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.
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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. 😉
My church recently invited me to be a guest on their podcast, called Talking Points. I’m including a link if you’d like to listen to it, and you can also find many of their other podcasts on meaningful and important topics. If you give it a listen, let me know your thoughts!
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.
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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.
Choosing Hope 