unanswered calls. Those who lost nothing still wake at night, heart pounding, to phantom winds. Even in Kingston, you can sense it in the air—a collective breath held tight.
This storm will live in our bodies for a long time. Not just in the broken homes, but in the nervous systems still locked for the next sound, the next gust, the next unknown.
The Choice
When clarity returned, the easy choice was to leave—go back to Canada, start over. Many encouraged it. But when I listened deeper, I knew my heart belonged here.
This island. This community. This soil.
We have decided to stay—to rebuild, to ground, to trust again. We purchased a generator and ordered Starlink to stay connected. Once the roof is secure, we’ll return home and continue the work we started. It may not be easy, but this is our home. And we will not leave it.
Faith isn’t proven by never wavering; it’s proven by returning after you’ve been shaken.
Faith, Tested and Refined
In my pre-storm post I wrote, “I am not afraid of what waits on the other side.” I meant it then—but living through the aftermath tested that faith more deeply than I could have imagined.
There were moments of panic and doubt—moments where I questioned whether I had misunderstood my calling here. Yet somehow, through surrender, faith re-emerged. Not blind faith—but trust refined by proof.
Because when I looked around, I saw it everywhere:
In strangers and loved ones who donated to help us rebuild.
In neighbours who shared what little they had.
In my son’s laughter echoing through a one-room space that now feels like a castle.
In every act of grace that whispered, You are still held.
Fear, Transmuted
Fear isn’t failure—it’s an antenna. It alerts us to danger, yes, but when it lingers long after the danger has passed, it becomes a fog that blinds us to grace.
I found that being fully honest about my fears—naming them without guilt or shame—allowed me to hand them to God. And each time I did, they dissolved.
You can find the practice that helped me most in my meditation “Give It to God” on YouTube"
When we release control, the Divine rearranges what we cannot.
Miracles in the Midst
Today, I don’t know what tomorrow brings—(not metaphorically, actually.) But I know this moment is holy. I know miracles are still unfolding.
Every day brings a small one: a message from a friend, an unexpected opportunity, a stranger offering help. I feel supported in ways I could never have planned.
We’ll use what we have to build a stronger home, to contribute to our community’s recovery, to keep Merlin wild and wonder-filled. And I’ll keep walking with God here—on this island that continues to teach me resilience, humility, and awe.
A Thank You
To every soul who donated, prayed, reached out, or simply held us in love—thank you. Your faith has carried us further than words can say.
Whether it was funds, grace, words of encouragement - it gave us breathing room, supplies, and the courage to begin again. We are staying. We are rebuilding. And we are believing, still.
Jamaica — Resilient, Radiant, Unbreakable
I am endlessly moved by the strength of the Jamaican people. Even in exhaustion and shock, I see neighbours doing more for each other than any outside aid ever could. This island will rebuild. It will rise stronger, brighter, and more united than before.
And I am grateful—humbled—to remain a part of that rising.
(c) Chara Hunter | Meditators Guide If this story moved you, share it or join me for new meditations.
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