Tag: hope

faith

When a Voice Falls Silent: A Call to Courage

Hannah

There are a lot of voices right now. A deafening amount of opinions and points of view. Sometimes it’s difficult to know whether speaking is warranted, or if it will just add to the noise. One thing I know though, is that in the face of devastation, hope is a needed voice to hear.

What happens when a prominent voice for truth is suddenly silenced? When someone who stood boldly, unashamed of the gospel, and unwilling to compromise, is snatched away from us? The temptation is fear. Fear that if they can be taken down, then what about us? Fear that darkness is stronger than light. Fear that speaking up will cost too much.

The missionary Paul reminds us otherwise:

“…I will not be put to shame in anything, but that with all boldness, Christ will even now, as always, be exalted in my body, whether by life or by death. For to me, to live is Christ, and to die is gain.”
‭‭Philippians‬ ‭1‬:‭20-21

This is not the end. Death does not have the final word. Every voice that is silenced here will one day be awakened at the sound of His voice. Every injustice will be answered. Every act of courage will be remembered before the throne of God.

So what do we do if a voice for truth falls silent?

We do not shrink back. We do not hide in fear. We step forward. We take up the torch that has been handed to us. We keep talking, keep living, keep shining. Because the mission was never about one person’s voice alone — it is about God’s truth resounding through His people. (John 5:28-29)

The darker the world gets, the more every flicker of light matters. The more every word of courage echoes. The more every act of faith shines.

Let us not be silent. Let us not cower. Let us not let darkness have the last word. Instead, let us outshine it. Because one day, the tombs will open, the righteous will rise, and the Judge of all the earth will make everything right.

Until then, we keep speaking. We keep living with courage. We keep letting the light shine.

Gratitude

The Gift of Time

Hannah

About a week ago I discovered my first real, here-to-stay gray hair. At about an inch and a half long, the silvery strand sparkled in the light, and I squeaked with delight. I have been waiting for this day!

It felt almost holy, that moment of noticing what the world often calls a flaw but what Scripture calls a crown. The Bible says, “Gray hair is a crown of glory; it is gained in a righteous life” (Proverbs 16:31). A strand of silver is not something to pluck away or hide in embarrassment—it’s a shimmer of honor, the whisper of years lived and stories carried, a reminder that time is a gift.

The world tells us that beauty belongs to the young, but God tells us that beauty deepens with age. Every laugh line is a history of joy. Every crease carries the memory of burdens borne and released. Every gray hair gleams with testimony: of lessons learned, of prayers prayed, of nights endured and mornings met with new mercies.

Aging is not the dimming of the light, but the soft glow of it spreading, warming, illuminating. It is not a loss—it is a gathering. We gather wisdom, we gather perspective, we gather gratitude for the fleetingness of days and the eternity that awaits beyond them.

To age is to live long enough to love more deeply, to forgive more freely, to see life with eyes unclouded by the urgency of youth. It is to carry within us the sacredness of experience, the sweetness of perspective, and the quiet strength of having endured.

So when I see that little silver thread sparkle in the mirror, I do not feel embarrassed. I feel crowned. Crowned with grace, crowned with wisdom, crowned with the reminder that my days are in His hands and that every year is a jewel added to the story He is writing through my life.

Fun with gray

Aging is not something to hide. It is something to honor. Something to embrace. Something to rejoice in.

Because every gray hair is not just a strand—it is a song of God’s faithfulness woven into us, shimmering with glory.

child loss

The Scar That Stays

Hannah

Today is a scar.

No matter how many years stretch between then and now, July 14th will never pass unnoticed. It pulses quietly beneath the surface all year long, and when it comes, it breaks open again—not as a wound, but as a scar that still aches.

The day my daughter died marked my life in a way that changed everything. There was a before, and there is an after. And though time has moved forward, this day remains. It always will.

Scars are proof of both injury and healing. They say, “Something happened here. Something was torn open, but it didn’t destroy you.” That’s what this day feels like—evidence that something was lost that mattered so deeply, it will never be forgotten. This scar tells a story of love, of longing, of holding on and letting go. It reminds me that grief isn’t a lack of faith—it’s an expression of it. I grieve because I loved, and I still do.

There is comfort in knowing that even Jesus kept His scars. He could have been raised from the dead in flawless perfection, unmarred by crucifixion. But the Father chose to leave the marks. The holes in His hands and side weren’t oversights. They were signs—of suffering, yes, but also of victory. They tell the story of a love so vast it entered into death to bring us life.

Those scars helped Thomas believe. They helped the disciples recognize Him. And they help me, too.

Because if Jesus can carry His scars into glory, so can I.

So can this day.

The pain of this anniversary is real. It isn’t erased by time, or even by the hope I have in Christ. But it is held. Redeemed. It has a place in the larger story God is telling—one in which death is not the end, and scars can become signs of resurrection.

So today, I sit with the ache. I trace the edges of the memory. I let the tears come, because they matter. But I do not grieve as one without hope. I know the One who holds my daughter now. I know He is good. And I know that one day, every tear will be wiped away.

Until then, I carry this scar—not as a symbol of defeat, but as a quiet testimony:

Love lived here.

Hope lives still.

faith, Uncategorized

Even now

Hannah

How will we make it through this? The valleys we walk may bear different names, but at the beginning of the trailhead we all have a choice to make.

I once chose with clenched fists, fueled by grief, driven by fear… maybe you have been there too. But hear me now, not from the mountaintop, but from the shadowed lowlands, where echoes of pain still linger—choose the better way.

To those who call Jesus Lord: we proclaim a Kingdom not built by hands, not tied to decades past or decades to come. No power of earth can shake what is secure in Him. This is not a call to passivity— but perhaps an invitation: learn the stillness of the soul.

Not silence for silence’s sake, but a reorienting, a returning to the Way that is higher, slower, deeper. God has been faithful—not because all is mended, not because we have been spared, but because He never left.

Each day aches like fire, and still, Jesus is good.

Each prayer rises desperate, and still, Jesus is near.

His nearness is not held hostage to the outcomes I crave. Call me foolish, if you must. I am learning to care less for opinions, and more for people, because Jesus is shaping my heart for a Kingdom not made of noise.

God’s goodness is not measured by the speed of escape from sorrow. Whether I have months or years this I know:

Jesus is here. He is good. And gently He whispers: “Be still, and know that I am God.

So in your valley will you stop, just for a moment? Turn from the scroll, the post, the panic, and let your soul lean toward Him. Even here, where fear stirs, where anger brews, there is joy. Because love remains, and He is near.

Even now, I can say with trembling lips: It is well with my soul. He is God. And He is good.

family

The Heartbreaking Road Home

Hannah

Not long ago a friend posted something with this quote: “You can’t’ protect your child from their testimony.” Boy did that hit me like a ton of bricks.

As parents, we often carry a silent hope that our children’s lives will be smooth, their paths straight, and their hearts unbroken. We pray for their protection, guidance, and joy. But buried in that desire—however noble—is often the unspoken wish that they never have to walk through darkness. We long to shield them from pain, from failure, from regret. And yet, we forget: testimony is not born in safety. It’s born in the fire.

That line echoes like truth wrapped in heartbreak. Because if you’ve parented long enough, you know: you can’t control the path your child walks. You can guide, you can pray, you can love—but you cannot write their story for them. And sometimes, their testimony includes things you never would have chosen. The very moments you feared—addiction, rebellion, heartbreak, wandering far from faith—may become the places where Jesus meets them most deeply. How easily I forget that this is exactly where Jesus met me in my own life; why would he not do the same for my children?

And that’s where surrender comes in. Real surrender. Not the kind that says, “Lord, keep them safe and comfortable,” but the kind that says, “Lord, whatever it takes.”

Because if their knees hitting the floor is what it takes for them to run to Him, then let it be.

This doesn’t mean we stop parenting or stop praying. It means we stop trying to be their Savior. We trust the One who made them, who knows their every thought, who sees the beginning and the end. We release them into the hands of a God who loves them far more than we do.

It’s not easy to watch your child walk through fire. It’s not easy to hear pieces of their story that break your heart. But it’s necessary sometimes. For them to know grace, they may have to meet the edge of their own strength. For them to recognize light, they may have to sit in some darkness. And for them to know the realness of God, they may have to discover how empty everything else truly is.

So to the parent who is watching a child wander, who is grieving the turns their life has taken, who is praying with trembling hands: take heart. Their story isn’t over. And God’s mercy runs deeper than any pit they may fall into.

Your child’s testimony may not look like the one you hoped for. But it might just be the one that leads them home.

Let go. Trust God. And remember: even the prodigal was still a son.

suffering

Today

Hannah

Head throbs,

Spasms pulse.

Nausea ebbs and flows in great waves,

Pain spins up to 8 and then ticks back down to 4.

My mind fights my body with its will to get up and participate, move, live.

The weight of fatigue grips my limbs like wet sand,

Every breath a labor, every step a gamble.

The world outside carries on, brightly unaware,

While I drift beneath its surface, unseen currents pulling.

Hope is not always loud.

Sometimes it whispers in the quiet:

a hand held,

a laugh shared,

the sun warming my windowpane.

There are days I curse this vessel,

days I retreat into silence and salt,

but also moments—sharp and golden—

where love slices through the fog.

I do not vanish all at once.

I am still here:

in the tremor of my voice,

in the stories I still tell,

in the soft rebellion of surviving today.

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!

Memories

Where Memory and Mercy Meet

Hannah

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.

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.