Author: Hannah

faith

When the Story Became Mine

Hannah

April 18th I had the honor of sitting with some of my tribe at our church’s Good Friday service. Knowing I was about to hear the familiar story of the worst day- the day my Jesus was brutally beaten and murdered in the most undeserving of ways- I uttered an honest prayer I had never been so moved to ask.

“Make the story real to me, Father.”

I felt that in all the years of Easter weekend and the familiar story that is the very linchpin of my faith, somehow, I have always managed to remain partly guarded from feeling the full weight of what was done on my behalf that day on Calvary. Yet on this night, something deep within me longed to feel the pain he felt; to realize the full gravity of what I deserved but was spared. So there in the front row where I have sat so many times, cradled in the frame of my wheelchair, I heard the story one more time.

This time, my soul fractured as I mouthed the words of the songs about my debt, the blood, the stone. This time, the story, his story was my story in a way I had never experienced before.

Tears streamed down my face not because I was sad, but because I finally saw it—really saw it. Not just the nails, not just the crown of thorns, not even the agony of a sinless man dying a sinner’s death. I saw the love. I felt the intentionality. I tasted the grace. The cross wasn’t just a symbol anymore; it became the moment in time that rewrote my moment in time. It wasn’t abstract. It wasn’t distant. It was present, raw, and deeply personal.

And as I sat there, surrounded by my people—some standing, some sitting, some quietly weeping like me—I realized that this is what redemption looks like in real time. It’s not polished or performative. It’s a quiet breaking. A holy undoing. It’s the sound of a heart cracking open so light can finally rush in.

This Good Friday, I didn’t just remember the cross. I met Jesus there. And I left carrying not guilt, but glory. Not shame, but surrender. And in that holy exchange, I found myself more whole than I’ve ever been.

May I never hear the story the same again.

community

When the Doorbell Doesn’t Ring: The Quiet Abandon of Terminal Days

Hannah

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.

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When Others Let You Down

Hannah

I bit back tears as I texted a friend this week. “I know I’m supposed to let Jesus be my everything, but sometimes I just want someone with skin on.” My unmet expectations had left me feeling hurt, alone, and disconnected.

Life has a way of revealing the fragility of human relationships. People disappoint us. Friends drift. Family wounds. Leaders fall short. And in those moments of heartbreak, betrayal, or silence, we’re faced with a choice: will we allow the cracks in human connection to crush us, or will we let Jesus become our everything?

I’m preaching this as much to myself as to anyone else.

If you’re reading this with a fresh wound or a quiet ache in your heart, know this — you’re not alone. The Bible is filled with people who were betrayed, misunderstood, and abandoned. Joseph was sold by his brothers. David was hunted by the king he served. Even Jesus was deserted by His closest friends in His darkest hour.

“Why can’t they see how they are hurting me,” I pleaded.

But here’s the deeper truth: Jesus never asks us to put our ultimate hope in people. He invites us to put our hope in Him.

When the people around you let you down — whether through neglect, harsh words, or simply their own brokenness — Jesus remains steadfast. He is the friend who never walks away, the Shepherd who knows your name, the Savior who bore rejection so you’d never have to bear it alone.

When the support you thought would hold you collapses, let Jesus be your support. When you’re craving love, let Him remind you of the cross, where He proved you’re worth everything. When you’re confused and directionless, let His Word be the voice that steadies you.

Jesus isn’t a backup plan — He is the plan. He doesn’t just fill in the gaps that others leave behind; He becomes the fullness your heart was always meant to hold.

Healing often begins not with fixing the relationship, but with coming back to the One who never broke your heart. Jesus welcomes your tears, your questions, your anger. He’s not threatened by your pain. He meets you in it. He transforms it.

So bring Him your everything — your wounds, your disappointment, your longing. Let Him into the places that others walked away from. Let Him speak where others went silent. Let Him restore what others couldn’t protect.

Human love is beautiful, but it was never meant to carry the weight of your soul. Only Jesus can do that. He is not just enough when others fail — He is more than enough.

So if today you feel alone, rejected, or forgotten, remember this: you are fully known and fiercely loved by Jesus. Let Him be your everything. Not just in the hard moments, but in every moment.

He will never leave. He will never change. And He will never let you down.

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The Letters

Hannah

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.

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Walking Each Other Home

Hannah

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.

I love you buckets. Xoxo

~Hannah

faith

The Worst Kind of Scars

Hannah

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!

faith

Update and Prayer

Hannah

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!

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The Fight

Hannah

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.

family

Messy Grace

Hannah

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. 😉