Tag: community

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.

grief

Bingo, Ice Cream, and the Bitter Gift of Missing Out

Hannah

For several weeks I have been looking forward to this past Sunday. It was a chance to not only go to church in the morning, but then in the evening it was our quarterly meeting plus Ice cream and bingo, and I was excited to see so many of my people. And then MSA.

It didn’t take long to recognize that I was going to have to choose wisely what to use my energy on that day. Pain has been searing out of control more often than not lately, and Sunday morning there was no reprieve. I decided I had a better chance of making it Sunday night if I stayed at home and watched the morning service online, which I did, and then rested throughout the day.

As afternoon faded into evening however, it became clear that my body was not going to tolerate a car ride or anything else. The plans I had so carefully paced myself for began to crumble before my eyes. And with that, came the sting of disappointment—sharp and real.

I wish I could say I shrugged it off with grace, that I whispered a quick prayer and moved on. But instead, I wrestled with it. I grieved the loss of what felt like a lifeline that day. I missed my people. I missed being in the room, surrounded by familiar laughter and shared stories and the simple joy of ice cream and bingo. I missed being seen.

That’s the thing about disappointment—it sneaks in and tries to convince you that you’re forgotten. That everyone else is moving on without you. That your suffering sets you apart in the worst way.

But here’s where faith steps in and steadies the soul.

God doesn’t minimize our losses, and He doesn’t rush us through our grief. He meets us right in the ache. As I sat alone in my living room that night, I remembered the One who never misses a moment. The One who knew I would be here, again. The One who catches every tear and counts every pain-ridden hour as precious.

Crushing disappointment doesn’t get the final word. Not when we serve a God who promises beauty for ashes and joy in the morning. Not when He reminds us that He is our portion, not a perfect evening, not our best-laid plans. Him.

So, I went to bed that night not having seen the people I love, not having laughed over silly bingo cards, not having been part of the fellowship I was so looking forward to. But I went to bed held. Known. Carried. And even in the disappointment, maybe especially there, I was not alone.

And that’s enough.

Paramedic

Sweaty Palms and Steady Courage: The Cost of Doing What’s Right

Hannah

There was a day when I had to report one of my partners on the ambulance for the way he treated a patient. It was a partner I liked a lot. Everyone liked him. I remember standing in the supervisors’ office with my palms sweating and my heart pounding in my ears. He was one of the “good ole boys.” I knew it would probably damage our good relationship, and the backlash would likely affect my relationship with other coworkers as well.

The weight of my decision was heavy, and it certainly would have been easier to not say anything at all. But I had taken an oath to do no harm. I signed up to render aid with wisdom and compassion, and watching my people be abusive and degrading in silence would have been a terrible injustice. I could have just vowed to be better than that. I could have just told him I didn’t like it. Sometimes we need more than just words though; we need action. Marches for peace are great. Changing your social media profile to support a good cause is thoughtful. But that does not actually change anything. We need to act.

Friends, speaking up and putting a foot down is a really difficult thing to do. It’s scary, and it’s risky, and it is definitely not the norm, but our nation is hurting and if someone does not start standing up I fear for the future of our “United” States. We have to be people of action. That may mean turning in your partner. It may mean confronting someone you see abusing their power. It may be saying no to that one family member’s off-colored comments. Whatever it may look like to make a stand instead of turning a blind eye, we need to be doing that.

Eventually you will not feel alone standing up for justice, because when everyone starts doing it you suddenly are not the only fish swimming upstream anymore. You have the power to turn the school around. It starts with each and every individual calling it out when they see it, and saying “no more.” We can do this. I will be there standing beside you, sweaty palms and all.

Please leave me a comment, it lets me know you’re listening!

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.

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

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!

endurance

Lament

Hannah

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.