Tag: hope

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.

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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.

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!

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Talking Points Podcast

Hannah

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!

UBC Talking Points Podcast

(Two of my favorites are the ones about worship. Check them out too!)

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.

daily graces

The Most Difficult Gift

Hannah

I love giving gifts, and I enjoy receiving them, yet I struggle to accept one of the greatest gifts offered to me; the gift of receiving. It is a humbling place to exist, needing others’ love and care, and I find it difficult at times. I have realized because of my love of giving that it takes far more grace to receive than it does to give.

After years of priding myself on my strength, being humble is difficult for me. It’s hard to ask for help. Do you find yourself agreeing with me? Yet we are all in need in one way or another; broken and struggling but putting on the best brave face we can muster just to prove we can go it alone.

In this long, loooooong season of needing to accept the help of others I find that the luster of having it all together is wearing thin. I see the depth of brokenness within me and around me, and I long to connect in my brokenness. I long to be known and to know the true hearts of others around me.

At my core I am a doer. A server, a giver, a wear-myself-down-to-nothing all in the name of love kind of girl. Accolades for me, right? What if I told you it’s just a ruse for my pride and need for control? Control that blares I’m not needy, I can do it myself, I don’t need anyone— unless someone needs /me/, and then I’m there.

I have spoken with enough people to know that I am not alone in this. Well, maybe I’m alone in admitting it, but I’m not alone in feeling it.

For 35 years I basked on the pedestal of being able-bodied, capable of doing anything that needed doing. I spent decades believing my purpose was to wear myself out pleasing those around me. I knew the truth, but it was easy to ignore when I had strength on my side.

Culture convinces us that our success is measured by our strength. It’s a bold-faced lie that what we are capable of is what we are loved for. This isn’t living in the truth of the gospel. Thankfully God is continually gracious to keep showing me the sin of my pride and need for control. He patiently loves me back to the foot of the cross and reminds me of my need to be needy and not just needed.

It took the stripping of my strength by this awful disease to expose this to me, and I still have to seek grace often because my heart’s bent is on proving myself instead of letting myself be loved in my neediness. Jesus is breaking me of my strength and showing me the grace to be found in embracing my weakness, and the joy that it gives others who want to help.

I hope that you can find this truth in your own life. Don’t settle for being loved for your abilities instead of being loved for your heart. Resist the temptation to keep yourself busy in order to feel accepted. Look for the ways to slow and find your significance in something more real. Then notice how you find peace and rest in giving others the gift of helping.

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Speechless

Hannah

Here is a graphic about my illness to give you an idea of the things it has, does, and will affect.

Inability to verbally communicate.

I have been a spectator to this with my friend who has ALS, and it is hard. Talk about a massive loss of control. Imagine the amount of having to slow down and let your actions speak louder than your words, or in this case instead of your words.

Over the past few months my voice has begun to weaken. At times it’s raspy, or sounds like I’m hoarse or getting sick. With this new development my speech therapist started the process for me to get an AAC device as an alternative means of communication. Control Bionics and my speech therapist have been wonderful to work with. They were very efficient at getting me set up with a device that will meet my current needs, as well as my needs as my condition continues to change.

At first, life with my AAC was about getting familiar with it and practicing navigating between the pages and words and phrases to best communicate. My device has sensors on the front that either detect my eye movements, or a slight muscle movement of my hand, and it selects the letters or phrases I want to say. It’s amazing we have this kind of technology, and I’m humbly grateful to be able to use it. I even had the opportunity to bank my own voice so that when it speaks for me you will still hear my voice. This part is expensive, but we are looking for solutions!

This past week my voice has taken a turn. One morning I woke up and barely had a voice at all. Some of it returned, but I now sound like a quiet, scratchy record with the occasional skip where nothing comes out at all. Truthfully it’s been a little unnerving seeing how fast I could be plunged into silence.

Hardly anyone can hear me anymore, and the effort and breath it takes to make my voice loud enough to project across a room is exhausting and frustrating. I wasn’t expecting this part to be so hard, but it’s hitting me right in a tender spot I didn’t know I had. I feel panicked to not be able to explain myself, threatened by the thought of not being able to call out and get my kids’ or caregivers’ attention. And if you see me singing along in church I’ve fooled you. I’m lip-syncing.

Another practice in total surrender; in cupping my hands around what’s left and holding out all I have to offer. A chance to do more listening than talking. Another practice in giving up what was and adjusting to what is, and believing that regardless of the journey or the outcome, I am held.