I knew this Thanksgiving wouldn’t look quite like the ones we’ve tucked into memory. The calendar had to shift to fit kids’ work schedules and scattered availability. I had to recruit a backup cook because my strength simply couldn’t stretch far enough to carry a full Thanksgiving meal this year. And my husband had to bow out entirely when he scheduled a double knee replacement just days before the holiday.
Yet somehow, none of that made the week dull. I still managed to lock the keys in the car, faint while helping my husband and earn myself an ambulance ride—and a fresh set of stitches. And in true last-minute fashion, I found myself stepping in for friends and running the 8:30 a.m. Turkey Trot in thirty degree weather on Thanksgiving morning.
But today has been its own kind of glory—bundled in the cold, then thawing out in a warm, cozy house filled with the people I love. MarioKart championships, board games scattered across the table, quiet naps under soft blankets. It has been simple, chaotic, and beautiful.
I have more to be thankful for than words can hold. And as I count the blessings I can see—and the many I can’t—I’m lifting my gratitude upward. I pray you’re doing the same today, giving thanks to the One who fills our lives with mercies new every morning and goodness we could never deserve.
Happy Thanksgiving, friends. May your hearts be full and your eyes open to every grace He has poured out.
🎶 “Standing on the promises of Christ my King, through eternal ages let his praises ring; glory in the highest I will shout and sing, standing on the promises of God!”🎶
Affliction has a way of changing the way we sing. Once, I sang this hymn standing tall, lungs full, voice rising like a joyful Baptist at a Saturday night revival—sure, strong, unquestioning. Now, I sing it slower from the quiet of my hospital bed, tasting each word, weighing every promise against the heaviness pressing on my chest. The melody hasn’t changed, but I have.
18 days. Eighteen days of one hard thing after another maddeningly marching through the doors of my life—uninvited, unrelenting. Health unraveling into painful new territories, relationships trembling under pressure that threatens what once seemed unshakeable, the future scattering into pieces I can no longer hold together. It feels like too much.
In a weary whisper only God could hear, I said, You are asking too much of me. This feels impossible. I don’t think I can do this.And yet—You must think I can.
So where, Lord, is the help You promised?
Promise. That word flickered through my tired mind and opened a remembered door: “This is my comfort in my affliction, that Your promise gives me life” (Psalm 119:50). There it was—quiet as a breath, clear as a bell: Hannah, this is your help. My promises. Stand on them.
So the words came tumbling—like a river breaking through a dam—every scripture, every promise I could catch hold of, spoken aloud over the noise of despair crowding my soul:
If I stand firm to the end, You will save me. You give strength to the weary. I will see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living. Your name is a strong tower—I run to You. With Your grace, all things are possible. So help me do what feels impossible. Help me make it through this.
And this morning, something was different. The circumstances hadn’t shifted—the questions still hovered—but my heart? It stood. Courage where fear had sat. Steadiness where trembling had lived. God had kept His word. He renewed me. He breathed life where hope was thinning. His promises held me upright, where I thought I would fall.
My family woke to the sound of me—quiet, raspy voice —singing again like that happy Baptist at a Saturday night revival: Standing on the promises of God.
And this time, I am not just singing it. I am living it.
I reached for distraction—scrolling through ideas for Christmas gifts for my people. When I searched for something for my young STNA/up-and-coming physician, I stumbled upon a site selling the most beautiful stethoscopes I’d ever seen.
Colors like jewels.
Patterns like joy.
One in particular caught my eye—a swirl of pink animal print and sharp, gleaming purple— shining with all things girlish and lovely. And for a brief flicker, right before unconscious thought becomes awareness, I mused, “this is the one I’ll ask for next time.”
But then—
my heart caught up to my body.
And I remembered where I was sitting: in my hospital bed at home, a ventilator mask pressed against my face, small plastic cups of pills lined neatly beside me, guarding against the next wave of breathless panic.
In the thick, holy silence of 2 a.m., I swear I heard the sound of my own heart dropping back into the deep, heavy truth of reality.
I will not be needing a new stethoscope.
Not now, not ever.
No more pressing the cool bell to a grandmother’s arm, listening for the soft rhythm of life beneath her paper-thin skin.
No more playing peekaboo with wide-eyed children, pretending it’s a game while I listen carefully to the music of their lungs.
Those days—those glory days—hang preserved behind glass, my green stethoscope draped like a memory across the frame. The strength that once carried me into the chaos of sirens and smoke has long since ebbed away, leaving behind a body most people only know in its fragility, not its former fire.
Suffering has a way of testing what our hearts truly believe.
It presses heat against the places where we’ve built our sense of strength.
And when suffering comes for the strong, it is often met with anger—
not at the pain itself, but at the theft of power.
On my hardest days, I don’t find myself begging for suffering to stop.
I find myself begging for strength to return.
That’s the honest prayer.
Not fewer storms—just stronger arms to stand in them.
And yet, even that desire reveals how frail my own strength really is.
Paul puts it even more vividly;
“We always carry around in our body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may also be revealed in our body.” (2 Corinthians 4:10)
We love strength.
We polish it, parade it, protect it.
And when it’s gone, we question the goodness of God.
But I am learning—slowly, painfully—that the taking of strength is grace.
Grace that empties my hands of what I thought I needed,
so that I might cling more tightly to Jesus.
Now, as I face this new season of weakness,
with tiny bursts of ability to go and do,
I ask myself: how will I use this small strength?
I’ve been praying—for hunger on my well days.
For Scripture to taste sweeter.
For my heart to grow restless for the things of God.
For apathy to break, for grace to deepen.
And when suffering returns—as it will—
may my heart be ready to receive it.
To whisper, thank you, Jesus, for entrusting me with this new hard.
October is awareness month for several things, some I can relate to, and some that are not part of my story. Every year I ponder whether there is anything new to say as the calendar declares it is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month, and as I’ve pondered that over this past week, it was impressed on me that there are scores of men and women walking afresh in the pain of this sorrow— mourning empty arms and vacant cradles and the fresh waves of pain that are going to come as we move into the season of celebrating family and togetherness. And that makes me want to share my story again and again, because each hurting heart needs to know their pain is seen, their empty space is held, and their future can contain lasting hope.
There are parts of my story I never imagined I’d be the one to write. I never thought I’d be the mother of children I couldn’t raise— that my arms would know both the fullness of love and the emptiness of loss so profoundly.
I’ve walked through the pain of losing two pregnancies, and I’ve held my precious daughter in my arms only to let her go before I was ready— just four and a half months after she was born.
There are no words for what it feels like to love that deeply and to lose that completely. Even now, years later, I can still feel her weight against my chest, and the flutter of my babies being woven together in my womb. But the pages of my story that I expected would be about them remain achingly blank. My heart still catches at that reality from time to time, like a bruise that never fully fades.
Grief changes everything. It changed how I see the world, how I talk to God, how I measure time—not by days and months, but by memories and milestones that never came. There were nights when I couldn’t pray, when I could only weep into my pillow and hope God heard the sound of it. And faithfully, He did.
He met me right there, not with explanations, but with His presence. I used to think faith meant feeling strong, but now I know it’s just trusting God enough to crumble in His hands. It’s believing He is still good when nothing feels good. It’s holding on to the promise that this life isn’t the end of the story.
I believe that my children are whole and alive in the arms of Jesus— and that one day, I’ll see them again. That hope doesn’t erase the ache, but it redeems it. It gives meaning to my tears and purpose to my pain.
I mother them differently now. In whispered prayers. In the way I try to love people more gently. In the way I cling to eternity a little tighter. Heaven holds what my arms cannot, but even here, in the space between what was and what will be, I still find traces of God’s goodness.
If you know this kind of loss too, I want you to hear this:
You are not alone.
Your story matters.
Your child’s life matters.
Even in this heartbreak, God is holding you and your little ones in the same hands. One day, every tear will be redeemed. Every broken hallelujah will turn into praise. And our arms—these aching, waiting arms—will finally be full again.
I had a new nurse come visit me last week. He was honest, kind, and thorough — asking all the usual questions about my medical history; the twists and turns that brought me here. I’ve learned to tell that story in pieces now, almost like reading from a well-worn script. When I finished, he sat back in his chair and said softly, “You’re really brave.”
He said it again before he left. And I smiled, but inside I felt a strange ache. Because I don’t feel brave. Not even close.
Most days, I feel like I’m just hanging on for dear life — doing the next thing because there is no other choice. Take the medication. Show up for the appointment. Face the pain. Rest. Repeat. There’s nothing glamorous about it, and most of the time, it doesn’t feel like courage; it feels like survival. The kind of survival where you’re digging in your fingernails, white-knuckling hope like your life depends on it, because it does.
But maybe, just maybe, God sees it differently.
I think about how often Scripture tells us, “Do not be afraid.” It’s not because life is easy or because fear never knocks at our door — it’s because God promises to be with us in it. Maybe bravery isn’t the absence of fear or the strength to charge forward. Maybe it’s the quiet trust to take one trembling step at a time, believing that God’s hand is steadying us, even when our own knees are shaking.
There are days when my prayers are nothing more than whispered sighs — “Lord, help me through this hour.” There are nights when I’m too weary to pray at all, and all I can do is rest in the truth that the Spirit intercedes for me when I have no words left. And maybe that’s what real courage looks like: surrendering the illusion of strength and leaning instead into the grace that holds me together.
I don’t feel brave, but I am learning that bravery doesn’t always feel like bravery. Sometimes it looks like showing up. Sometimes it looks like tears. Sometimes it looks like still believing that God is good, even when life doesn’t feel good.
If someone calls me brave, maybe what they really see is the reflection of God’s faithfulness — the way He sustains a soul that should have fallen apart by now. I’m learning to take that as a quiet reminder: this story isn’t about how strong I am, but about how faithful He is.
So no, I don’t feel brave. But I keep going. And by God’s grace, that’s enough.
There are a lot of voices right now. A deafening amount of opinions and points of view. Sometimes it’s difficult to know whether speaking is warranted, or if it will just add to the noise. One thing I know though, is that in the face of devastation, hope is a needed voice to hear.
What happens when a prominent voice for truth is suddenly silenced? When someone who stood boldly, unashamed of the gospel, and unwilling to compromise, is snatched away from us? The temptation is fear. Fear that if they can be taken down, then what about us? Fear that darkness is stronger than light. Fear that speaking up will cost too much.
The missionary Paul reminds us otherwise:
“…I will not be put to shame in anything, but that with all boldness, Christ will even now, as always, be exalted in my body, whether by life or by death. For to me, to live is Christ, and to die is gain.” Philippians 1:20-21
This is not the end. Death does not have the final word. Every voice that is silenced here will one day be awakened at the sound of His voice. Every injustice will be answered. Every act of courage will be remembered before the throne of God.
So what do we do if a voice for truth falls silent?
We do not shrink back. We do not hide in fear. We step forward. We take up the torch that has been handed to us. We keep talking, keep living, keep shining. Because the mission was never about one person’s voice alone — it is about God’s truth resounding through His people. (John 5:28-29)
The darker the world gets, the more every flicker of light matters. The more every word of courage echoes. The more every act of faith shines.
Let us not be silent. Let us not cower. Let us not let darkness have the last word. Instead, let us outshine it. Because one day, the tombs will open, the righteous will rise, and the Judge of all the earth will make everything right.
Until then, we keep speaking. We keep living with courage. We keep letting the light shine.
About a week ago I discovered my first real, here-to-stay gray hair. At about an inch and a half long, the silvery strand sparkled in the light, and I squeaked with delight. I have been waiting for this day!
It felt almost holy, that moment of noticing what the world often calls a flaw but what Scripture calls a crown. The Bible says, “Gray hair is a crown of glory; it is gained in a righteous life” (Proverbs 16:31). A strand of silver is not something to pluck away or hide in embarrassment—it’s a shimmer of honor, the whisper of years lived and stories carried, a reminder that time is a gift.
The world tells us that beauty belongs to the young, but God tells us that beauty deepens with age. Every laugh line is a history of joy. Every crease carries the memory of burdens borne and released. Every gray hair gleams with testimony: of lessons learned, of prayers prayed, of nights endured and mornings met with new mercies.
Aging is not the dimming of the light, but the soft glow of it spreading, warming, illuminating. It is not a loss—it is a gathering. We gather wisdom, we gather perspective, we gather gratitude for the fleetingness of days and the eternity that awaits beyond them.
To age is to live long enough to love more deeply, to forgive more freely, to see life with eyes unclouded by the urgency of youth. It is to carry within us the sacredness of experience, the sweetness of perspective, and the quiet strength of having endured.
So when I see that little silver thread sparkle in the mirror, I do not feel embarrassed. I feel crowned. Crowned with grace, crowned with wisdom, crowned with the reminder that my days are in His hands and that every year is a jewel added to the story He is writing through my life.
Fun with gray
Aging is not something to hide. It is something to honor. Something to embrace. Something to rejoice in.
Because every gray hair is not just a strand—it is a song of God’s faithfulness woven into us, shimmering with glory.
As a member of my church, one of the things I most enjoy is using my spiritual gifts from God to serve wherever I’m needed. That has looked like playing with toddlers and teaching pre-schoolers as their parents sit in the service. Sharing my story with groups of people who don’t know me yet. Helping prepare and serve meals for special occasions, and taking meals to people when they’re ill. Though introverted, I also have a social streak, and I have enjoyed the hustle and bustle of working in a busy kitchen, preparing games, activities, or projects for large events, and participating in set up and take down for various events.
As you can imagine, my illness has stripped away my ability to do most of these things. This has sent me seeking different ways that I can still be an active part of my congregation instead of feeling like I do not have anything of value to contribute.
Through this season I have learned that Gifts from God are not always wrapped in brilliance. Sometimes, they arrive quietly—like a whisper, tucked deep into the folds of who we are. For me, one of those gifts is encouragement. It does not roar; it does not shine with spotlights. It is a candle in a darkened room, a warm cup of tea set down beside tired hands, a few words penned in ink that somehow carry light.
From time to time, God nudges me—
Write the note.
And so I do.
A card on a desk.
A folded envelope slid into a mailbox.
No fanfare. No flourish. Just I see you. I thank you. You matter. I cannot tell you how many times I’ve learned that God’s timing is far better than mine. That a sentence scribbled in the quiet has found its way into someone’s weary moment like rain on thirsty ground.
This is the mystery of the gifts He gives us; we offer them in faith, and He multiplies them in grace. Your gift may not look like mine. Perhaps you speak life through the meals you prepare, or through the way you listen without rushing.
Perhaps your gift is order in a world of chaos, or joy that bubbles into laughter in heavy spaces. Whatever it is—hold it with open hands. Let God place it where it’s needed most. And do not think it too small. The smallest seed, after all, can become the tallest tree.
This week, listen for His whisper. Offer your gift—quietly, humbly, freely. You may never see all the places it will bloom. But He will.
In the lonely slowness of the in-between, I have discovered something deeply human. A kind of fierce clarity about what matters. An urgent desire to stop faking things just so others won’t be uncomfortable. A pressing yearning to stop wasting words. I can already see who stays. And who doesn’t. Why then do I go to such lengths to create a mirage of okayness so that other people don’t have to reckon with my pain? Why do I smooth over the truth, soften the edges, laugh at the wrong moments—just to make grief more palatable for them?
I think it’s because pretending is the currency of the healthy world. We’re taught to keep things light, manageable, convenient. And when you live in the long shadow of a fatal illness, your reality becomes deeply inconvenient. It disrupts dinner parties. It silences group texts. It taints the joyful camaraderie of a birthday party and unsettles the rhythm of everyone else’s forward motion.
So I contort myself. I wrap my fear in polite phrases. I pad my sorrow with jokes. I give updates that are vague but upbeat. I try not to be too much.
But the cost of that mirage is high. It leaves me lonelier than the illness ever could.
Because here in this slow unraveling, there’s a strange and sacred gift: honesty. The kind that doesn’t flinch. The kind that strips everything down to what’s real and raw and enduring. The kind that doesn’t need to be tied up in a bow.
I’m learning—painfully, awkwardly—that the people who can sit with the truth, even when it’s heavy, are the ones who deserve a front-row seat to what’s left of my life. The rest, kindly, can drift.
This in-between space? It’s not just waiting to die. It’s where I’m learning how to live.
And it’s beautiful and sacred and so much richer than the plot points I would have imagined for my life, and if I am worthy enough to be used for His glory in this way, then I dare not try to contort the storyline that I was written into- one that is not defeat, but is my final triumph.
This is my sacred stage to shine for Jesus- to show a watching world that He is true and every word He spoke is sure. So I will be clinging to His promises like breath itself until my breath is nothing more than the stringy shadow of a vapor hanging suspended in nothingness. If I do that alone then I know it was done with the most honest of intentions, not for the sake of trying to fit into one of the many molds this world would have me choose.
To those of you who were courageous enough to sit near and take fire based on your proximity, I thank you, and I commend you. Know that you did something holy. You didn’t fix it. You didn’t have to. You just stayed—when leaving would have been easier, cleaner, safer. You let the silence speak. You let the pain breathe. You let me be more than just my label.
Know that your presence has been a lifeline. A quiet rebellion against the cultural pull to look away, move on, keep scrolling. You bore witness when I felt invisible. You carried pieces of my grief in your own hands, and somehow, that made it more bearable.
You may not realize the impact you’ve had, but I do. And I will carry the weight of your kindness with me for as long as I have breath.
This long goodbye is not just mine to live—it’s ours to hold. And I am so deeply grateful for those of you who chose to hold it with me.
How will we make it through this? The valleys we walk may bear different names, but at the beginning of the trailhead we all have a choice to make.
I once chose with clenched fists, fueled by grief, driven by fear… maybe you have been there too. But hear me now, not from the mountaintop, but from the shadowed lowlands, where echoes of pain still linger—choose the better way.
To those who call Jesus Lord: we proclaim a Kingdom not built by hands, not tied to decades past or decades to come. No power of earth can shake what is secure in Him. This is not a call to passivity— but perhaps an invitation: learn the stillness of the soul.
Not silence for silence’s sake, but a reorienting, a returning to the Way that is higher, slower, deeper. God has been faithful—not because all is mended, not because we have been spared, but because He never left.
Each day aches like fire, and still, Jesus is good.
Each prayer rises desperate, and still, Jesus is near.
His nearness is not held hostage to the outcomes I crave. Call me foolish, if you must. I am learning to care less for opinions, and more for people, because Jesus is shaping my heart for a Kingdom not made of noise.
God’s goodness is not measured by the speed of escape from sorrow. Whether I have months or years this I know:
Jesus is here. He is good. And gently He whispers: “Be still, and know that I am God.
So in your valley will you stop, just for a moment? Turn from the scroll, the post, the panic, and let your soul lean toward Him. Even here, where fear stirs, where anger brews, there is joy. Because love remains, and He is near.
Even now, I can say with trembling lips: It is well with my soul. He is God. And He is good.
I decided today was shower day. With a broken wrist and low energy, some days are arranged to be less involved than a whole shower, but today it was time for the real thing.
Sitting on my chair in the shower I made a mental note to myself, “figure out how to get pumps for my shampoo and conditioner bottles; it’s getting hard for my hands to squeeze anything out of them.” I didn’t realize I had bigger problems than that.
As I finished up washing and reached up to scrunch the water out of my hair with my good hand, my arm banged back down onto my lap. I tried twice more, but couldn’t lift my arm high enough to squeeze the water from my hair. I decided to just dry off and deal with it outside the shower. Then came the realization that neither could I reach for my towel to dry off. I sat in the shower, dripping wet, unable to do anything for myself, and something broke inside.
Fortunately my husband was close enough by to hear my raspy call for help, and he came to my aid. As he did for me what I had done for myself for at least the past 37 years, tears mixed with the shower water that dripped down my face. “It’s not fair,” I croaked.
The words felt both childish and truer than anything I’d said all week.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. I wasn’t supposed to need help with something as basic as drying off. I wasn’t supposed to be this tired, this fragile, this dependent. And maybe most of all, I wasn’t supposed to feel so small—so cracked open by something as simple as a shower.
But there in the tension between frustration and fatigue, my heart whispered what my mouth could not: “Even here, Lord?”
Even here, when my wrist is broken, my body is weak, and my heart is weary?
Even here, when I don’t recognize this version of myself?
Even here, when I feel like more of a burden than a blessing?
And somehow, though He didn’t speak aloud, I felt the answer settle in deeper than my bones: Yes. Even here.
Even here, He is present.
Even here, He is faithful.
Even here, He is not confused about my story.
It’s one thing to trust God when everything makes sense—when my strength is intact, when my routines are predictable, and my body does what I ask of it. It’s another thing entirely to trust Him when nothing is working and I’m wrapped in a towel I couldn’t even reach on my own. It is a hard-fought trust that doesn’t come naturally.
But I’m learning that this is a holy place too.
Not polished. Not powerful. Just painfully human—and held.
There is a strange kind of worship that happens when we let God meet us in our brokenness without pretending we’re fine. When we let the tears fall and still say, “I trust You anyway.” When we acknowledge the ache and still choose to believe He’s working all things for our good.
I don’t understand all He’s doing. I don’t love the limitations. But I know the One who has never wasted pain, never abandoned His people, and never made a mistake. And if He’s allowing this part of the story, then somehow—even this—is being woven into something eternal.
So today, in a soaked towel and salty tears, I’m offering Him what I have: my honesty, my surrender, my broken trust trying to be whole.
Because even here, He is worthy.
Even here, He is good.
And even here, I still believe He knows exactly what He’s doing.
For several weeks I have been looking forward to this past Sunday. It was a chance to not only go to church in the morning, but then in the evening it was our quarterly meeting plus Ice cream and bingo, and I was excited to see so many of my people. And then MSA.
It didn’t take long to recognize that I was going to have to choose wisely what to use my energy on that day. Pain has been searing out of control more often than not lately, and Sunday morning there was no reprieve. I decided I had a better chance of making it Sunday night if I stayed at home and watched the morning service online, which I did, and then rested throughout the day.
As afternoon faded into evening however, it became clear that my body was not going to tolerate a car ride or anything else. The plans I had so carefully paced myself for began to crumble before my eyes. And with that, came the sting of disappointment—sharp and real.
I wish I could say I shrugged it off with grace, that I whispered a quick prayer and moved on. But instead, I wrestled with it. I grieved the loss of what felt like a lifeline that day. I missed my people. I missed being in the room, surrounded by familiar laughter and shared stories and the simple joy of ice cream and bingo. I missed being seen.
That’s the thing about disappointment—it sneaks in and tries to convince you that you’re forgotten. That everyone else is moving on without you. That your suffering sets you apart in the worst way.
But here’s where faith steps in and steadies the soul.
God doesn’t minimize our losses, and He doesn’t rush us through our grief. He meets us right in the ache. As I sat alone in my living room that night, I remembered the One who never misses a moment. The One who knew I would be here, again. The One who catches every tear and counts every pain-ridden hour as precious.
Crushing disappointment doesn’t get the final word. Not when we serve a God who promises beauty for ashes and joy in the morning. Not when He reminds us that He is our portion, not a perfect evening, not our best-laid plans. Him.
So, I went to bed that night not having seen the people I love, not having laughed over silly bingo cards, not having been part of the fellowship I was so looking forward to. But I went to bed held. Known. Carried. And even in the disappointment, maybe especially there, I was not alone.
Not long ago a friend posted something with this quote: “You can’t’ protect your child from their testimony.” Boy did that hit me like a ton of bricks.
As parents, we often carry a silent hope that our children’s lives will be smooth, their paths straight, and their hearts unbroken. We pray for their protection, guidance, and joy. But buried in that desire—however noble—is often the unspoken wish that they never have to walk through darkness. We long to shield them from pain, from failure, from regret. And yet, we forget: testimony is not born in safety. It’s born in the fire.
That line echoes like truth wrapped in heartbreak. Because if you’ve parented long enough, you know: you can’t control the path your child walks. You can guide, you can pray, you can love—but you cannot write their story for them. And sometimes, their testimony includes things you never would have chosen. The very moments you feared—addiction, rebellion, heartbreak, wandering far from faith—may become the places where Jesus meets them most deeply. How easily I forget that this is exactly where Jesus met me in my own life; why would he not do the same for my children?
And that’s where surrender comes in. Real surrender. Not the kind that says, “Lord, keep them safe and comfortable,” but the kind that says, “Lord, whatever it takes.”
Because if their knees hitting the floor is what it takes for them to run to Him, then let it be.
This doesn’t mean we stop parenting or stop praying. It means we stop trying to be their Savior. We trust the One who made them, who knows their every thought, who sees the beginning and the end. We release them into the hands of a God who loves them far more than we do.
It’s not easy to watch your child walk through fire. It’s not easy to hear pieces of their story that break your heart. But it’s necessary sometimes. For them to know grace, they may have to meet the edge of their own strength. For them to recognize light, they may have to sit in some darkness. And for them to know the realness of God, they may have to discover how empty everything else truly is.
So to the parent who is watching a child wander, who is grieving the turns their life has taken, who is praying with trembling hands: take heart. Their story isn’t over. And God’s mercy runs deeper than any pit they may fall into.
Your child’s testimony may not look like the one you hoped for. But it might just be the one that leads them home.
Let go. Trust God. And remember: even the prodigal was still a son.
Despite often not having much of an appetite, that has not slowed my consumption of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream, or homemade yogurt, or anything really that resembles the flavor of a pickle. Until today. It was a waffle. A delicious, crisped-to-perfection sourdough waffle with butter and syrup was the red flag that put a stop to eating as I knew it. Truthfully I had noticed over recent weeks that bites were getting caught in my chest and being stubborn to go down, but I had been dismissing it as too big of a bite, or not enough chewing. That was wishful thinking. After a brief check-in with my speech therapist, she confirmed that the dangers of eating by mouth now outweigh the benefit. Fortunately for me I have already had feeding tubes placed for a few years now as my inability to absorb nutrients became a bigger problem.
So this isn’t entirely unfamiliar ground for me. Still, hearing those words—that food by mouth is no longer safe—hit me in a way I didn’t expect. It’s not just about waffles or yogurt or pickles. It’s about the little pleasures, the ordinary gifts I’ve often taken for granted. The lit candles at my dinner table. The joy of sitting down to eat with others, the taste of something warm and comforting, the way food brings people together. That chapter is closing, and I find myself grieving the loss of it.
But grief, for me, never has the final say.
As I sat with this news today, a quiet truth settled in my heart: I am not sustained by waffles. I am not even ultimately sustained by feeding tubes. My sustenance comes from the Bread of Life—Jesus Himself. He alone satisfies the deepest hunger of my soul. The world may see this as loss, but in Him, there is gain. Not in a shallow, “look on the bright side” kind of way, but in a rooted, unshakable truth that His grace is sufficient for me—even here.
Scripture tells us, “Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day” (2 Corinthians 4:16). My body may be failing, piece by piece, but I am being upheld, day by day, by the One who does not grow weary. I have tasted and seen that the Lord is good—and that is a flavor I will never have to give up.
So while I may no longer get to enjoy the crispy edges of a sourdough waffle, I rest in the promise of a coming feast—one prepared for me by the King Himself, where no illness, no brokenness, and no feeding tubes will ever be needed again.
Until that day, I will keep showing up to the table of His grace. Because He still meets me there.
There was a day when I had to report one of my partners on the ambulance for the way he treated a patient. It was a partner I liked a lot. Everyone liked him. I remember standing in the supervisors’ office with my palms sweating and my heart pounding in my ears. He was one of the “good ole boys.” I knew it would probably damage our good relationship, and the backlash would likely affect my relationship with other coworkers as well.
The weight of my decision was heavy, and it certainly would have been easier to not say anything at all. But I had taken an oath to do no harm. I signed up to render aid with wisdom and compassion, and watching my people be abusive and degrading in silence would have been a terrible injustice. I could have just vowed to be better than that. I could have just told him I didn’t like it. Sometimes we need more than just words though; we need action. Marches for peace are great. Changing your social media profile to support a good cause is thoughtful. But that does not actually change anything. We need to act.
Friends, speaking up and putting a foot down is a really difficult thing to do. It’s scary, and it’s risky, and it is definitely not the norm, but our nation is hurting and if someone does not start standing up I fear for the future of our “United” States. We have to be people of action. That may mean turning in your partner. It may mean confronting someone you see abusing their power. It may be saying no to that one family member’s off-colored comments. Whatever it may look like to make a stand instead of turning a blind eye, we need to be doing that.
Eventually you will not feel alone standing up for justice, because when everyone starts doing it you suddenly are not the only fish swimming upstream anymore. You have the power to turn the school around. It starts with each and every individual calling it out when they see it, and saying “no more.” We can do this. I will be there standing beside you, sweaty palms and all.
Please leave me a comment, it lets me know you’re listening!
Tonight, I was caught in the quiet pull of old photographs, each one a window to a world that felt softer, lighter. I lingered in the hush of memory—bare feet on sun-warmed pavement, sticky fingers clutching melting popsicles, laughter rising like fireflies into a dusk that never hurried. The days before my family knew the heavy grief of suffering through the progression of a fatal illness.
Grief has a way of sharpening our memories. It turns the past into a soft-lit place where pain had not yet knocked at the door. And tonight, I felt that ache—the ache of before.
But as I sat there, surrounded by memories frozen in time, the Lord gently reminded me: He was with us then, and He is with us now.
Hebrews 13:8 says, “Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever.” While everything around me has changed, He has not. The God who gave us the joy of long summer days and laughter echoing down the hallway is the same God holding us steady in the storm of uncertainty. He does not abandon us in our sorrow; He walks with us through it.
And so, while my heart longs for what once was, I’m learning to give thanks for the beauty that still is. Even in the midst of heartache, there are glimpses of grace—quiet moments of strength I know I didn’t conjure on my own. There’s peace that surpasses understanding, not because life is easy, but because Jesus is near.
These old pictures remind me not just of the sweetness of the past but also of God’s faithfulness throughout the years. I don’t know what tomorrow holds, but I know the One who holds tomorrow—and He is good.
So I’ll hold onto that. I’ll grieve, I’ll remember, and I’ll trust. Because our story isn’t just framed in photographs—it’s being written by a God who redeems, restores, and never lets go.
I remember being in church the first Mother’s Day after burying my daughter and not being able to contain my sobs as the pastor shared a special tribute to mothers, and I didn’t feel like celebrating at all because I had stood at the edge of eternity and watched a piece of my motherhood be torn from my arms in an instant.
I remember the Mother’s Day after my first miscarriage and how I grieved over having been thrilled to add another arrow to our quiver, only to watch that dream bleed out through the cracks in my heart.
I remember the Mother’s Days during our seasons of infertility, and how I fought to not entertain bitterness toward the expecting mamas in my life because I was crippled by the thought of never being able to expand our family.
I remember the Mother’s Day following our season of foster care, and how I had seen our story being very different from the reality we were living.
I remember Mother’s Day as a child and how the only thing on my mind was the special craft I’d made for my mom, or the flowers I’d picked her, and how this day of celebration felt a whole lot less complicated and emotional back then.
This Mother’s Day I remember that there are those of you all around me that are living out various versions of broken stories that have wounded your dreams and experiences of motherhood, and I see you standing there. I see how this day of celebration comes with so many convoluted emotions; deep grief and heartfelt thankfulness and hopeful expectation. I know that some of you are holding your breath waiting to turn the calendar page to Monday, and that’s ok.
I know today may be especially hard, and I just want you to know that you’re not alone. I pray that God gives you comfort, peace, and strength as you carry both extravagant love and crushing sorrow in your heart. Your pain matters, and so does your story. Allow Him to use these painful and uncertain days to strengthen your trust in Him, to surrender your need for control, and to open your hands wide to the good-hard story that He is writing through you. I promise you it’s worth it.
I first experienced deep heartache in my teenage years as my parents engaged in a messy and traumatic divorce. I was blessed to have a wonderful youth pastor and his wife and my small group leader who walked through that with me. This was when I first felt the pull in my heart that I wanted to be for young people the person that I needed so badly in my youth. That feeling has never lessened; for years I have continued to feel that God has called me to work with youth in some capacity; being a safe place and a compass to point them to Jesus in these years that have such an impact on their future.
Suspecting that I should be a small group leader for teenage girls, I reached out to the youth pastor at my church and let him know I wanted to be involved. I went through the application process to be a leader, and a few different times had a prospective time frame of when I would start being involved with the teens. Unfortunately the timing always got derailed with my body waging war against different complications, or sudden progression in my disease.
This was discouraging to me, as I was anxious to jump in already and do what I had been yearning to do for years. Our youth pastor was kind and laid back, letting me know it was no big deal, and to come when I was ready. In the interim he had me share my story with the youth group, which was meaningful, but I still felt I was missing out on doing what God had called me to do.
Eventually I started having more bad days than good days physically, and youth group just had to take a backseat to my health. I didn’t understand why God would ask me to do something and then let me be prevented from doing it. I was certain he had been calling me to work with youth, so it led to much confusion.
Fast forward to the day I got the proverbial slap upside the face. Through various happenings it came together that I was meeting with a small group of teenage girls once a week at my house to lead them in a Bible study. The thought that washed over me this particular day had me feeling a little sheepish. The whole time that I had been trying to get God’s attention because I felt like he had forgotten about his prompting for me to work with teenagers, he had been orchestrating the actual plan right under my nose.
God has me exactly where he wants me; in my home, sitting down with a group of girls to teach them about him. It doesn’t look like the checkboxes I created. It looks perfectly as he planned it all along. I did not have to fill out an application, or drive across town, or have a certain size group; in his kindness God brought the opportunity right to the comfort of my own home, using the means I already have, in /his/ time.
Dear readers, don’t give in to discouragement when you know the Lord is leading you to something but it seems unattainable. Back up a little. Zoom out. Look for where his hand is working. Instead of putting him in the boxes you build, let him show you what he has in mind; it may be buckets full of goodness better than you had even imagined.
My tendency toward binge-blogging is apparent again. 🙃 There is just much on my mind I want to get out somewhere productive.
As I mentioned in an earlier post, Easter weekend marked a foundational shift in my soul. I wanted to feel sorry for myself. I wanted to mope in feeling unseen and misunderstood. Instead, what could have been a morose, lonely weekend bloomed into one of the most transformative times of self-reflection and sacred dialogue I’ve ever experienced.
I started to say that I took my hurts to God, but the truth is I chose to sit with them, feeling pity for myself, and my Heavenly Father reached out to me. And in the thick silence of that weekend, as I grieved over the story I couldn’t possibly have imagined for myself 20 years ago, I saw myself and my life journey with more clarity than ever.
The truths I realized that weekend are too revolutionary to keep to myself. I realize that the fact that it took me this long to see myself with this kind of God-gifted understanding surely means that there are others needing to hear these truths as well. So on the days that the weight of your hard story feels like it will crush you into oblivion, whisper these words to your beaten soul, scribble them in your journal, tuck them deep into the hollows of your heart, and remind yourself over and over again until you have the strength to believe it.
God chose to leave you in this broken world—to live, to love, to struggle—not as punishment, but with purpose. The hardship you face isn’t pointless; it’s the very tool he is using to shape something in you that comfort never could.
He is at work in your pain, not to crush you, but to change you—to rescue you from the parts of yourself that hold you back from life as he intended it. And because he loves you deeply, he is willing to let go of your temporary happiness if it means drawing you closer to lasting wholeness.
God is unwavering in this mission. He’s not distracted. He hasn’t forgotten you. He’s committed—to your transformation, to your redemption, and to your good, even when it hurts.
When you’re first diagnosed with a terminal illness, there’s often a flood of support—texts, calls, check-ins, care packages. People cry with you. They tell you they’re here for anything. They swear they won’t disappear.
Time moves on. So do they. There are seasons to our lives, and some people who may have been able to be more present in the beginning do not have the time and flexibility in this next season they are in. Perhaps others who weren’t available initially are now able to be more present as they enter a slower season of life.
What no one tells you is that terminal illness is not a straight descent. It’s a long, unpredictable goodbye filled with plateaus and crashes, slight recoveries and devastating setbacks. It’s not dramatic enough to be a crisis every day, and not gentle enough to be forgotten. It exists in this in-between space that makes people uncomfortable—too serious to ignore, too exhausting to engage with endlessly.
And in that in-between, some people begin to vanish.
Some friends disappear because they don’t know what to say. Others because they think you’ve stabilized and assume you’re doing better. Some perhaps can’t add anything else to their plates. Life, after all, goes on for them: promotions, vacations, weddings, baby showers. They’re not bad people—they’re just busy, or scared, or shy, or not able to confront your pain when they have the luxury of avoidance.
You sit in your room watching the seasons change. Spring arrives with its blossoms and pollen, and you wonder why it feels so far away. Summer blazes through with parties and long days, and you’re still in bed, waiting for a reply. Autumn colors the trees as your medications increase. Winter comes, and it’s the coldest one yet—not because of the weather, but because no one showed up for the last holiday. Or your procedure. Or just to sit with you.
Illness is isolating. Terminal illness is devastatingly lonely.
There are moments when you ask yourself if you’ve done something wrong. Were you not a good enough friend? Did you ask for too much? But deep down, you know this isn’t about blame. It’s about the raw truth that few people are prepared to walk with you through a slow, uncertain ending. <== Read that sentence again.
Still, not everyone leaves. There are those rare few who show up without needing to be asked. They don’t bring solutions—they bring presence. They don’t always know what to say, but they sit beside you anyway. Sometimes they bring coffee. Sometimes they just bring quiet. And their presence, however brief, becomes a form of medicine.
If you’re in this season of illness and loneliness, know this: you are not invisible. Your pain is real. Your courage, even when it looks like just getting through another hour, matters. You deserve community, not because you are dying, but because you are still here to be a part of it.
To those watching from the sidelines—don’t disappear. Show up. Even imperfectly. Especially imperfectly. You don’t need the right words. You just need to be willing to stand beside someone in their most human, most difficult season.
Because in the end, what heals us most is not the cure, but the connection.
I probably should have started with this before my last post, because I’ve gotten some concerned responses. I am still here for every single moment ordained for me!
That being said, God has also been working in my life to prepare me for my Heavenly home. If I could write a letter to each one of you I would. So many of you are my prayer warriors and faithfully encourage me through the highs and the lows of my story. Since I can’t reach out to each of you individually, I’m going to be using my blog to write some letters to my people, so that each person will have the chance to hear my heart, and easy access to it. So please don’t despair when you see me posting the things I’m carrying in my heart. Know they are meant to be treasured by you, where you can return to them again and again.
To my ride-or-die friends who have walked with me through valley and mountain—
I know how deeply your beautiful hearts are wrestling with what you are being asked to do — to love so fiercely in friendship, and then hand me back to Jesus. To surrender our journey just as it felt like it was only beginning. How does one even begin to do that?
We have shared life together for about as long as the disciples sat at Jesus’ feet. Imagine how they must have felt, thinking their journey had only just begun — how desperate they must have been at the thought of losing their closest friend.
But as the disciples learned — and as you will too — God never asks us to walk alone. His Spirit of grace, His face in your friends, His voice in your heart, will comfort and guide you.
Yes, there will be tears. But there will never be a loss of hope or joy. The planting of you in my life is coming to bloom. We have loved deeply and served one another through many seasons, each with its own beautiful purpose.
Though I may slip away from this celebration a little early, it is only to join an even grander, more glorious one.
I ask that you continue in what we have learned together through this suffering: to show up, to love the brokenhearted, to carry hope into weary places. There are so many hurting hearts all around who need the same friendship, encouragement, and relentless pointing to Jesus that you have given me.
Our story doesn’t end here.
Go. Love fiercely. Serve joyfully. Laugh and grow richly, with hearts full of gratitude for the gift of friendship we are blessed to share.
There’s a particular kind of pain that slices deeper than most—by the time the blade’s edge has cut deep into the soul, the compression meant to stop the pulsing flow is often insignificant and ineffective. This is the deep pain of being hurt by the very people who were supposed to be a reflection of Christ. The ones who were supposed to be your spiritual family. The ones you trusted with your most vulnerable confessions, your wounds, your heavy burdens. And instead of grace, you were met with rejection. Instead of love, you found judgment. Instead of healing, you were left with more scars.
This pain is a quiet heartbreak. A confusing one. Because how do you reconcile the love of Jesus with the rejection of His people?
It can look like being vulnerable in a small group and having your words twisted or used against you later. It can be coming forward with a struggle—addiction, abuse, mental health, prodigal children, doubts—and being met not with compassion, but with shame. It can be trying to serve, lead, or simply belong, only to be ignored, belittled, or pushed out.
If you’ve been there, I want you to hear this: you’re not alone. And you’re not crazy for feeling heartbroken and angry and confused. Jesus understands this kind of pain—He experienced betrayal, too. Not just from the world, but from those people closest to Him.
So how do you keep your faith when your heart is breaking?
Here’s what I’ve learned, often through long tears and difficult wrestling:
First of all, separate Jesus from people.
People are imperfect. Even well-meaning Christians can cause wounds. But Jesus—He never changes. He is the same yesterday, today, and forever. When people have failed you, He hasn’t. He still sees you. Still loves you. Still draws near. The church is meant to reflect Him, but when it doesn’t, He still remains good and trustworthy.
Lean in and feel the pain. Let it suck, and grieve it. Don’t minimize it.
Jesus never told us to pretend things are fine when they’re not. There’s space in his Kingdom to cry out, to lament, to question. Just look at the Psalms—David was constantly bringing his raw, unfiltered hurt to God. You can too. Your pain is valid, and God can handle your honesty.
Next, find community—but wisely. Not all churches are the same. Not all people are the same. It might take time, but there are places and people who will love like Jesus does—gently, kindly, humbly. Take your time, pray for discernment, and know that your healing is not rushed.
Finally, let Jesus be your healer.
No church can save you. No pastor can fully carry you. That’s not their job—it’s His. He came to bind up the brokenhearted, to carry burdens, to restore what was lost. Let Him do that for you. Day by day and layer by layer.
Faith after being hurt in church looks different.
It might be a quieter faith. More cautious. Less tied to the buildings and programs and activities, and more rooted in the secret place with God. That’s okay. Sometimes, when everything falls away, we finally see Jesus more clearly. Not through the stained glass of others’ opinions, but for who He truly is—gentle and lowly in heart, full of mercy, slow to anger, rich in love.
If you’re struggling, let me say this clearly: Jesus is not the one who hurt you. He weeps with you. He walks with you. And He is still worth following, even when His people fall short.
Your pain matters. Your story matters. And your faith—if it’s still there, even if it’s in pieces—is something beautiful.
You’re still seen. Still loved. Still held.
And most of all, you are not alone.
Kindly leave me a comment; it lets me know you’re listening!
This past week has been scary and challenging. Saturday morning I started my IV infusion and it didn’t take long to realize I had an infection brewing in my port. By the time my wingman took a quick shower to get me to the ER I was wracked with shivering, puking, had pain everywhere, had spiked a fever, and my heart was thumping along over 130 while my blood pressure plummeted. It was a blessing we arrived at the hospital when they had just emptied 8 beds. As soon as they checked my vitals they called a sepsis alert and had me back in a room. Sepsis is one of the worst feelings to go through physically for me.
The next several days were filled with IV antibiotics, blood draws, beeping alarms, a transfer to ICU as my blood pressure dropped into the 70’s over 30’s, more medications to fix all of that, a transfer back to the regular floor, and then a rather abrupt discharge from the hospital when we least expected it.
During one of the worst days while I mostly lay still in bed, unable to interact much with the world around me, I realized something about my prayer life. When I’m the sickest of sick I don’t really pray. I try, but it’s hard to keep focused with so much barraging my weary body. My cell phone was clipped near my head during this phase, so I was able to turn on my “Fight Songs” playlist, and that’s when I realized that the worship lyrics are my prayers in times like this.
Lying there unable to string thoughts together, I would let the words of the songs wash over me, and I would repeat them in my mind with a “please Jesus, yes Jesus,” but I couldn’t pray for myself. This is when I was able to rest in knowing that so many people were already praying on my behalf, and it was such a comfort. Thank you for standing in the gap for me when I couldn’t, and for praying me back home. I am gaining my strength and getting ready to slay all day with this sunny weather!
The past few days have been a hard-fought fight with pain. Not super proud of it, but I’ve found myself begging for mercy; that Jesus would just take me home and free me from this. These prayers then make me feel sad, and I start thinking what that would really look like for me and my people.
My mind wanders to the verse that talks about the blessings given to those who are obedient to God. “May you see your children’s children (psalm 128).” So if I don’t get to see my grandchildren, does that mean God is a liar? Or should I just skip over the verses like this?
It’s tempting to see scripture through the lens of my own emotions and experiences, but I am learning to look at God’s promises through the lens of the Gospel instead, and the Gospel tells me he keeps his promises. If I don’t get to experience these promises here on earth then I must believe these promises are pointing me to my true home, Heaven, where these promises will be fulfilled.
Matthew 19:28 tells me that for every promise I miss out on here on earth, I will receive a hundred times that along with eternal life. His heart is not dishonest, but generous in all that he promises and gives. Yes, I still grieve over the things and people I will miss out on here, but I believe God wrote my story, and is telling his Story through mine, and that is important enough that it is worth the losses experienced in the telling of it.
God tells me that the sadness and suffering I experience here on earth are nothing compared to the glory that awaits me in Heaven, and that his love is better than the best of what this world has to offer me. When my most cherished things in this life are taken from me, more space is created in my heart for him to give me far more than I could ever imagine, for all of eternity. And that, my friends, is worth my fight.
I learned an important lesson yesterday. Well, probably not just yesterday. I have a feeling I’ve been shown this before, it’s just that I need lots and lots of reminding.
My Little was really struggling. You know how someone steals one of your dollars and you decide to burn the other $99? Yeah. My little was having one of those days, and it wasn’t pretty. I had made several attempts to offer helpful input, which was just met with more frustration. And then I hit the parenting connection jackpot.
I was making dinner, and trying to do it in a hurry. Well actually, it was dinner time, but I was making breakfast because I failed to plan ahead. I had exhausted the week’s meal plan already and needed groceries and didn’t have time to thaw anything out, so breakfast for dinner was the last ditch attempt to act like I had it all together. Fortunately it is well received around here.
Within about 5 minutes I had efficiently gotten tortillas into the oven to warm, sausage rewarming in the skillet, diced potatoes in another skillet, had the cheese laid out, and all that was left was to wash and crack the eggs and get them into the third waiting skillet. I estimated I would have everything hot and put together within 15 minutes, perfect. Then my struggling Little walked through and the frustration and sadness was palpable, y’all.
One of my earlier suggestions had been to check out our emotion wheel and do the corresponding activity. I probably use this more than who I got it for, and I’ve found it helpful. The activity suggested was to hold ice cubes, which sounded intriguing to me, but was met with much resistance.
As I started counting out the eggs and grabbed a pump of soap to start washing them, an idea occurred to me. Washing the eggs would involve hands in cold water; maybe that would have the same helpful effect at derailing the struggle train. So I offered the task up, and it was accepted.
I could see that this activity had helped just a bit, so I started thinking of how I could keep us moving in this direction. I looked at the pile of eggs to be cracked, and my rational type A personality went to war with my empathetic emotional side. I could get the eggs cracked in less than 2 minutes with no bits of shell and no mess, keeping dinner on track with my projected time estimate. Or I could offer it up to my Little in hopes that it would help blow away the fog of frustration and sadness that was tinting the day. The type A in me sighed as I opened my hands to giving up control.
“Hey, would you please crack these eggs for me? It would be really helpful.”
I got a hint of an exasperated eye roll, but then sleeves were rolled up and small hands reached for the first egg, still glistening with the last coat of cold water. One by one the eggs connected with the counter, shells cracked, yolks plopped into the glass pitcher. 8 eggs, several shell splinters, and two hands covered in gummy slime later, there was a smile.
“Thanks for letting me do that, Mom. That was fun!” And then a few minutes later from the other room… “Mom, I just love you so much.”
I was still picking bits of shell out of the eggs and cleaning yolk off the side of the pitcher. And the faucet. And the sink. And the counter. My heart swelled and twisted at the same time as I realized that making him feel seen and needed and valuable was exactly what he needed, and my own need for control and perfection almost got in the way. I tucked these feelings in my heart, hoping to remember them for next time.
Friends, the messes are worth it. People are messy. My messiness may look different than yours, but we all have a deep need to be seen and valued beyond the messes that we make, and accepted anyway. It was a humbling lesson that I’m sure I will need reminding of again, so that’s why I’m sharing it. We all need the reminder sometimes that letting go of our own hangups may be just the thing needed to make the confidence of someone else soar.
PS~ add “crack some eggs” to the wheel under Anger —> Annoyed. 😉
This week in my reel of photo memories this one popped up…
Immediately the words to Ellie Holcomb‘s song, “Just As Good” started echoing in my mind, where they lingered for the rest of the day. “Oh every ebeneezer points to where my help comes from.”
Who would have thought these painful slices would become my stones of remembrance?
The many scars my body carries tell a story of God’s divine assistance and mercy. Times when I have been wounded, but He has allowed healing. Some scars run deeper than others. Some are still in the process of healing, but all of them come with a story of challenge that was met with grace and healing.
At times I feel embarrassed by my wounds, but reality is that these and other marks paint a connect-the-dots picture of my hard-fought story—right on my own skin. They are reminders that I have lived a life not of safety, but of the opposite. I’ve pushed myself, and I’ve been pushed, sometimes too far, and I would not have it any other way.
When I see my scars, I remember the difficult challenges, and the opening of my hands to surrender to an attitude of trust. I see the reminders of accidents and falls where I couldn’t hold myself up, but I was still held. I see evidence of a plot line that included my defeat, but instead is a story of survival.
I am drawn to the lyrics of the song Scars by I Am They. “So I’m thankful for the scars ‘Cause without them I wouldn’t know Your heart, And I know they’ll always tell of who You are, so forever I am thankful for the scars.”
It takes some hard-fought determination to be able to see these red and white squiggles carved into my flesh as accomplishments, but that is what has gently happened as the number of my scars has ticked up with each passing year.
I can choose to let my scars only remind me of the pain, or I can let them remind me of the scarred hands that payed my ransom.
Tracing my finger over these raised little lines I’m struck by immense truths. A stunning canvas of struggle, embodied suspense. In every imperfection, strength that can be found; the echoes of hardship that shapes my heart and mind to know and trust a good Father who is writing a good story for me.
Please leave me a comment, it lets me know you’re listening!
I reach my desperate hands toward the heavens from where my help comes. I cry out to God because I know He will hear me.
How long God, will I watch my family crumble? Why do each of my children have to suffer so hard? How long will we wait for our redemption story? Have you forgotten us?
Please strengthen my hope, it is weary within me. Please redeem your people with your mighty hand. Restore to us the years the locusts have eaten.
I remember full well the days you stood me firm on a mountaintop. I remember your deep compassion for me, and how you saw something in me I could not yet. I remember the glimpse of my story you gave me, and it is a good, good story.
I will continually praise you, because not a moment of my life is hidden from you. You know full well what the finished picture will look like, and you are trustworthy to take me there. My thoughts are but chatter compared to the steadiness of your all-knowing mind. You have led me this far, and I will yet trust your kind and compassionate heart to bring my story to completion.
Thank you friends, near and far, who have prayed and loved and carried me through this hard few weeks. May God richly reward you for your faithful kindness.
I love giving gifts, and I enjoy receiving them, yet I struggle to accept one of the greatest gifts offered to me; the gift of receiving. It is a humbling place to exist, needing others’ love and care, and I find it difficult at times. I have realized because of my love of giving that it takes far more grace to receive than it does to give.
After years of priding myself on my strength, being humble is difficult for me. It’s hard to ask for help. Do you find yourself agreeing with me? Yet we are all in need in one way or another; broken and struggling but putting on the best brave face we can muster just to prove we can go it alone.
In this long, loooooong season of needing to accept the help of others I find that the luster of having it all together is wearing thin. I see the depth of brokenness within me and around me, and I long to connect in my brokenness. I long to be known and to know the true hearts of others around me.
At my core I am a doer. A server, a giver, a wear-myself-down-to-nothing all in the name of love kind of girl. Accolades for me, right? What if I told you it’s just a ruse for my pride and need for control? Control that blares I’m not needy, I can do it myself, I don’t need anyone— unless someone needs /me/, and then I’m there.
I have spoken with enough people to know that I am not alone in this. Well, maybe I’m alone in admitting it, but I’m not alone in feeling it.
For 35 years I basked on the pedestal of being able-bodied, capable of doing anything that needed doing. I spent decades believing my purpose was to wear myself out pleasing those around me. I knew the truth, but it was easy to ignore when I had strength on my side.
Culture convinces us that our success is measured by our strength. It’s a bold-faced lie that what we are capable of is what we are loved for. This isn’t living in the truth of the gospel. Thankfully God is continually gracious to keep showing me the sin of my pride and need for control. He patiently loves me back to the foot of the cross and reminds me of my need to be needy and not just needed.
It took the stripping of my strength by this awful disease to expose this to me, and I still have to seek grace often because my heart’s bent is on proving myself instead of letting myself be loved in my neediness. Jesus is breaking me of my strength and showing me the grace to be found in embracing my weakness, and the joy that it gives others who want to help.
I hope that you can find this truth in your own life. Don’t settle for being loved for your abilities instead of being loved for your heart. Resist the temptation to keep yourself busy in order to feel accepted. Look for the ways to slow and find your significance in something more real. Then notice how you find peace and rest in giving others the gift of helping.
Here is a graphic about my illness to give you an idea of the things it has, does, and will affect.
Inability to verbally communicate.
I have been a spectator to this with my friend who has ALS, and it is hard. Talk about a massive loss of control. Imagine the amount of having to slow down and let your actions speak louder than your words, or in this case instead of your words.
Over the past few months my voice has begun to weaken. At times it’s raspy, or sounds like I’m hoarse or getting sick. With this new development my speech therapist started the process for me to get an AAC device as an alternative means of communication. Control Bionics and my speech therapist have been wonderful to work with. They were very efficient at getting me set up with a device that will meet my current needs, as well as my needs as my condition continues to change.
At first, life with my AAC was about getting familiar with it and practicing navigating between the pages and words and phrases to best communicate. My device has sensors on the front that either detect my eye movements, or a slight muscle movement of my hand, and it selects the letters or phrases I want to say. It’s amazing we have this kind of technology, and I’m humbly grateful to be able to use it. I even had the opportunity to bank my own voice so that when it speaks for me you will still hear my voice. This part is expensive, but we are looking for solutions!
This past week my voice has taken a turn. One morning I woke up and barely had a voice at all. Some of it returned, but I now sound like a quiet, scratchy record with the occasional skip where nothing comes out at all. Truthfully it’s been a little unnerving seeing how fast I could be plunged into silence.
Hardly anyone can hear me anymore, and the effort and breath it takes to make my voice loud enough to project across a room is exhausting and frustrating. I wasn’t expecting this part to be so hard, but it’s hitting me right in a tender spot I didn’t know I had. I feel panicked to not be able to explain myself, threatened by the thought of not being able to call out and get my kids’ or caregivers’ attention. And if you see me singing along in church I’ve fooled you. I’m lip-syncing.
Another practice in total surrender; in cupping my hands around what’s left and holding out all I have to offer. A chance to do more listening than talking. Another practice in giving up what was and adjusting to what is, and believing that regardless of the journey or the outcome, I am held.
Throughout the debilitating process of this disease I admit I have wondered from time to time what good this trial could possibly teach me. It seems unfair. I have been wrestling with this question more so as I see the effect it has on my littles and my husband lately. What good is in it for them? God promised to use our circumstances for good (Romans 8:28). As the resulting wounds have grown deeper I have been asking more often; what are you doing God??
In typical fashion, He is faithful to point out His hand in my life and quiet my unbelief. Esther 4:14 runs through my brain on a constant loop; “perhaps you were created for such a time as this.” Then I was brought to John 9. Jesus and friends are with a blind man, and His friends asked why this man was born blind; was it because of something he or his parents did? The answer Jesus gave is everything. He replied, “No, this happened so the power of God can be seen in him.”
Wow. Talk about humbling. To think that God thinks enough of me to use me to reflect His power. This does not make the journey easier, but it makes it worth it. When I’m tempted to complain and long for the healing of Heaven I want to remember that His power is at work through me. It really is obvious, but sometimes I’m a slow learner. Look at how long I have been fighting! The average life expectancy with this is 6-10 years… I am in year 12! Why would God keep me here and allow the suffering to continue if not to bring glory? If you need proof of miracles well, you’re looking at one!
To God be all glory for allowing me the gift of being His and giving me a purpose beyond all I could imagine.
When I met with my counselor recently she said, “If you were given the space and peace I think you would succumb to your illness very quickly, but out of sheer stubbornness you continue to exceed all of our expectations.” She’s not wrong. As far as the stubbornness scale goes I’m way up there near the top, and I do have quite a number of things I want to feel like are going to be ok in my absence. I realize that may sound arrogant, and some of it probably is, but I also think most of us if we accepted that our time is limited have things we want to settle before we leave this world.
I think there are pros and cons to this stubbornness to cling to life. As a culture we really look at death in a strange light considering it is something that happens to all of us eventually. We measure the length of a person’s life and state that they were taken too soon, or they died much too young, but what if it was exactly the right time? What if your story hangs heavy on the thread of /this/season, /this/ loss?
We seem to live in a mutually accepted denial of the fact that we and those we love have an expiration date. This has a tendency to rob us of a joy and peace we can experience in the face of anticipated loss. We can all probably find a little purpose by leaning in and loving like crazy and then graciously walking our loved ones Home with our presence, our honesty, and our understanding.
At the end of each year as I spend some time reflecting on the year before, inevitably a new word saturated in meaning is impressed upon my heart for the coming year. That word remains the theme of my photo album, and the compass to how I hope to lead my family to grow throughout the year.
This past year our word was Shalom. Many of you may already know that Shalom means peace. I was longing for peace at the beginning of this year, but it went even further to define our year as not just an absence of war, but an overall sense of fullness and completeness in mind, body, and estate. To make full restitution; RESTORE! This brought to mind one of my favorite verses, Joel 2:25. “I will repay you for the years the locusts have eaten.”
Every time I passed the 6 letters framed upon our front door I prayed for peace both within our home, and outside of its doors. I prayed that God’s peace would bring a sense of completeness to our home; to our relationships, our walks with God, and our friendships with others.
As 2024 drew to a close and I started seeking and praying for our word of this new year I began seeing it on repeat, the word chosen for this year. This year’s word is JOY. I anticipate we will be blessed with an abundance of joy, and we will also see it woven in and out of many of our daily experiences. Perhaps we will learn better how to give joy, and we will become accustomed to receiving joy even in circumstances we might not think to look!
As we wind down our time in Shalom, though still activity seeking where we can give and take peace, I excitedly welcome this 2025 season of all things Joy!
I hardly have any photos from Christmas this year. Christmas Eve I missed our candlelight service at church because I was too weak to sit up or stay awake.
Our candlelit tradition of “shepherds’ meal” on the night of Christmas Eve only kinda-sorta happened, because I wasn’t well enough to remember, or to get up and make different choices of soup and bread like I usually do. The night was rescued by a frozen tub of tomato soup found in the bottom of the freezer, and the calming glow of our advent candles. I lay in my hospital bed in the next room listening to the chatter, and chiming in silly questions like “what ever happened to the sheep after the shepherds left to see baby Jesus?”
Late on Christmas Eve I still hadn’t managed to wrap more than 4 gifts to tuck under the tree. Anyone who knows my personality knows that is the polar opposite of my checklists and neat packages tied with string weeks before December 25th. My husband and daughter came through by busting out all the wrapping (with the help of a healthy stack of gift bags) in the late hours as Christmas Eve melted into Christmas morning.
Christmas morning… well, really most of the whole day is a blur with more chunks missing than I’d like to admit.
What I /do/ know is all four of my babes were under one roof again.
My silly dream of a Hannah tree finally happened, in all her pink glittery glory.
Even through sickness and pain, the cozy warmth of a crackling fire still brought with it the memories of Christmases past, and the anticipation of more to come.
Zero kinds of Christmas cookies or fudge happened, but “Kitchen Trash” sure as heck still did.
I did not capture my traditional “photo every hour” series of Christmas Day, but I did manage to grab the still-frames of the most important moments of joy and togetherness.
And as the day wound down and the doubts crept in with the quiet, my wise sweet little sister typed out the balm that my soul so badly needed; I need to adjust my definition of the word tradition from “every,” and “have to,” to “some years,” and “like to.”
When I sifted through my unmet expectations I found that though I didn’t get the Christmas pickle unpacked this year, there was just as much joy and gratitude and wonder in the exchanging of the packages. And even though we weren’t able to visit the lights at the bell tower or drive the neighborhoods looking for the best displays, the twinkling in our own window was enough to cast that magical glow that makes you feel warm with anticipation.
This Christmas started out feeling like I dropped more balls than I caught, but as the day unfolded and the story of the Light coming into this dark world permeated each of our moments and traditions, all of it was suddenly more than enough. I was enough. Because He is more than enough.
I’ve had some heavier posts lately and still to come, so I’m keeping it lighthearted today by sharing a few of my favorite things! Have you tried any of these?
A sweet friend brought us one of these Danish Kringles from Trader Joe’s. Light and flaky and filled with the most delicious almond flavored filling, it is a true treat! If you want to try it you need to snag one soon, because this is a seasonal item they offer!
These mason jar zipper bags have made my spice situation so much easier! I tend to accumulate a lot of different spices trying new recipes, and it was taking over an entire cabinet. I ordered these bags and dumped my spices into them and keep them in a rectangular basket that now only takes up a portion of one shelf. I made them easy to find by organizing them into letter order. Not alphabetical, but all the A’s are together all the B’s are together, etc. Here is the link if you want to get yourself some! Mason Jar Zipper Bags
If you have been contemplating having special dishes for Christmas these are on sale until December 26th. I have been on the lookout for Christmas dishes for years, but I knew if I was going to sacrifice the space for a seasonal set of dishes it had to be one I really liked. Sam’s Club for the win! Not only are they adorable, they are also huge, and the set serves 6 which is perfect for my family! These cute dishes make me smile every time I serve up a meal. Here’s the link if you want to check them out! Peanuts Dishes
Ok, my Voss water habit may be a little silly. I first started getting these because I like the glass bottles. They are great for reusing. Then they started making this smaller version and I liked them even more, but they started making the bottles plastic and I didn’t like that. Well just recently this one entered the scene, and not only is it a glass bottle, but it’s also sparkling which I find much more enjoyable than flat water! I found these at Dorothy Lane Market, but I know Walmart carries Voss water and I’ve also seen it at different gas stations.
I started getting some kind of respiratory crud a few weeks ago and one of my dear friends immediately brought me a jar of her homemade Elderberry syrup. I had already started using my homemade garlic honey, but when I added the syrup I noticed a positive difference within a day, and after that I only got better and it never really turned into anything. That was enough to make me a believer in having Elderberry syrup on hand. Here is the recipe for Elderberry Syrup and here is one for how to make Fermented Honey Garlic
I hope you enjoyed my five favorites and found something new to try!
I’m grumpy. Last night I threw every trick I had at my pain. Every essential oil, medication, balm, massage, heavy blanket, heat, and desperate prayer. Yet it managed to throb steadily on through the night hours and into the morning without a moment of drifting off to sleep. Now as I count the minutes until my alarm goes off, it hardly seems worth trying to snatch any last seconds of shut eye against the roar of pain. I’m sure each of you have wrestled sleep deprivation at one time or another, and you know how your usual problems seem 10 times harder when you’re running on coffee beans and daydreams. So yeah, I’m grumpy and I know it and I’m praying sweet salvation over my soul.
Today I will need the strength to care for a husband who isn’t feeling well. I’ll need the wisdom to meet with a school counselor to plan the next semester in a way that’s most beneficial for my child. I’ll need the patience to help with missing homework, and the clarity to stay alert while driving kids here and there. It would be easy to despair before the day has even begun.
I’m reminding myself I am carried though. Carried by my Father who will never leave me, and the prayers of my people who never stop helping me press on. Please meet me there. Meet me in the fight, the grueling repetition, and the endless prayers, because goodness knows they’re needed today.
I tried to make dinner special last night. I started the crockpot in the morning and had my sides ready to go when cooking was about to finish. I set the table and lit the candles as we do every dinner time. Then I went about getting the meat from the crockpot ready to serve and discovered it was still closer to alive than it was ready to be plated. I chided myself for a moment, and then looked around for how to pivot. Frozen chicken patties. Check. Buns. Check. I set about pulling a new meal together, while explaining my predicament to each child who wandered into the kitchen to investigate why their tummies were growling.
When we finally sat down to eat, I looked around the table at each of my four children. Behind them the wall boasted a gallery of frozen moments in time we had experienced as a family; living, loving, laughing. I looked around at their faces again and soaked in every detail, knowing after tonight things would never be the same.
One of my babies is leaving the nest. After nearly 20 years of seeing her every day, she is ready to set out on her own adventure; following the lines of her own story. She has eagerly been preparing for this for months. Choosing colors for her own grown-up bedding, stacking a growing pile of boxes aside in the garage, and unnecessarily reminding me each time exactly how many weeks I have left to braid her hair for her.
I don’t feel like I was adequately prepared for this stage in life. Or maybe it’s that it came so quickly I feel caught off guard. Despite the butting of heads and clashing of personalities, I have deeply cherished having all 4 of my little sweetlings under my roof for so long. They are my safety net to fall into on the hardest days, the ones I can count on to give me reasons to keep getting out of bed each day, and they are the comic relief to any and every awkward situation.
I may tear up at the thought of all 4 of them not being here first thing Christmas morning, and I may be swallowing a lump in my throat every time I see that empty chair at the table, but I also am so very proud of everything she has and is becoming. It brings me joy to see her chasing her dreams and making them reality. And I appreciate the opportunity to see her keep her own home and let her own tastes and ideas be set loose as she builds a nest of her own.
I am confident we have given her every truth, every warning, every bit of wisdom we could impart as she grew from doting child to confident woman. It’s her turn to fly, and even with the distance I’m still going to be cheering her on, celebrating her successes, and forever a soft landing place for her hurts.
There will be sleepovers both here and there, and doggy play dates, and meeting up for mother/daughter coffee dates. All of these things I will cherish in my heart just as much as the things I did when she was under my wing. Oh, and I fully expect to be getting at least 4 phone calls a day as the true reality of adulting sets in, and I’m totally here for it. Let’s bring this season on!
After a week of navigating multiple infections, side effects from the antibiotics to treat them, layers upon layers of pain, my wheelchair ramp in the van breaking again, as well as the van being in an accident and needing repair, single parenting through the highs and lows of two young adults, a high schooler, and a middle schooler, all while trying to give our children the comforting normalcy of a home ready to welcome Christmas, it is tempting to despair, or to long for a storyline different than this one.
But at the crest of a new week with new challenges, I look back and can see so clearly where a mighty and tender King saw me sitting in the dark on the floor of my locked bathroom, reached out for me, held me close, and gently walked me through each step, whispering words of hope and assurance and goodness to me. He has been with me through it all, and the whole week He has sung compassion over me.
Saturday he sang Lamentations 3:29 over me, reminding me that even when facedown in the dust, there is hope. My peace grew as He shone a light through my despair. Even though this illness will most likely end my time in this world, He gives me hope and joy and life, and not just me, but many others as well.
As my wingman had to fly out of state again, leaving me to carry the weight of the household while pushing through crushing pain, I found truths in the book of James that promise that my suffering will mold endurance, leaving me perfect and complete. Digging into the Gospels for my church class, I read about crowds of people entrenched in suffering who travelled long and far to receive His healing. Like me, they were desperate for wholeness and relief, and in His compassion He gave them healing. I am left wondering, is this the same Jesus who might choose not to heal my body on earth? Will he let my little loves continue to watch me waste away to nothing and then have to grow up without their mom? Will he let my husband of 23 years become a widow and a single parent?
Then I find that He never promised a life of comfort. He promised great struggle and suffering. And hard as that is to comprehend, I hold to His promise that His Kingdom will come through the mending of all that is broken, and that His power is made great in my weakness. He came here to suffer an agonizing death so that I can learn to suffer well in His footsteps; that even in my pain I can find peace and joy and purpose.
He is gentle with me when I struggle with my limitations and when I question the good in my story. He is also faithful to remind me that as I live out a story I never would have chosen for my family, and take up my cross again and again to follow Him, this is the road that leads to everlasting life.
First off, I am not trying to humblebrag by sharing this post. I want to share this very slap-upside-the-face moment I had with you because my deepest hope is that someone else out there will be able to slow down and have a few of these moments also; before we all wake up one day and realize it’s too late.
Parenting teens is a whole thing. Like, a whole thing that kinda gets glossed over in the What to Expect When You’re Expecting books, and I for one am a little miffed at the whole, “they’ll become complete aliens from ages 12-25 and then the sweet kid you know starts to re-emerge,” because there is /so much/ more to it than that, and I want to be totally here for it. All the things.
They tell us we are in charge of raising these little humans and teaching them to survive and thrive as adults by the time they are ready to jump from the nest into this maddening mess of a world we find ourselves in. If your kid shows up to college and has no idea how to separate whites from colors or boil water for ramen or how to Amazon Prime new socks before they wear holey ones to their potential in-laws for the weekend then we’ve clearly been blowing it at teaching them to be well-adjusted, responsible adults, and they will forever bare the scars of how their own parents left them so ill-equipped for life. Or so the pressure can seem, right?
And so throughout the child-rearing years I have done my best to think ahead to how they are going to function when I’m not there to pack their lunch for them, remind them to take a coat, and ask them when the last time was that they scrubbed the inside of their toilet. Probably to a fault. Yep, I would definitely say I err on the side of expecting much from them in anticipation that they will be able to handle much when they finally take flight from the familiarity of home. This week I had a moment though. A moment that reminded me they don’t always have to be nearly grown-ups; sometimes they are still that sweet little kid just needing their mom.
As my teens are growing and becoming involved in all the things I find myself ever pressing in to find where I’m “needed,” and perhaps more often than I’d like finding that they are quite the independent little adults now! Isn’t this what we have been training for?
This week one of my girls arrived home from a marathon day of school and then practice for a huge singing event that’s coming up. As she plopped all of her belongings on the table and then came to investigate the options for food, her request was pretty simple: “can you make me a grilled cheese?”
The me that we all know would say, “you can make yourself a grilled cheese; everything you needa is in there.” For some reason this time I hesitated. Instead, “of course I will. Give me a few minutes.” And in that snippet of time that it took for me to grill up a warm, melty sandwich something washed over me. It was like a lightbulb popping into a brilliant glow that chased away some of the shadows of self-doubt in my parenting. I realized by saying yes to her this time it told her that she was important and I was willing to put her needs first.
I feel like this is a message all of our teens need to hear, on repeat. They are out there bravely forging their way in this cloudy and upside-down world, and I know that the negative messages coming at them are immense. As their parents we have the power to show them that even though we know they are capable of making their own sandwich, they matter enough to us that we will put our own stuff on hold for a few minutes to say, “hey, you are worth it, and I love you.”
Our children’s slice of time at home is so small in comparison to the rest of their lives, and I want to do better at giving them those snapshot memories to tuck away and remember on the days the world is loud and they cannot find their place. I want them to know that wherever their journeys take them they will always have a safe place of refuge where they can count on being served up a piping plate of unconditional love and acceptance.
This teen thing, we are kind of just figuring it out as we go along with loads of prayers and a few strong drinks along the way. What “aha moments” are you having as you raise up your young adults? I’d love to hear what you are learning as you walk out the important job of raising little humans.
I wrote this post a few years back, but came across it in my drafts today…
Sometimes it gets easy to not really think about being sick. In the day to day my normal becomes so routine that it just feels like things have always been this way. Then there are days like yesterday that have an ice cold slap kind of way of reminding me the fragility of my every day.
In the cold drizzle of early morning Mark drove me to my neurologist’s office for my 3 month Botox appointment. My doctor is one of the kindest I’ve met. His gentle demeanor and tender concern have a way of making me feel seen, remembered, heard, and valued. We began the appointment as we always do, bringing him up to speed about any changes in my condition since my last visit. This is where I’m reminded that this disease presses on. We compare my movements and symptoms, and he questions me about my cognition and memory. I have to defer to Mark because, well, I can’t remember.
“How does she seem to be doing?”
Mark’s eyes dart to mine, and I sense a hesitation before he answers.
“She’s slipping since the last time we were here.”
I listened as my groom of 21 years explained how I repeat myself, asking the same questions and going through the same motions over and over without any clue that I’m doing it. My face flushed with embarrassment as I squealed, “Babe! You should tell me when I’m doing that!” And his reply highlights the kind of gentle and selfless loving he showers me with day in and day out. “Telling you would not change anything, it would just make you feel bad.” He went on to explain to my doctor how he and the kids patiently listen to me say and do things multiple times and they play along like it’s the first time so that I can feel more normal and less afraid. And that, my friends is the truest love, and I am the blessedest blessed for having a man who is so thoughtful with my heart as we wade through these sometimes intimidating waters.
As my body has slowly been taken over by this progressive neuromuscular disease, I have bit by bit lost many parts of my autonomy. For a girl who’s used to blaring sirens and running red lights to help people, as well as getting to be the mama/chef/chauffer/counselor/chaos coordinator/party planner and loads more to a quiver full of little people, losing those bits has been a difficult process. I am not used to nor do I like being the one who needs help, and with each slice of my ability lost, a chunk of my dignity crumbles along with it.
Some things have been easier than others. Grocery shopping? I never cared for it anyway, so I definitely don’t mind that grocery delivery is how that gets done now. Carrying the laundry hamper down to the basement? Enough hard tumbles down the stairs have rewritten that effort with gratitude at my husband’s willingness to take that one upon himself. Even if I have to remind him that the laundry pile is crawling up the wall like a toxic weed gone rogue 🤭. But having to give up a career that I loved, not being invited to hang out with friends as much, not having the strength to pull together birthday party plans, or make it to each of my babies’ sporting and music events; those things have hit me square in the gut in ways I don’t know how to reconcile except one difficult emotion at a time. Despair, anger, resentment, denial… and some semblence of acceptance, though often coupled with deep sadness.
Some days the things I am losing are simply a reminder that I am here still getting to participate in life with my people, far outliving the initial “6 months” I was given back in 2020. Yet some days those reminders are a gut-punch to my identity, reminding me of who I’m not anymore, and what I will never accomplish again.
I sat with a friend last week who is in a serious battle with cancer. We sat staring at a splintery pile of firewood in his driveway that needed to be split, organized, and stacked, but the corners of his body the cancer has laid claim to prevented him from even managing the smallest pieces of wood. My heart twisted as I saw his eyes fill with tears, and in a broken voice he reminisced over the days he used to bench press two of me, and yet now was reduced to struggling over the smallest of loads.
My friend’s grief brought to mind many similar losses I have wrestled and grieved through. Dignity that was labored for with diligence suddenly snatched away to be replaced with feeling like I’m never enough.
My heart ached with knowing what my friend was feeling, but I also struggled knowing that no trite encouragement would do anything to ease the sharpness of the edges that were slicing his tender heart. If I have learned anything from these moments it’s that these losses demand to be felt and grieved. So we sat and we felt that, the weight of it all, and leaned into the hurt of all that this broken world has taken.
So often throughout scripture God urges us to remember everything He is and everything He has done for us. For myself at least, my mind often gets distracted from that and bogged down in the very present pain of surviving one more day. Yet on the other hand the very same book is real and raw and gives us the space and permission to feel the deep pain we feel.
“He forced me off my way and tore me to pieces.” Lamentations 3:11
“He has led me into darkness, shutting out all light. He has turned his hand against me again and again, all day long.” Lamentations 3:2-3
I am so thankful God’s Word is so gut-level honest, giving us permission to feel all the feelings we wrestle with. I am also thankful He doesn’t stop there… He /reminds/ us when we are in too much pain to remind ourselves.
“No one is abandoned by the Lord forever. Though He allows grief, He also shows compassion because of the greatness of His unfailing love. For He does not enjoy hurting people or causing them sorrow.” Lamentations 3:31-33
We do not have to pretend our suffering is not real. We are given the space and permission to sit and stare at the mountain of heavy logs and weep for what we have lost. And then we are given the strength to rise again and allow all of our hurts to be swallowed by the deep and endless mercy that is freshly provided every morning. He has walked along side us in beautiful ways through many trials, and He will do it again. Do you trust Him to do so?
In recent years thanks to lots of advocating by people with various handicap challenges as well as rules set by the ADA there has been a shift in many communities regarding the inclusion of people who can’t quite do things like everyone else. I both appreciate and applaud these efforts, because as a wheelchair user I can appreciate the many ways that I am able to participate because of the ways things have changed in recent years. What about when it’s not about the curbs and ramps though; what happens when it’s the people surrounding you that are the stumbling blocks to feeling welcomed and included?
For the better part of the past 5 years I have had to use a wheelchair when venturing outside of my home. While I can get away with a cane or “furniture surfing” around my house, the weakness, spasticity, and shortness of breath that kicks in after a very short distance is just not feasible to going out places away from home. So we’ve just packed me and my wheels into our van and gone about life as normally as we can. Recently though I’ve noticed the closed doors aren’t just the ones without a handicapped button.
A few weeks ago I was volunteering; wearing my badge and my shirt setting me apart as someone who could help, while sitting in my wheelchair. Two others were helping with me, and I noticed that regardless of how I engaged or smiled or said hello to people, if they needed help with something they went to one of the other two volunteers 100% of the time. I couldn’t figure it out; not seeing me there wasn’t a plausible explanation. Did they see me and just assume I was incapable because of my limitations? Did they just want to avoid a situation that felt awkward to them?
Fast forward a few weeks to when I attended a social event with several other people I knew. While two people said a brief comment or question to me, there was no one else in the entire group of people who spoke to me that day; not even a hello. I found myself frequently looking at the clock anticipating the time I could get out of there because it felt so incredibly awkward.
Perhaps someday I’ll be brave enough to ask people what it is that prevents them from engaging with me. I feel like even as an introverted extrovert this would help give me some perspective on how to help people see the real me. For now though it stings a bit. I find myself anxious about attending events and gatherings. I catch myself questioning what value I offer people, and that’s not somewhere I want to stay.
Fortunately I know who I am to God, and I’m confident he accepts and wants me regardless of my shortcomings, and despite my bumpy hard story. I know He is not afraid to meet me in my mess, and so I cling to Him there while I ask for the courage to show others who I am and what I can be besides my illness. God tells me I’m worth knowing, and His opinion is the one I hold closest when the reactions of the world around me sting.
Have you been in situations where you feel like you’re not noticed or wanted? How do you handle those closed doors that don’t seem to have a way in? Do you know your worth, other than what the world has to say about it?
You were the one who poked shining rays into the darkness in the aftermath of my family’s divorce, and gave me the courage to believe that I could write a different story for my own life and family. And I did.
You were the one who beckoned me to hold on when my own marriage was at the brink of destruction, and gave me the faith to believe that things didn’t have to end that way. And they didn’t.
You were the one who picked me up off the ground following the death of my daughter and whispered that my brokenness could be used for good things. And it has been.
You were the one who gave me comfort during the long nights that I wondered if I would see my wayward child again. And I did.
You were the one who has given me strength to fight against the odds and push through the horror of my illness every day because my life can still bring glory to God. And I have.
You were the one who kept whispering to me that all these broken pieces can be redeemed and used to make something beautiful. And I listened.
You are the one who has never let me give up because you have always shown me the glimpses of what things can turn out to be if I just hold on, but I’ve got to admit something, Hope. I have been struggling to trust you. What are supposed to be seasons are feeling more like lifetimes, and the dark that I keep believing can’t get any darker still manages to. Isolation is crippling, and the barrage of hard things makes it difficult to believe I will ever know something better. I appreciate the relationship we have had so far, but could you throw me a bone here? I’m weary!
I remember “I have put my Hope in your Word,” so I turn there, seeking…
“Be joyful in hope, patient in affliction, faithful in prayer.” I feel lacking for the words to even pray, so I just start with what’s inside; “Help Lord, we need you. Please help!”
“Those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength.” My strength is waning, practically non-existent, but here is a promise I can cling to. So I wait expectantly for renewal.
“Hope that is seen is not hope.” So when hoping for what I cannot see I have to wait with patience. Patience. Deep breath. Realizing there is nothing I can do, but God can.
“And the God of all grace, who called you to his eternal glory in Christ, after you have suffered a little while, will himself restore you and make you strong, firm and steadfast.” Ok God, you said it. So I’ll hang on and wait. Please give me the strength to do that. Help me choose hope and joy even when it’s the hardest thing to do right now. Bring back my hope.
After 2+ weeks in the hospital, this past week was my week to get back on track. I caught up on late orders from my Etsy store, did as much housework as I could tolerate, and soaked up time with my people. Life started to almost feel like our normal again. Then Friday came in like a wrecking ball.
I found myself sitting alone in the emergency room with a serious complication of my feeding tube that would require a painful procedure. All went well and I was home and tucked in by bedtime with the assumption that I would wake with this small speed bump behind me. Then came Saturday.
Saturday we had lofty plans. With the temperatures trying to point to autumn, the kids had been bitten by the pumpkin patch bug, anxious to take our annual family trek out to select the perfect pumpkin and sip apple cider on hay bales. Then we had penciled in a night at the rodeo, having already laid out our flannels and boots in eager anticipation. That is until I woke up.
The pain from the day before was tolerable, but every time I tried to stand I broke out in a sweat, my body shaking as nauseating waves of weakness forced me back down. Trying to be optimistic we eventually cancelled the first activity with the thought that if I rested most of the day I would be refreshed enough to still clamor out as a family to the rodeo.
It was not to be. I continued to struggle through the day, and at one point voiced my frustration to a friend. She was quick to remind me of a truth that reigns thickly throughout my days. It’s not just me that lives not knowing what I’m going to be able to do tomorrow; none of us are guaranteed the tomorrows of our best-laid plans.
So how do we reconcile with that? The only answer is that each day has to be an opening of our hands, prying our fingers off of our own wants and desires, and instead asking, “Lord, how can I best give you glory and honor today? This can only be done by keeping our eyes and hearts on Him. We may see our days don’t look like we imagined, but the gift of that is the joy we find when we are in full surrender to God’s will for us.
My weekend didn’t include the pumpkin patch or the rodeo, or any of the house projects I wanted to work on. What it was laced with was grace for each moment— the ability to cozy up in a comfy chair and watch a movie at the drive-in with my people. The strength to show up to church to help serve and then soak in the worship and the message that clearly spoke to the things I’m walking through right now. The weekend allowed me the time and awareness to walk through some difficult circumstances and conversations with some of my littles. It didn’t look at all like I had planned it, but it looked like exactly where God wanted me to be, and I was there for it.
Surrendering our days takes intention, and sometimes it might feel like disappointment, but when the end result is us doing what God most wants us to do, it brings an immense amount of joy and satisfaction as He blesses our coming and our going for the ways it honors Him.
This week I listened quietly as my youngest talked about how differently his life is going to look in the coming months as our family is growing and changing, and one of the things he included was the absence of me in his life. He quickly realized what he had just said to me and began backpedaling, trying to assure me that’s not what he meant, and that I was still included in his equation of the days in front of him. It was too late though; like toothpaste squeezed from the tube, the words couldn’t be stuffed back from existence.
My thoughts began racing. Fight or flight kicked in, and I definitely chose fight. Fight for more days, more time. Fight for presence at all the important life events he’s going to want me at. Fight to be here so he doesn’t have to imagine a life without me. And then… like a rush of calm water, a peace came over me and I heard, “this place is not your home. All of these things, these moments, are temporary at best.”
Heaven is my true home.
Then just as fast as the peace washed over me, a wave of fear knocked me from my feet. What if Heaven isn’t really real? What if we’ve made it all up to comfort ourselves, but this is all there is? Panic ensued again, but this time as I shared my thoughts with a trusted friend she spoke the truth to me so lovingly: “Don’t you listen to that. Those are lies from the devil himself.”
Her words settled over me like a warm blanket pulled up to my chin in the dark — not removing the night, but reminding me I am not alone in it. And slowly, breath by breath, the panic loosened its grip. Because fear may shout, but truth always speaks in a steadier voice.
I thought again of my son, of his unfiltered honesty, of the way children sometimes say the quiet parts out loud. And I realized it wasn’t cruelty — it was simply the collision of innocence and reality. He is trying to imagine a future that feels unimaginable. So am I.
But maybe this is where faith becomes more than a word we say in church or a verse embroidered on a pillow. Maybe faith is choosing, in the trembling middle of unanswered questions, to set my weight on the promises of God — not because I feel brave, but because He is faithful.
Heaven is real, not because I can prove it, but because the God who has carried me this far has never once let His character contradict His compassion. I see hints of forever in the kindness of friends, in the way grief and hope can coexist in the same breath, in the way my child still reaches for me even as he learns to release me.
I don’t know how many more ordinary mornings I’ll get to witness or how many milestones I’ll still be present for. But I do know this: love leaves a imprint that death cannot erase, and mercy writes a story that continues long after my final chapter on this side of eternity.
So I will keep fighting for the days I’m given, but I will also practice loosening my grip — trusting that the God who holds my future also holds my family, with a tenderness that outlasts time itself.
There’s a sacredness to suffering that not everyone understands.
When someone is walking through the deep waters—when every breath feels borrowed and every day is held together by grace—questions can become sharp without ever meaning to be. Have they given you a timeline? What treatments are they trying next? How bad has it gotten? Have they told you when they expect you to die?
Some of those seem atrocious, but they are questions we have actually answered had to field at one time or another. Sometimes these questions slip out clothed as concern, but they land like cold hands on tender skin.
Curiosity is not the same as caring. Curiosity wants information. Caring wants presence. Curiosity circles around pain to peer inside. Caring steps into the shadows and sits down beside you. Curiosity tries to relieve its own unease. Caring is willing to feel uncomfortable just so you don’t feel alone.
I’ve learned there is a holy difference.
I don’t mind sharing pieces of my journey—there is beauty, even here, and God’s fingerprints are everywhere. But when the conversation turns to timelines for my dying or details of treatments that stretch my limits just to endure… that crosses into a territory my soul guards carefully. It’s not because I’m ashamed or afraid. It’s because this is holy ground for me and my family. We are living it, breathing it, praying through it. I am learning to trust God in the dark, and trust is fragile when handled carelessly.
What I welcome—what I desperately treasure—are those who choose presence over answers.
The ones who say, “I’m here.”
The ones who quietly hold space when the tears come.
The ones who don’t need to know the forecast of my future to love me faithfully in my present. The ones who walk with us without needing to understand every detail of the valley. This is the love that looks like Christ.
He never demanded explanations from the suffering. He didn’t ask the bleeding woman for her medical history or the blind man for an exact timeline of his decline. He simply came close. He touched. He healed. He stayed.
He showed us that compassion doesn’t interrogate—it accompanies.
And so we lean into the nearness of God and into the arms of those who reflect Him, the ones who simply show up. The ones who see us instead of studying us. The ones who offer presence instead of probing questions.
If you want to walk beside me, you don’t need to understand every piece of what’s happening. You don’t need updates or timelines. You don’t need the painful details.
You just need a willing heart and a steady step.
Sit with me. Pray with me. Laugh with me. Hold hope with me when I’m tired. Remind me that God is still good, still here, still leading us home.
Curiosity might reach for facts, but caring reaches for hands.
And in this season, hands—and hearts—are what hold me up.
As the gift-giving season kicks into high gear, I thought I’d share a few of my favorite things—who knows, you might find just the right surprise for someone you love.
Not to cheat on Ben & Jerry, but this flavor has really carved out a place in my heart, and my meal plan!
Don’t laugh. My family eats a LOT of pineapple. These days I’m all for things that make tasks easier and safer for my weakening arms and hands. This pineapple cutter skins and slices the whole fruit in just a couple of twists, and without all the sticky mess of trying to do it on your cutting board.
I’ve never been a fan of fake nails, but when I spotted Olive & June’s gorgeous colors—and a 50% off sale at Walgreens—I decided to give them a try. What I like most is that they offer short and extra-short lengths, which are perfect for me and still let you do all the everyday tasks that require actual fingertips!
I hate the feel of most compression socks that are made of nylon. I noticed these ones at Walmart were a thicker, softer, cotton feel, and tried them out. Glad I did, because now they’re in my weekly sock rotation and help a lot on days I have sore and achey legs and feet.
If you have kids, teens or tweens (or, ahem, a husband) these flip calendars by Brooke Romney are gold. She has them for kids and for teens- we are using the teen one with our kids ages 12-23 and it’s perfectly appropriate for all. Brooke takes common sense manners for all sorts of situations and writes them in a way that’s easy for the littles to make sense of, and are still excellent reminders for the adults in the room. We keep ours on the dinner table and read one each night; it’s been a fun way to connect and a good source of conversation around the table. They’re also on sale right now with code THANKS at checkout.
Charlie Mackesy’s second book is equally wonderful to his first. Such a tender, thought-provoking, gentle, and life-giving story, for children and adults alike. And I could just soak in the sweet illustrations all day long!
Being a friend of someone with terminal illness must be quite the roller coaster. I’ve had the privilege a few times, but never for so long a stretch of time as my illness has asked of my tribe. That in itself is a beautiful gift, but the cost of it is also not lost on me.
Being a friend of someone with terminal illness must be quite the roller coaster. I’ve had the privilege a few times, but never so long a stretch of time as my illness has asked of my tribe. That in itself is a beautiful gift, but the cost of it is also not lost on me.
There’s something both sacred and sorrowful about watching friendships move through the seasons when you are the one who is dying. In the beginning, the circle is wide — full of love and meals, visits and prayers, the kind of tender urgency that comes when people don’t yet know what to do but feel compelled to do something. It’s a holy flood of kindness, and it humbles you to your core.
But time, as it does, stretches. Months turn into years, and the edges of the circle shift. Some friends drift quietly into the background, not because they stopped caring, but because life resumes its relentless rhythm. Kids grow, careers change, and the crisis that once felt immediate now lives in the quieter corners of their awareness.
And honestly? I get it. I’ve been that friend before too — before this diagnosis rewrote my sense of time. I’ve meant to reach out and didn’t. I’ve avoided pain I didn’t know how to face. I’ve loved someone deeply and still failed to show up in the way I wish I had. So I hold that understanding now with open hands and no resentment, just a bittersweet ache that love sometimes outlasts proximity.
What’s left are the ones who stay through the long middle — not just the early crisis or the final goodbye, but the drawn-out, unpredictable middle where the reality of terminal illness stops being dramatic and just becomes life. They sit with me in the mundane. They ask the unglamorous questions. They know when to come close and when to give space. They’ve learned that faithfulness doesn’t always look like constant presence, but steady presence.
And then, there are those who come back — friends who circle in again after time away, sometimes awkwardly, often tenderly. Their return feels like mercy. It reminds me that love isn’t linear; it’s tidal. People ebb and flow in and out of each other’s lives, and that movement, too, can be grace.
I used to think loyalty meant never leaving. Now I think it means being willing to return.
So to my friends — those who have stayed, drifted, returned, or simply remembered me from afar — please know this: your love has carried me. Every text, every silence, every prayer whispered when you didn’t know what to say has mattered.
Illness has taught me that friendship isn’t measured in constant nearness but in the threads of care that remain, even when time and distance stretch them thin.
If I could sum it up, I’d say this: the seasons of friendship are not a sign of failure, but of humanity. And what a fragile, beautiful, sacred thing it is to be human together — even in the shadow of goodbye.
In the ink-black hush of night, I lie awake, my body heavy with fatigue and pain, my heart a storm of grief and longing. Tears fall in quiet rivers, tracing the contours of sorrow I cannot name. I weep for my husband, for the weight this life presses upon him. I weep for my adult children, for the precious hours I wish I could stretch into eternity, to know them more fully, love them more completely. And I weep for my twelve-year-old boy—for the tender, unspoken ache of a mother who knows she cannot protect him from everything, and who feels the relentless pull of her own mortality. There are no words to capture this deep, trembling sorrow.
Yet even in this darkness, there is something sacred. Pain and wonder sit side by side in the same trembling heart. In these midnight moments, when the world is hushed and the stars are silent witnesses, I feel the faint brush of God’s own breath upon me.
As the dark gives way to morning’s first light I walk with my boy through grief toward hope, whispering truths we both need to hear: that this life is but a blink, fleeting, whether our days end at thirty or a hundred and five. None of us are promised tomorrow. Today is the gift—and even suffering, piercing and raw, is not wasted. It is the means by which God presses treasure into our hearts, treasure that lasts beyond the fleeting pulse of this world.
So I hold my boy’s hand and I murmur lessons meant for both of us. That Jesus is enough. That our story does not end in a hospital room or a grave. That heaven is not an escape, but a home we were made for, and sorrow is merely the shadow that makes its light possible.
Choosing Hope 