Author: Hannah

faith

Brave Was Never the Plan

Hannah

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.

faith

When a Voice Falls Silent: A Call to Courage

Hannah

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.

Gratitude

The Gift of Time

Hannah

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.

faith

Living In Tension

Hannah

I listened quietly, my dear friend’s eyes brimming with tears as she described the weight of living each day not knowing when her husband’s cancer is going to come back for the last time. Though he is currently in remission, it’s a cancer that cannot be cured, so it’s this waiting game of when and how it will rear its ugly head again. The questions my friend turns over in her mind are crushing—the kind that steal your breath and undo your strength. Questions about what she will do when God takes her husband home. We gaze over their beautifully massive yard and wonder how she will continue to cultivate its beauty on her own without her helpmate. Lots of hard questions surface daily when living in this kind of tension between the already and the not yet.

I too, feel the struggle that stretches taut around me— with my health and function teetering between being livable and folding into the reality that my body at some point will not be able to continue like this. How do you continue to move through your days while you are walking such a tedious line between what has already happened, and what we expect to happen soon? How is it not paralyzing?

In the throes of a cancer diagnosis, My dear friends have taught me the blessing of living in 24 hour blocks.

They learned—are still learning—to live in the span of a single day. To open their eyes in the morning and ask, What is in front of me today? What can I do, savor, and love in the next twenty-four hours? Not a week, not a year, not a lifetime… just today.

It’s not that the future doesn’t whisper its what-ifs. It does—sometimes with a roar. But they’ve found that courage grows best in small portions, like manna in the wilderness, enough for the day but never stored up in advance.

So we cook the dinner that’s in front of us. We laugh at the joke we didn’t see coming. We walk in the yard, even though someday it may be too big for us. We love fiercely, even if it costs us dearly to let go later.

Living this way doesn’t erase the pain or the questions. It doesn’t make the tension disappear. But it loosens its chokehold, replacing dread with something far more powerful: presence. And in that presence, God meets us—not in the far-off tomorrows, but in the fragile, sacred now.

Like sailors watching the horizon, we take our bearings from the sun—morning to evening, one day’s voyage at a time. Tomorrow’s waters will come soon enough. For now, we drop anchor in the grace of today.

faith

When Small Acts Become Sacred Moments

Hannah

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.

child loss

The Scar That Stays

Hannah

Today is a scar.

No matter how many years stretch between then and now, July 14th will never pass unnoticed. It pulses quietly beneath the surface all year long, and when it comes, it breaks open again—not as a wound, but as a scar that still aches.

The day my daughter died marked my life in a way that changed everything. There was a before, and there is an after. And though time has moved forward, this day remains. It always will.

Scars are proof of both injury and healing. They say, “Something happened here. Something was torn open, but it didn’t destroy you.” That’s what this day feels like—evidence that something was lost that mattered so deeply, it will never be forgotten. This scar tells a story of love, of longing, of holding on and letting go. It reminds me that grief isn’t a lack of faith—it’s an expression of it. I grieve because I loved, and I still do.

There is comfort in knowing that even Jesus kept His scars. He could have been raised from the dead in flawless perfection, unmarred by crucifixion. But the Father chose to leave the marks. The holes in His hands and side weren’t oversights. They were signs—of suffering, yes, but also of victory. They tell the story of a love so vast it entered into death to bring us life.

Those scars helped Thomas believe. They helped the disciples recognize Him. And they help me, too.

Because if Jesus can carry His scars into glory, so can I.

So can this day.

The pain of this anniversary is real. It isn’t erased by time, or even by the hope I have in Christ. But it is held. Redeemed. It has a place in the larger story God is telling—one in which death is not the end, and scars can become signs of resurrection.

So today, I sit with the ache. I trace the edges of the memory. I let the tears come, because they matter. But I do not grieve as one without hope. I know the One who holds my daughter now. I know He is good. And I know that one day, every tear will be wiped away.

Until then, I carry this scar—not as a symbol of defeat, but as a quiet testimony:

Love lived here.

Hope lives still.

faith, Fatal Illness, grief, hope

Already Gone, Still Here

Hannah

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.

faith, Uncategorized

Even now

Hannah

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.

Uncategorized

Even Here

Hannah

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.