It Is Well Even Now

There are seasons in life that steal your breath—not because of beauty, but because of the ache that settles so deep inside you’re not sure you’ll ever find your way out of it. Seasons where loneliness doesn’t feel like a moment but a companion. Seasons where your heart breaks in places you didn’t know could fracture. Seasons where the storm refuses to pass, no matter how many times you look to the horizon for the smallest hint of clearing. And in those moments, when everything feels fragile and uncertain, there rises a quiet, trembling prayer from somewhere deep within: Make it well with my soul… please, Lord. Make it well with my soul.

Those words aren’t a declaration of strength. They are an admission of need—an honest confession that we cannot hold ourselves together, not this time. They are the whispered plea of a heart that knows it’s not okay, and yet longs to be. They are the soft cry of a soul desperate for peace, the kind only heaven knows how to give. And perhaps that is where the miracle begins—not in the fixing of circumstances, but in the invitation to Jesus to sit with us in the middle of the mess.

Don’t let me face this loneliness alone.

It’s one of the most honest prayers a human heart can pray. Because loneliness isn’t always the absence of people. Sometimes it’s the absence of hope, the absence of direction, the absence of answers. Sometimes you can be surrounded by an entire world and still feel like you are walking through your valley alone. But the cry of the believer—especially the weary believer—is this: Lord, stay with me. Please don’t leave me here by myself.

What makes these words so sacred is that they aren’t prayed from a mountaintop. They rise from the valley—the valley of fear, of heartbreak, of uncertainty, of exhaustion. They rise from the place where tears fall freely and questions pile up. They rise from the quiet, wordless sobbing that happens when night settles in and the world goes still, leaving you alone with your thoughts, your fears, and your longing for relief.

And yet, Scripture tells us over and over again that Jesus is near to the brokenhearted. Not near the strong, the successful, the put-together, the ones who already know what to do. No—He draws closest to the crushed in spirit, the drained, the bruised, the ones who feel like they’ve been holding their breath for months. He doesn’t avoid our sorrow; He enters it. He doesn’t pull away from pain; He wraps Himself around it. This is not a distant Savior. This is the God who sits and weeps with those who weep. This is the One who kneels beside us, whispering strength into the cracks.

Jesus, could You please just sit and cry with me?

There is something indescribably healing about that prayer. It acknowledges a truth we often forget: we weren’t made to suffer alone. We weren’t designed to carry every burden on our backs. We weren’t created to hold ourselves up by sheer force of will. No—a thousand times no. We were created for companionship with the One who understands us at our core. We were created for the kind of nearness that doesn’t require words, only presence. And sometimes the holiest moment of all is when God Himself sits with us in our sadness.

Because here is the breathtaking truth: He does not rush us. He is not impatient. He doesn’t demand that we pull ourselves together or pretend to be okay. He sits. He stays. He cries. And in those tears—divine tears mingling with human sorrow—something inside us softens. Something inside begins to heal. Not because the storm is gone, but because we are no longer weathering it alone.

When the storm is raging, please don’t let me go.

Storms have a way of making us feel forgotten. The winds howl, the waves rise, and suddenly the promise that God is near feels thin, almost distant. But the voice that calms the sea hasn’t lost its authority. The power that spoke “Peace, be still” still whispers into our chaos today. It may not always silence the waves immediately, but it has a way of silencing the fear inside our chest. It has a way of steadying trembling hands and reminding the heart of a truth stronger than the storm: You are held.

Oh, voice that calms the sea—keep whispering to me.

Until my heartbeat steadies.

Until my tears slow.

Until my soul remembers what my mind forgets.

Until I can breathe again.

Until I can sing again.

Until the words It is well don’t feel like a lie, but a lifeline.

Because that’s the thing: “It is well with my soul” isn’t a sentence born of ease. It’s born of trust. It’s born of choosing to believe that God is still God when life feels unbearable. It’s born of surrendering the need to understand in exchange for the freedom to rest. It’s born of holding the hand of Jesus and saying, “I don’t like this. I don’t want this. I don’t understand this. But whatever my lot, You are still my God.”

And that declaration—that quiet, steady truth—is what begins to settle the soul.

When the world falls apart around you.

When relationships fracture.

When diagnoses arrive.

When finances thin.

When exhaustion becomes a second skin.

When grief feels like a weight you’re dragging through your days.

When night after night offers no rest.

When you feel left behind, unseen, unheard, or overwhelmed…

You can still whisper, “It is well.”

Not because the circumstances deserve it.

But because your God does.

He is still God when your heart aches.

He is still God when your prayers feel unanswered.

He is still God when you sit in the dark and wonder where hope has gone.

He is still God when your strength gives out.

He is still God when the future feels uncertain.

He is still God when your soul trembles.

And because He is still God, you can rest—even in the storm.

There is no pain too deep for Him to enter.

No night too long for Him to endure with you.

No burden too heavy for Him to lift.

No fear too loud for Him to hush.

No brokenness too severe for Him to heal.

No loneliness too profound for Him to fill.

This is the God who makes it well.

Not by erasing the storm, but by joining you in it.

Not by silencing the thunder, but by speaking softer than the lightning strikes.

Not by removing the valley, but by walking beside you through every shadow.

Not by preventing the tears, but by catching every single one.

The peace you seek—the peace heaven knows—that is the peace He offers.

A peace that seeps into the cracks.

A peace that holds you together when life pulls you apart.

A peace that whispers, “You are not alone.”

A peace that reminds you that even here, even now, even this…

He is still God.

And so, when the night feels too long and the tears come without warning, breathe this truth:

Lord, make it well with my soul.

When fear rises like a tide,

Make it well with my soul.

When loneliness settles in the corners of your heart,

Make it well with my soul.

When the journey ahead feels impossible,

Make it well with my soul.

When grief weighs heavy,

Make it well with my soul.

When hope feels fragile,

Make it well with my soul.

And He will.

Not all at once, not always in the way you expect, but steadily, faithfully, gently.

Because the One who calms the sea can calm the soul.

The One who holds the universe can hold your heart.

The One who hears the cries of the broken can hear the cry you whisper in the dark.

And in time—in His time—you’ll find that your trembling prayer becomes a confident declaration.

Not because life has become perfect, but because you have become anchored.

Anchored to the God who stays.

Anchored to the Savior who whispers peace.

Anchored to the One who is faithful even when the storm rages.

Until at last, with quiet conviction, your heart will sing:

It is well with my soul.

The Quiet Strength of Winter

Winter has a way of settling into the world with a quiet heaviness, wrapping everything in stillness, pressing its cold breath against windows and hearts alike. The trees stand bare, the days grow short, and the air itself feels sharp enough to make you draw your coat a little tighter around you. For many, winter can feel like a hard season—one of waiting, of silence, of bracing ourselves against winds that feel stronger than we are. But there is something profoundly hopeful hidden within winter’s chill, something that whispers to us even when the world feels frozen. Winter, for all its cold edges and early darkness, carries a lesson about resilience and renewal that we often miss when we’re simply trying to make it through.

Because winter, at its core, is not an ending. It’s a preparation.

Beneath the frozen ground, life is quietly gathering strength. Roots are sinking deeper, conserving energy, storing what they need for the season to come. Trees that look barren are simply resting, holding tightly to the promise of spring. Nothing is really dead—just dormant, protected, waiting. And in that waiting, something sacred happens. Winter becomes the silent womb of growth; it becomes the season where the unseen work takes place, the work that makes new life possible when the first warm breeze finally arrives.

In our own lives, we experience winters too. They may not come with snowflakes or icy sidewalks, but they settle over us all the same. They come in the form of quiet sadness, loneliness, uncertainty, exhaustion, or seasons of caring for someone we love through something we can’t fix. They show up when life slows down in ways we didn’t choose, when the days feel long and the nights even longer, when our hearts feel chilled by disappointment or grief. It’s easy to look at those seasons and imagine that we are stuck—that nothing is growing, nothing is changing, nothing good could possibly be forming beneath the cold.

But winter lies.
Or maybe it tells the truth—we just don’t hear it clearly at first.

Because winter is not the absence of growth.
It is the birthplace of it.

The cold seasons of our lives teach us things that warmth never could. They show us how strong we are, even when we feel fragile. They teach us patience in a world that demands hurry. They remind us that not everything meaningful happens on the surface; some of the most important transformations happen quietly within, far deeper than anyone can see. Winter strips away the unnecessary, leaving behind only what matters. And in that bareness, there is a strange kind of beauty—a raw, honest simplicity that invites us to breathe deeper, rest more intentionally, and trust that not every good thing has to be loud.

There is something brave about standing in the cold and believing that spring is still coming.

Something courageous about holding hope when the world around you looks barren. Something profoundly faithful about trusting the process even when you can’t see progress. Winter teaches us that strength is not always loud; sometimes it is found in the quiet act of simply enduring, of holding on, of trusting that the cold won’t last forever.

The sun may set early, but it always rises again.
The ground may freeze, but never permanently.
The world may feel cold, but it is only resting.

In that same way, your soul may feel like it’s in a winter season right now—heavy, tired, stretched thin. Maybe you’re navigating uncertainty. Maybe you’re caring for someone who’s struggling. Maybe life feels quieter than you hoped, lonelier than you imagined, or harder than you feel equipped to handle. But you are not failing. You are not falling behind. You are simply in a season of deep roots.

This is the time when your strength grows beneath the surface, in ways you don’t yet see. This is the season where endurance is born, where your faith deepens, where the foundations of your next chapter are being quietly prepared. You may not feel it, but something in you is storing hope like trees store energy—so that when your spring comes, you can rise into it with everything you need.

And spring will come. It always does.
No winter in the history of the world has ever stopped it.

But here is something even more beautiful: winter is not just a season to survive; it is a season that shapes us. It teaches us to appreciate warmth again. It helps us savor the simple gifts—the glow of a lamp on a dark night, the comfort of a hot drink between cold hands, the sound of laughter in a quiet house. Winter slows us down enough to notice the things we rush past in the busier seasons. It shows us that beauty can exist in bare branches and pale skies, that peace can be found even when the world feels frozen.

There is a softness within the harshness of winter if you look closely.

A kind of hush that invites reflection.
A kind of stillness that encourages healing.
A kind of clarity that comes only when life quiets down.

Even in the coldest months, the world never stops offering small reminders of warmth. A sunrise that paints the sky pink and gold. The crunch of fresh snow under your boots. A bird singing through the icy morning air. These moments remind us that even winter carries light, and so do we.

Your life may feel cold right now, but there are embers glowing inside you. There is warmth in your endurance, in your hope, in the way you keep moving forward even when the world feels frozen. There is strength in the way you hold on, in the way you care, in the way you continue to seek beauty despite the chill pressing against your spirit.

And just like the earth prepares for spring in its quiet months, so are you preparing for the next thing God is unfolding in your life. You are gathering wisdom, compassion, fortitude—things you could not have grown in seasons of ease. You are becoming deeper, stronger, kinder. Winter is not diminishing you; it is defining you.

So if you find yourself standing in a season that feels colder than you’d like, take heart. The cold will not last forever. The warmth will return. The light will lengthen. The colors will come back. And when they do, you will rise into your own spring with a resilience shaped by the very winter you worried would break you.

Hold on.
Breathe deep.
Look for the small sparks of light in your day.

Winter is not a punishment.
It is a promise that even in the coldest seasons of life, something beautiful is forming beneath the surface.

And soon—maybe sooner than you think—
it will bloom.

When Miracles Come Quietly

There is a kind of waiting that shapes a person.
Not the ordinary kind—the waiting in grocery lines or the waiting for the oven to preheat. I mean the deeper waiting. The kind that stretches the heart, tests your faith, and changes how you breathe. The waiting for a miracle.

Most of us grow up with a certain image of what a miracle looks like. We’re taught in Sunday school that miracles arrive like sudden bursts of light, answers dropped straight into our hands, sickness healed in a single moment, broken pieces restored in the blink of an eye. We imagine miracles as loud, undeniable, and immediate—the kind of things that rewrite the course of a life overnight. So whenever we find ourselves walking a road marked by struggle or uncertainty, it’s natural to start looking down the horizon for that dramatic shift, that single moment where everything changes.

But life, in its quiet wisdom, has taught me something different.

Miracles rarely announce themselves.

They don’t always burst through the clouds or sweep in with grand gestures. Sometimes they slip in like dawn—slow, gentle, unnoticed at first, gradually brightening the world one soft shade at a time. And sometimes, the miracle we think we’re waiting for isn’t the miracle God is actually sending at all.

Over the past couple of years, as Tim’s health has declined in ways no one prepared us for, I’ve found myself learning this truth again and again. His PNES seizures, his depression, the cognitive decline that has brought more questions than answers—none of it has been simple, clean, or predictable. There are days when he’s quiet and withdrawn, days when his body betrays him, days when the darkness in his mind pushes against all the progress he’s trying so hard to make. And through all of it, of course, I have prayed for a miracle. I have prayed for healing, for restoration, for the long road we walk to suddenly level out. I have prayed for clarity where there has only been confusion, for strength where exhaustion has settled deep into our bones.

In my prayers, I pictured a very specific miracle—one that looked like the struggles disappearing, the symptoms fading, the fear lifting overnight. But the miracle hasn’t come in the way I once envisioned it. And for a long time, that truth made the waiting feel like an ache that wouldn’t heal.

Yet something beautiful has been taking place in the middle of that ache—something I almost missed because I was too focused on the miracle I wanted, instead of the miracle God was quietly building.

At first, I thought the miracle would be Tim’s healing. But as the months turned into years, I started noticing the smaller things, the quieter gifts that slipped in around the edges of our hardest days. I began to see that the waiting itself was shaping something inside both of us. It was teaching us how to love differently, how to stand together more firmly, how to hold hope with gentler hands.

Tim, who once struggled to find purpose in the midst of all the loss and fear, discovered joy in music and writing. Something lit up in him the moment he started creating —songs filled with his own thoughts, his own questions, his own heart on the page. It wasn’t the miracle I had prayed for, but it was a miracle still: a spark in a soul that had been dim for far too long. I watched him pour out lyrics, experiment with melodies, experiment with stories, and for the first time in months, maybe years, I saw the light return to his eyes. I saw curiosity, creativity, the desire to build something new. I saw him fighting back against the darkness in ways that no doctor, no medication, no treatment had been able to do.

And I realized that this—this quiet stirring of purpose—was a miracle too.

I saw miracles in his small victories. The days he pushed through anxiety to write. The nights he played his finished songs to me, timid but proud. The moments when he dared to believe—even briefly—that his story could still matter, that his voice could still help someone else fighting battles like his. These weren’t dramatic miracles that swept in like a storm, but they were miracles of the heart, miracles of endurance, miracles of grace.

Then there was us—our relationship, our love. The way it has been refined in the fire of everything we’ve walked through. I learned that love is not measured by the ease of days but by the willingness to stay through the hard ones. And we have stayed. Through seizures, through fear, through medical uncertainty, through loneliness, through holidays when it felt like the world had forgotten us. We have stayed. We have held each other up when our legs wanted to give out. We have stood in the quiet spaces where miracles are slow to show themselves.

Some days, the weight of it all sits heavy on my chest. The loneliness can feel sharp. Watching someone you love struggle in ways you can’t fix—it breaks something inside you. It changes how you see the world. It changes how you pray. But it also deepens you in ways nothing else can. It teaches you compassion, tenderness, fierceness, and faith in forms you never needed before.

And in that deepening, I began to understand something I never fully grasped until now:
sometimes the miracle isn’t the healing—sometimes the miracle is the strength to endure the unhealed.

Sometimes the miracle is the resilience you didn’t know you had.
Sometimes it’s the courage that rises in you on days you should have collapsed.
Sometimes it’s the simple fact that you hold hope at all, even when every circumstance tries to take it from you.

Sometimes the miracle is the way your heart expands when you thought it would shatter.
Sometimes it’s the people who show up when others disappear.
Sometimes it’s the quiet whisper from God reminding you that you’re not alone—not even in the silence.

And sometimes—often—that miracle is the person you are becoming in the waiting.

Waiting has a way of reshaping you.
It burns away the illusions of control.
It teaches you to find beauty in places you never would have looked before.
It teaches you patience, compassion, and surrender in ways nothing else can.

I used to think surrender meant giving up. Now I understand surrender is simply releasing my grip on what I think the miracle should look like so I can receive the miracle God is actually trying to give.

And that miracle has been unfolding quietly, like dawn.
In Tim’s growing creative voice.
In the moments he pushes back the darkness with music.
In the days he allows hope to rise again.
In the love that has become our anchor.
In the strength that keeps showing up in my own heart—even when I feel too tired to keep waiting.

No, the miracle hasn’t been the sudden change I prayed for.
But there has been change.
There has been light.
There has been beauty.

And somewhere in the middle of the hardest moments, God has been whispering:
“The miracle may not look like what you imagined. But it’s here. It’s growing. Just keep watching.”

So I’ve learned to look for the smaller miracles—the ones that arrive gently.
The miracle of a peaceful morning after a hard night.
The miracle of laughter slipping back into our home.
The miracle of Tim sharing his songs with hope in his voice.
The miracle of surviving days that once would have broken us.
The miracle of waking up each day still choosing love, still choosing hope, still choosing each other.

We often think miracles should erase the struggle.
But sometimes miracles grow right alongside it.

Sometimes miracles are not replacements for the pain,
but companions in it—
tiny lights that guide you forward
in the darkness you never asked to walk through.

The waiting hasn’t ended for us.
We’re still hoping for clarity in Tim’s health.
We’re still praying for healing.
We’re still wishing for answers that haven’t come yet.
But in the meantime, we are learning to honor the journey.
We are learning to receive the miracles that come in unexpected forms.
We are learning to trust that God is doing something deep, something unseen, something good—even here, even now.

If you are waiting for your own miracle, I hope you hear this:
You are not forgotten.
Your prayers are not ignored.
Your hope is not wasted.
The miracle may not come the way you expect,
but it may already be taking shape in ways you haven’t recognized yet.

Look closely.
Listen gently.
There is beauty forming in the slow places,
in the quiet places,
in the long, aching waits.

Miracles don’t always arrive with thunder.
Sometimes they arrive like a whisper,
like a spark returning to someone’s eyes,
like strength on a day you feel weak,
like love that keeps choosing to stay.

And though the miracle may not be the one you pictured,
it may be the one that changes you in all the ways
you truly needed.

Keep waiting with hope.
Keep watching for the small lights.
Even here—especially here—
miracles are moving.