During World War II, six Navy pilots returned from a mission searching the seas for enemy submarines. Darkness had already fallen when they attempted to locate their aircraft carrier. But the captain had ordered a complete blackout—no lights, no signals—so the ship would not become a target. Over and over the pilots radioed in desperation: “Just one light. Give us one light so we can land.” Each time the answer came back: no. Finally, radio contact was broken, and with no visible runway, the pilots were forced to ditch their planes into the ocean.

Imagine the fear in those cockpits. They were close to home. They had done their duty. They only needed one small light. But the greater mission required darkness. What felt cruel in the moment was strategic from a higher vantage point.

There are seasons in the Christian life when we plead for one light—one clear answer, one visible sign, one change in circumstance. “Lord, just show me something.” Yet heaven seems silent. The lights remain out. It feels as though we are circling in the dark.

But God sees what we cannot. The blackout on that ship was not neglect—it was protection. If even one light had been turned on, it could have exposed the entire crew to enemy attack. In the same way, what feels like denial may actually be divine protection. What seems like silence may be sovereign wisdom.

Faith is not trusting when the runway is lit. Faith is trusting when you must descend into darkness believing that God is still in control. The heroes of Hebrews 11 “obtained promises” and “escaped the edge of the sword,” but they did so through faith—not sight. Sometimes obedience leads to bright victory. Sometimes obedience leads to dark waters. But in both places, God is present.

We do not measure God’s faithfulness by how many lights He turns on for us. We measure it by His unchanging character.