faith

Waiting on the Whole Story

Hannah

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.

faith

Even When it Hurts

Hannah

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.

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.

Uncategorized

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.

Uncategorized

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.

Uncategorized

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!