In one of the darkest chapters of Israel’s history, famine had brought Samaria to its knees. The people were starving—so desperate they resorted to eating donkey heads and even their own children. In the midst of this unimaginable crisis, the prophet Elisha stands and declares, “This time tomorrow, everything will change.” A miracle, he said, was coming in 24 hours.
And just like that, God speaks hope in the middle of horror. That’s the power of crisis—while it feels like everything is falling apart, it’s often the moment God begins putting everything together.
Not everyone believed Elisha’s prophecy. One man, a captain in the king’s court, scoffed. His response wasn’t just doubt—it was criticism. There’s a difference. Doubt wrestles with belief; criticism shuts it down.
Scripture shows us that God can work with doubt (Mark 9:24: “Lord, I believe; help my unbelief”). But a critical spirit? That’s dangerous. The man who mocked God’s word would later see the miracle—but never taste it. He died in the gate, trampled by the very blessing he refused to believe in.
Let that be a warning: A critical spirit will keep you out of what God is doing next.
Enter four lepers sitting at the gate—outcasts, diseased, discarded. They faced death no matter what. But one of them asked a question that would change everything: “Why sit here until we die?” They didn’t have certainty—they had a “maybe.” Maybe, if they moved, something would happen. Maybe, if they stepped into enemy territory, God would intervene.
Sometimes all you need is a “maybe” to move mountains.
Psalm 119:71 says, “It was good for me that I was afflicted, that I might learn your statutes.”
That doesn’t mean affliction feels good—but it can do good.
Crisis shakes our foundation, but it also reveals what we’re really standing on. Crisis strips us down, but it can also rebuild us better. Like the man born blind in John 9, your crisis may not be because of sin or failure—it might be the setup for God to show His glory.
David didn’t say he learned God's statutes in a classroom—he said he learned them in affliction. That Hebrew word for “learn” means “to acquire through experience.” Some lessons can’t be taught. They have to be lived.
You won’t know God as healer until you’ve been sick. You won’t know Him as provider until you’ve had lack. Your testimony carries power because of the scars behind it.
The lepers walked toward the enemy camp at twilight. Not in the morning. Not when the sun was shining. At twilight—when it was still dark.
And when they moved, God moved. Their pitiful shuffle sounded like an army to the Syrians. The enemy fled in fear, leaving behind food, wealth, and provision. The lepers walked into a miracle they never fought for—only because they dared to move in the dark.
Sometimes we need a crisis to push us. Like the man who was “accidentally” pushed into an alligator-filled pool and swam for his life—sometimes it takes a push to reveal the power inside you. God’s not punishing you—He’s positioning you. You’re not drowning—you’re discovering you can swim.
These lepers who once lived off scraps now sat surrounded by abundance. And when they realized they couldn’t keep the blessing to themselves, they ran back to the city. Their testimony became the very thing that brought revival.
God didn’t bless you for you alone. He’s going to use your story to feed others. That’s revival. That’s overflow.
Like the painter Renoir, who strapped brushes to his hands through debilitating arthritis, we keep painting through pain. Why? Because when the pain passes, the beauty remains.
Friend, your crisis isn’t the end. It’s the beginning of a breakthrough. Don’t let your fear keep you stuck. There’s a blessing in this. Move. Walk. Praise. Believe. Step into the next thing God has for you.
Because when this storm passes—and it will pass—what God leaves behind will be worth every moment of pain.
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