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.
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.
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!
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.
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.
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.
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!
Choosing Hope 