Author: Hannah

faith

Between Fear & Forever: A Mother’s Honest Wrestling

Hannah

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.

And when fear rises like a tide, I will remember:

this world is not my home,

but neither am I abandoned in it.

There is a Savior who meets me in the trembling,

steadies my steps,

and whispers the truer story —

one where love has the final word,

and where every goodbye is only temporary.

Friendship, Uncategorized

Curiosity & Caring

Hannah

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.

favorites, Uncategorized

Five (+1) Favorites

Hannah

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.

https://a.co/d/bpffqeZ

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.

https://brookeromney.com/modern-manners/

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!

Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving Update

Hannah

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.

suffering

Standing, when everything shakes

Hannah

🎶 “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.

Uncategorized, Friendship

The Seasons of Staying

Hannah

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.

One of my all time favorite reads!

Uncategorized

The Dusty Stethescope

Hannah

Sleep evaded me again last night.

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.

Help me be faithful in it.

Help me reflect your goodness in the ache.

Let me be a mirror of grace—

a witness to the beauty that lives

in the losing of strength,

and the finding of You.

grief

Midnight Tears

Hannah

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.

Infant loss, Uncategorized

Cradled By Heaven

Hannah

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.