I’ve come to believe that in heaven’s language, trials are not accidents—they are assignments. They are not interruptions to the plan—they are part of the plan. If anyone expects a divine calling to come wrapped in comfort, security, or human guarantees, they’ve misunderstood the Gospel. Because when God wanted to make David a king, He didn’t hand him a throne—He sent him a giant. And when He wanted Peter to learn to trust, He didn’t give him a paddle—He gave him a storm.
Here’s where my opinion settles firmly: the challenges that seem too great are actually trials tailored to the size of the promise. They are not punishments; they are pathways. The struggles we face are not obstacles to God’s purpose—they are the very tools that reveal it.
David was a shepherd. Just another boy from the fields. He loved music, cared for sheep, and obeyed his father. He had no armor, no military training. But he carried a secret anointing—poured from heaven long before he ever had fame. And how does God respond to that anointing? With a giant. A Philistine armed to the teeth, taunting the armies of Israel for forty days. You’d think a young man with divine promises would be given open doors, powerful allies, or smooth paths. But no. He was given an overwhelming enemy.
Why? Because the battle with Goliath wasn’t a threat to David’s destiny—it was the gateway. The giant was the stage God designed for Israel to see who David was—and for David to discover who God is.
That leads me to a conclusion I can’t ignore: what we often see as the greatest obstacle in our lives is, in fact, the trampoline God uses to lift us to a higher spiritual level. They’re not punishments. They’re platforms.
The same is true for Peter. The impulsive disciple. The bold fisherman. The one who dared to speak when others stayed silent. Jesus knew him. He knew Peter’s faith needed to be refined—not through theory, but through testing. One night, out on the sea, the Master didn’t just appear to them walking on water. He told Peter to step out of the boat.
There’s no shorter, more radical invitation than this: “Come.” One word—but packed with the full weight of faith. And Peter, even with doubts, tries. He walks a few steps. He touches the impossible. But then, he gets distracted. He sees the wind. He begins to sink.
And what does Jesus do? He takes him by the hand. Lifts him up. Teaches him. Because faith isn’t built in theory—it’s forged in the middle of the storm.
From that moment, I’ve come to understand: God doesn’t always calm the storm so we can believe. Sometimes, He calls us to walk through it. He trains us. Shapes us. Allows us to stumble so we can grow stronger. Faith doesn’t flourish in calm waters. It shines in chaos.
This isn’t just ancient history—it’s an eternal pattern. Every time God wants to elevate someone, He prepares them with trials.
Those who pray for patience will receive waiting.
Those who beg for wisdom will face impossible decisions.
Those who ask to be instruments in the Lord’s hands will be shaped on the anvil of humility.
It’s not punishment. It’s design. And though the process often hurts, it’s always worth it. Because God doesn’t simply give burdens—He gives wings. He lets us feel the weight so we can recognize His power.
There are days when I wonder: why so much weight? Why so much silence from heaven when I need direction the most? But then I remember: giants are not signs of abandonment—they’re announcements of promotion. Storms are not accidents on the path—they’re part of God’s method to teach us to look, not at the waves, but at the face of the Savior.
In every trial, there’s a chance for transformation. In every dark night, a faith that can shine. Because truthfully, one cannot become like Christ without walking where He walked. Without trusting as He trusted. Without obeying through pain as He obeyed.
That’s why, when trials come, I no longer see them as punishments—I see them as divine appointments. As chapters written by a Father who never improvises. A God who molds kings with giants and disciples with storms.
The world teaches us that if something hurts, we should avoid it. That if something is difficult, it must not be from God. But the eternal truth is different: what hurts, shapes. What challenges, transforms. What seems to break us is often what builds us from within.
I no longer fear the giant if I know an anointing rests upon my head. I don’t fear the storm if my eyes are fixed on the Savior. Because every hardship has an expiration date—but every lesson has eternal value.
Sometimes God’s calling is not to comfort but to risk. Not to safety but to surrender. The Master doesn’t promise there won’t be waves—He promises we won’t walk through them alone. And that is enough.
There are moments when we must stop praying for the giant to disappear—and start praying for the courage to face him. Not to beg the storm to pass—but to pray our faith holds steady while it does. Because in the end, the God who allows the struggle is the same who grants the victory.
And if you ever doubt that, remember: David was not made a king by the crown—but by the moment he stood before Goliath with a sling and five stones. Peter didn’t become a leader the day he preached at Pentecost, but the day he dared to walk on water.
The moments of greatest glory are preceded by trials that seem impossible. But in heaven’s eyes, that’s the perfect ground for miracles.
God hasn’t changed. He still calls ordinary men and women to walk through the impossible. He still shapes kings with giants and disciples with storms.
So what giant stands before you? What raging sea is calling you to cross?
Maybe it’s not the end of the road.
Maybe it’s just the beginning of the miracle.
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