Tonight, I was caught in the quiet pull of old photographs, each one a window to a world that felt softer, lighter. I lingered in the hush of memory—bare feet on sun-warmed pavement, sticky fingers clutching melting popsicles, laughter rising like fireflies into a dusk that never hurried. The days before my family knew the heavy grief of suffering through the progression of a fatal illness.
Grief has a way of sharpening our memories. It turns the past into a soft-lit place where pain had not yet knocked at the door. And tonight, I felt that ache—the ache of before.
But as I sat there, surrounded by memories frozen in time, the Lord gently reminded me: He was with us then, and He is with us now.
Hebrews 13:8 says, “Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever.” While everything around me has changed, He has not. The God who gave us the joy of long summer days and laughter echoing down the hallway is the same God holding us steady in the storm of uncertainty. He does not abandon us in our sorrow; He walks with us through it.
And so, while my heart longs for what once was, I’m learning to give thanks for the beauty that still is. Even in the midst of heartache, there are glimpses of grace—quiet moments of strength I know I didn’t conjure on my own. There’s peace that surpasses understanding, not because life is easy, but because Jesus is near.
These old pictures remind me not just of the sweetness of the past but also of God’s faithfulness throughout the years. I don’t know what tomorrow holds, but I know the One who holds tomorrow—and He is good.
So I’ll hold onto that. I’ll grieve, I’ll remember, and I’ll trust. Because our story isn’t just framed in photographs—it’s being written by a God who redeems, restores, and never lets go.
I remember being in church the first Mother’s Day after burying my daughter and not being able to contain my sobs as the pastor shared a special tribute to mothers, and I didn’t feel like celebrating at all because I had stood at the edge of eternity and watched a piece of my motherhood be torn from my arms in an instant.
I remember the Mother’s Day after my first miscarriage and how I grieved over having been thrilled to add another arrow to our quiver, only to watch that dream bleed out through the cracks in my heart.
I remember the Mother’s Days during our seasons of infertility, and how I fought to not entertain bitterness toward the expecting mamas in my life because I was crippled by the thought of never being able to expand our family.
I remember the Mother’s Day following our season of foster care, and how I had seen our story being very different from the reality we were living.
I remember Mother’s Day as a child and how the only thing on my mind was the special craft I’d made for my mom, or the flowers I’d picked her, and how this day of celebration felt a whole lot less complicated and emotional back then.
This Mother’s Day I remember that there are those of you all around me that are living out various versions of broken stories that have wounded your dreams and experiences of motherhood, and I see you standing there. I see how this day of celebration comes with so many convoluted emotions; deep grief and heartfelt thankfulness and hopeful expectation. I know that some of you are holding your breath waiting to turn the calendar page to Monday, and that’s ok.
I know today may be especially hard, and I just want you to know that you’re not alone. I pray that God gives you comfort, peace, and strength as you carry both extravagant love and crushing sorrow in your heart. Your pain matters, and so does your story. Allow Him to use these painful and uncertain days to strengthen your trust in Him, to surrender your need for control, and to open your hands wide to the good-hard story that He is writing through you. I promise you it’s worth it.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Kindly leave me a comment; it lets me know you’re listening!
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.
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!
Choosing Hope 