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 There are days when he’s quiet and withdrawn, days when his body betrays him, days when the darkness in his mind pushes against all the progress he’s trying so hard to make.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.

The Courage to Smile Through the Storm

There are days in life when the weight of everything you’re carrying settles so heavily on your chest that even breathing feels like work. Moments when the heart aches in places no one sees, when hope feels thin, and when a thousand unspoken fears press in all at once. And yet, somehow, even then, there is this gentle, trembling invitation whispered into the soul: smile. Not because everything is okay, and not because the sorrow has vanished, but because somewhere beneath the ache, there is still a spark of light refusing to die out. “Smile, though your heart is aching… smile, even though it’s breaking.” These words aren’t about pretending. They aren’t about ignoring pain or forcing happiness. They are about choosing a small act of courage in the face of overwhelming emotion — choosing to believe that the darkness of this moment is not the end of the story.

When clouds gather thick and heavy, it’s easy to forget that they don’t stay forever. Life has a way of convincing us that the storm we’re standing in is permanent, that the shadow overhead is here to claim the whole sky. But it never does. The clouds move. The storm shifts. And even when you can’t see it, the sun keeps burning on the other side. “When there are clouds in the sky, you’ll get by.” Not because you’re strong enough to outrun the storm, but because storms don’t get the final say. Seasons change. Pain softens. Hearts heal in unexpected ways, at unexpected times. And sometimes the very act of trying to smile — even through fear and sorrow — becomes the first step toward seeing light again. “Smile, and maybe tomorrow you’ll see the sun come shining through for you.” Maybe tomorrow. Maybe not today. But tomorrow holds possibility, and that alone is a reason to lift your chin just a little.

There is something sacred about lighting up your face with gladness even when your eyes still shimmer with unshed tears. It’s not about hiding — it’s about holding on. It’s about knowing that sadness and hope can live in the same heart at the same time. “Hide every trace of sadness, although a tear may be ever so near.” Tears are not weakness; they are evidence of love, of caring, of being human. But choosing to smile even with those tears close by is a declaration: I am not defeated. A quiet rebellion against despair. A whisper that says, “This is hard, but I am still here.”

“That’s the time you must keep on trying.” Trying to hope. Trying to trust. Trying to believe there is still good ahead. Trying to remember that nights don’t last forever. Trying to allow yourself to feel the ache without letting it consume you. Smile — not as denial, but as defiance. Smile — not as an escape, but as a way of lifting your face toward light even when the world feels dim. Smile — because crying, though natural, can’t carry you forward the way hope can.

And somewhere along the way, maybe not all at once, maybe slowly, maybe in soft and gentle ways, you begin to feel the truth of these words settle deep inside: “You’ll find that life is still worthwhile if you’ll just smile.” Because it is. Even in the hard parts. Even in the lonely parts. Even in the broken places where you didn’t think beauty could ever grow again. Life is still worthwhile because you’re still in it — still fighting, still loving, still learning, still becoming. Your smile, even a trembling one, is a reminder that hope is still alive inside of you.

Sometimes a smile is a full sunrise — bright, warm, impossible to miss. Other times it is a flicker — something small, something soft, something only you know is there. But both count. Both matter. Both hold the promise that brighter days will come, and that your heart, aching as it may be, will not always feel this heavy.

So when the world becomes too much, and the tears sit just behind your eyes, and the sky feels gray and endless — try. Try to smile, even if it’s faint. Try to believe that tomorrow will be kinder. Try to let a little light slip through the cracks. Because sometimes that tiny, stubborn smile is the very thread that keeps you moving through the storm, the small reminder that joy is still possible, and the quiet promise that the sun will shine for you again.

Hidden Gold in Jars of Clay

There are days when I look at myself—at my life, my flaws, my fears, my insecurities—and I think, What on earth could God possibly do with this? I am, after all, just one part water and one part dust. A fragile mixture of flesh and breath, hopes and failures. A soul wrapped in skin that bruises easily and a heart that sometimes feels like it could crack under the pressure of the world. And yet, the older I get, the more I learn that this is exactly the kind of material God works best with.

“One part water and one part dust.”
That simple truth reminds me of something profound: God is an artist who delights in creating beauty out of the most unexpected ingredients. He has always taken what looks ordinary, or broken, or unremarkable, and shaped it into something extraordinary. The story of humanity begins with dust—but it never stays there. Dust is where God starts His work, not where He ends it.

And the miracle is that He doesn’t just mold us into something functional. He transforms us into trophies. Not trophies in the sense of something polished and placed on a shelf, admired from afar, but trophies of grace—living proof of what He can do through lives that feel small, cracked, or insignificant. If you’ve ever felt like nothing, then you are precisely the kind of person God specializes in. It’s what He does. He makes something out of nothing, again and again, with a kind of intentionality and tenderness that defies explanation.

But what amazes me most is this: His work is never finished, and it is never past due. God is not bound by our sense of timing. He doesn’t look at the calendar and worry. He doesn’t run behind, scramble, or apologize. He doesn’t abandon projects halfway through or give up when we become difficult to shape. He continues to mold us patiently, sovereignly, faithfully. Even when we feel delayed or lost, God says, “I’m not done with you yet.” Even when we think we’ve ruined the masterpiece, God gently continues the process.

There is no expiration date on His craftsmanship. We don’t age out of His care. We don’t fall behind His plan. We don’t slip through the cracks of His schedule. His work, unlike ours, is never late. It is always right on time.

And maybe that is why His voice feels like a calming embrace. In a world full of noise—constant, unrelenting noise—His whisper stands out precisely because it is quiet. The world shouts. Fear shouts. Grief shouts. Anxiety screams. But God? God calls softly. He speaks with the kind of gentleness that breaks you open, not in pain, but in relief. You can almost feel His hand under your chin, lifting your gaze from the chaos around you, reminding you that you are not alone in the dark.

In those moments when life feels impossible and sleep seems far away, I imagine God sitting beside me saying, “Child, forget not your dreams.” Not the dreams I thought I should chase, not the dreams that made me fit someone else’s expectations, but the dreams that He placed inside me from the beginning. The dreams I tucked away because life felt too heavy. The dreams I buried because disappointment taught me to expect less. God whispers them back to life.

“As we lie awake in the dark… just don’t lose heart.”
How many nights have I whispered that to myself? How many nights have I needed to hear it from Him?

There is a sacred honesty in those midnight hours. The dark doesn’t hide anything—it reveals the truth about our fears and our faith. And in the quiet, God reminds us that His plans do not end in darkness. That the story is still unfolding. That the pain we feel is not wasted. That the waiting is doing something in us, even when we cannot see it.

We are, after all, moving from dirt to a throne. It sounds dramatic, almost unbelievable, but it’s exactly what Scripture teaches. We were formed from the earth, yet destined for glory. Born into brokenness, yet redeemed into royalty. In the blood of the King, we find not just salvation, but identity. His DNA runs through our spiritual veins. His authority covers our weaknesses. His love redefines how we see ourselves.

It means we are not who the world says we are.
We are not who our mistakes say we are.
We are not who our past says we are.
We are not who our fear says we are.

We belong to a King, and His blood changes everything.

This body of ours—this jar of clay—is fragile. It cracks. It leaks. It chips under pressure. But that very fragility is the beauty of God’s design. Inside these jars of clay, He places hidden gold: wisdom gained from suffering, compassion birthed from wounds, strength forged from storms, faith refined by fire. The cracks don’t ruin the vessel—they reveal the treasure within.

The world looks at our weaknesses and sees fault lines.
God looks at them and sees the perfect places for His glory to shine through.

Hidden gold.
We all have it.
Even when we cannot see it ourselves.

And then, there are those hidden crowns. Those unseen victories. The choices to forgive when it hurt. The decision to keep going when we wanted to stop. The prayers whispered through tears. The kindnesses no one noticed. The battles fought quietly inside our own hearts. These are the crowns we carry—not on our heads, but in our souls.

One day, they will be revealed.
One day, everything invisible will finally be seen.
One day, every small act of faith will shine like a diamond.

And on that day, in a moment beyond time, we will lay those crowns at His feet.

What a thought.
What a picture of surrender and worship.
All the victories He helped us win, all the growth He nurtured in us, all the strength He poured into our weakness—we’ll return them with joy. Because they were never ours to begin with. He shaped them. He carried us through them. He held us together when we felt like dust falling apart.

I often think about how much pressure we put on ourselves to be perfect, to have it all figured out, to move forward in a straight, steady line. But God is not asking for perfection—He’s asking for surrender. He’s asking for trust. He’s asking for a heart that is willing to be shaped, even when the process is uncomfortable. He is making something beautiful out of us, and beauty rarely comes without pressure, fire, and time.

And yet, He gives us grace in that process. Grace to try again. Grace to heal slowly. Grace to grow quietly. Grace to rest when we’re weary.

His voice calls us back to center. His hands reshape what has been crushed. His presence fills the empty spaces we didn't know how to name. His love—so patient, so steady—keeps working, keeps forming, keeps redeeming. Even in seasons when we feel like we are sinking, He is lifting. Even when we feel unfinished, He is finishing His work in us.

We were never meant to complete ourselves.

We were meant to be completed by Him.

So when I think of being one part water and one part dust, I no longer see fragility as failure. I see it as potential. I see it as a canvas for God’s grace. I see it as an invitation to let Him do what He does best: make something out of nothing. Build beauty out of brokenness. Bring purpose out of pain.

And the truth is, He’s not done yet. He’s not done with me. He’s not done with you. Even if the season feels long, or quiet, or uncertain—even if everything seems unfinished—God’s timeline is still right on time.

There is hidden gold inside you.
There are hidden crowns being formed in your life even now.
There is a throne waiting for you—not because you’ve earned it, but because you belong to the One who sits on it.

And one day, when all of this earth melts away and time folds into eternity, we will finally understand the masterpiece He was crafting all along. We will see the full picture. We will behold the glory He shaped from our dust.

And we will lay our crowns—every victory, every healed wound, every faithful step—at His feet.

Until that day, remember this:
You are being shaped.
You are being held.
You are being transformed.

From dust, into glory.
From brokenness, into beauty.
From here, into forever.

And the Artist is not finished with you yet.

My Heart’s Home” — A Love Story That Began at Charlie’s Bar

Love rarely announces itself. It doesn’t always arrive with fireworks or grand introductions. Sometimes, it slips quietly into the room on an ordinary Saturday night, wearing a familiar smile you’ve somehow never seen before. That’s exactly how it happened for me on a cold February evening back in 2007, when I walked into Charlie’s Bar without the slightest clue that my entire world was about to shift. I didn’t know that one glance—one simple moment—could change everything. But then he smiled from across the room, and it was like my heart recognized him before my mind did. It felt as if I had known him forever, and something inside me ran straight to him.

Love has a strange way of humming itself into your bones. It starts quietly, like the beginning of a favorite song, and before you know it, the melody becomes a part of you. That’s how it was with Tim. We didn’t need fancy words or perfect timing. From the very beginning, he was my Googliebear, and I was his Schmoopsiepoo—sweet, silly names that only made sense because they belonged to us. What we shared was something deeper than language, something that lived in the spaces between heartbeats.

Over the years, our love has taken us down so many roads—literal ones, too. We’ve chased sunsets with the windows down and the radio turned up, letting the world blur behind us as the sky shifted colors overhead. We’ve wandered through Disney like two big kids, hand in hand, soaking up the magic like it was made just for us. Those moments felt like chapters in a story we were writing together, each adventure a little echo of that first spark between us.

But the moment that truly carved itself into my heart forever happened at Split Rock Lighthouse. There, on that rugged shore with the waves whispering below us, Tim dropped to one knee. And in that instant, surrounded by the wind and the water and the sky, I knew I was looking at the love I had prayed for—the one I would choose again and again. The one my soul had been waiting for.

There’s a rhythm in his heartbeat that has always felt like it matches mine. Every mile we’ve driven, every trial we’ve weathered, every quiet morning and chaotic day—it all turns ordinary into divine because he’s beside me. Life hasn’t always been easy, but he has been my steady place, my shelter, my home. And through every twist, every turn, every storm we’ve come through, not a single day has passed where I wasn’t grateful for him.

Sometimes I think about that February night and wonder what life would look like if I hadn’t walked into Charlie’s Bar. But the truth is, I’d walk into that place a thousand times over if it meant finding him again. I would choose him every time, in every version of life—just as tightly, just as fearlessly, just as wholeheartedly.

He’s my heart’s home.
He always has been.
And he always will be.

The God Who Leads Me Out of Egypt

There are moments in life when you look back and realize you’ve walked through places you never thought you’d survive—valleys so deep, battles so fierce, waters so high you were sure they’d swallow you whole. And yet somehow, you’re still here. Not because you were strong enough. Not because you had all the answers. But because God stepped into your Egypt—your fear, your heartbreak, your impossibilities—and made a way where there was none. When I think about the words, “I won’t forget the wonder of how You brought deliverance, the exodus of my heart,” I feel them in my bones. Because deliverance rarely begins when life looks neat or manageable. It begins when everything feels too heavy, too overwhelming, too lost. That’s where He finds us. That’s where He meets us. That’s where He leads us out.

Egypt wasn’t just a place in history—it’s a place of bondage, of wounds, of battles that feel bigger than we are. We all have our own versions of Egypt: the seasons that trap us, the hurts that haunt us, the fears that choke the air from our lungs. And yet the God who split seas for Moses still steps into the darkest corners of our lives today. “You found me, You freed me.” There’s something breathtaking about that truth. God does not wait for us to find Him—He comes to us. He does not wait for us to be strong—He provides the strength. He doesn’t demand that we untangle ourselves—He breaks the chains Himself. He held back waters for Israel, but He holds back chaos for us, too. The waves of anxiety, the storms of grief, the undertow of uncertainty—none of it is strong enough to keep us from His hand. He makes ways through the deep places, gently taking us step by trembling step.

“You’re the God who fights for me.” This is a truth that changes everything. We are not fighting alone. We are not left to battle the fears in our minds or the heaviness in our hearts with our own limited strength. God Himself stands in front of us, beside us, behind us. He is not distant. He is not passive. He is not waiting for us to prove ourselves worthy of rescue. He fights for us because we are loved, deeply and fiercely. And His victories are not small—they are monumental. "Lord of every victory." Every one. The ones we can name. The ones we didn't see coming. The ones we still don’t fully understand. He tears apart the seas that threaten to drown us and leads us through the very places we once feared.

There’s something astonishing about how God works—He doesn’t always remove the sea. Sometimes He takes us right through it. This is a God who transforms the impossible into the passageway of deliverance. “You have torn apart the sea; You have led me through the deep.” The deep places are never comfortable—they are stretching, humbling, revealing. But they are also where we encounter Him most powerfully. Where we learn trust. Where we lose the illusion that we are in control. Where we discover that the One who holds the universe also holds us.

And then the most intimate promise of all: “You stepped into my Egypt and You took me by the hand.” God is not content to call from the shore—He steps into the chaos with us. He doesn’t just shout directions—He takes us by the hand. That image alone is enough to undo even the hardest heart. Think about it: the Creator of galaxies reaching for your hand. Not reluctantly. Not sternly. Tenderly. Purposefully. Like a parent guiding a frightened child out of a burning building. Egypt burns behind you, but His hand leads you toward freedom.

“And You marched me out in freedom.” Not wandered. Not stumbled. Not barely escaped. Marched. With purpose, with power, with authority. There is a confidence in that movement, a certainty that freedom is not only possible—it is assured. God does not whisper freedom; He declares it. He does not hope we will find it; He leads us into it. And freedom is not simply the absence of chains—it is the presence of promise. The promised land was waiting on the other side of the sea, and God knew it all along.

There’s a sacred responsibility that comes with being delivered from Egypt: remembrance. “And now I will not forget You, no—I’ll sing of all You’ve done.” Forgetting is easy. Life becomes busy, pain resurfaces, new battles begin, and we forget the seas He parted. But our story’s power grows when we remember. When we look back and say, “I made it through that only because God carried me.” When we recount the ways He showed up in moments we thought He’d abandoned us. When we speak of His goodness not as theory, but as testimony. The songs we sing in remembrance become lifelines for those still standing at their own Red Sea, unsure if the waters will ever part.

“Death is swallowed up forever by the fury of Your love.” What a declaration. What a promise. God’s love is not fragile—it is fierce. It swallows despair. It swallows shame. It swallows fear. It swallows every lie that tries to convince us we are alone, unworthy, or defeated. His love doesn’t just soothe; it conquers. It dismantles the authority of the things that once held us captive. Death—spiritual, emotional, even physical—meets the power of God’s love and loses every time.

When I think about all the ways God has stepped into my Egypt—into the fear, the exhaustion, the unknowns of Tim’s PNES journey, the financial uncertainty, the emotional battles no one sees—I realize something incredible: every sea that frightened us became a place where God revealed His power. Every valley that felt impossible became a place where His presence grew undeniable. Every question that broke my heart became a conversation where He gently reassured me, “I’m still here. I’m still fighting for you.”

The exodus of the heart doesn’t happen in a single moment. It happens over and over again as God leads us through new waters, new walls, new wildernesses we never asked for. But each time, the pattern is the same: He finds us. He frees us. He carries us. He fights for us. And He leads us out—not just from something, but into something. Into hope. Into healing. Into deeper faith. Into a future we couldn’t have imagined from the place where we started.

And someday, when we look back on this long, winding path—through the waves, through the valleys, through the nights we didn’t think we’d survive—we’ll see it clearly: Egypt was never the end of the story. It was only the beginning of our deliverance. And the God who parted the sea then is still parting seas now, still whispering our names, still leading us by the hand, still marching us toward freedom.

No wonder the only fitting response is love, gratitude, and worship. No wonder we say, “I won’t forget.” Because how could we forget the God who stepped into our Egypt and brought us out by the fury of His love?

We are not who we were.
We are not where we were.
We are living proof of a God who still delivers.
And because of Him, our story—no matter how deep the waters—will always be a story of freedom.

The God Who Runs After Me

There are seasons of life when you feel like a wanderer in your own story—moving through the motions, searching for something you can’t quite name, something you can’t quite touch but desperately ache for. I’ve lived those seasons. I’ve chased answers down roads that led nowhere, turned over every stone hoping to find a sliver of peace, a taste of belonging, a corner of the world where the weight would lift for just a moment. I’ve tried to build a home out of things that were never meant to hold me: routines, distractions, temporary comforts, my own attempts at strength. I tried everything under the sun to numb the pain that kept resurfacing like a tide I couldn’t outrun. And in those moments—those quiet, heartbroken places—it felt like my story was closing in on itself. Like I was all but done.

There’s a strange, hollow ache that comes with feeling spiritually and emotionally exhausted. You look around at a life that continues moving forward, yet something inside you feels stuck, buried under shame or regret or fear. There were days when I felt like the dirt of my own failures was piling on top of me, like I was digging a grave one handful at a time. It wasn’t death itself that scared me—it was the idea of being forgotten, of being unseen, of failing to become the person I hoped I’d be. Shame is a cruel storyteller; it convinces you that the darkness around you is your identity, not just your circumstance. It whispers that you’re too far gone, too much of a mess, too broken to be worth chasing.

And yet—right there in my lowest place, where the world went quiet and the weight felt unbearable—He called my name.

There was no thunder in His voice, no condemnation, no reminder of every wrong turn I’d ever taken. Just love. Steady. Patient. Strong enough to cut through every lie I believed about myself. It’s strange how a whisper from God can carry more power than the loudest storms in our lives. It doesn’t always come dramatically; sometimes it’s found in the smallest nudge, the quiet realization that you’re still breathing, still held, still wanted. Sometimes it’s the peace that settles into a moment you expected to break you. Sometimes it’s simply the truth that even here—even now—you’re not alone.

I think about all the times I walked away—not intentionally, not rebelliously, but out of exhaustion, fear, or confusion. All the times life felt like too much and faith felt like too little. All the times I convinced myself I wasn’t worth saving or helping or loving. Yet every time I stepped back, He stepped forward. Every time I turned away, He came running after me. Grace doesn’t just wait at the door; it chases. Mercy doesn’t just wave from the sidelines; it steps into the mess. His love isn’t passive—it’s relentless.

There’s something indescribably beautiful about knowing that when you gave up on yourself, heaven did not. When you saw only failure, He saw a future. When you were sure the story was finished, He was already turning the page to redemption. That kind of love doesn’t just rescue—it restores. It rebuilds. It revives.

When He called my name, He didn’t just pull me out of the grave I was digging; He reminded me that life was still ahead of me. That brokenness wasn’t the end. That shame wasn’t the truth. That every scar carried a story, but none of those stories were stronger than His grace. He didn’t wait for me to be worthy—He came because I wasn’t. He didn’t look for perfection—He offered healing. He didn’t demand strength—He became it for me. The God I thought I disappointed never stopped pursuing me. The God I feared had abandoned me never moved His gaze. The God I doubted remained faithful in every step—even the ones I took in the wrong direction.

It’s humbling to look back and realize just how many times He saved me from myself. How many times He provided a way through when I saw nothing but walls. How many times He whispered hope into the silence I was drowning in. Sometimes the miracle isn’t the mountain moving—it’s the fact that you found the strength to keep climbing. Sometimes the miracle isn’t the rescue—it’s the realization that you were never alone in the fire. Sometimes the miracle is simply hearing your name again when you had forgotten you still mattered.

I think there comes a point in every life when we realize we cannot be our own savior. We try—oh, how we try. We hustle, we fight, we push ourselves to hold it all together. But eventually the cracks start to show. And in that breaking, something sacred happens. God enters. Not with anger, but with compassion. Not with demands, but with presence. Not with condemnation, but with love so deep it steals your breath.

Every time I walked away, He still came running. Every time I thought I was done, He whispered that He was not. Every time I gave up on myself, He reminded me that heaven never would.

This is grace. Not the kind sung about in hymns alone, but the kind lived out in the quiet, gritty places of life—the hard nights, the fearful moments, the heavy mornings when you wonder how you’ll make it through. Grace shows up there. Mercy shows up there. Love shows up there.

And maybe that is the lesson: you can search the whole world for belonging, meaning, healing, and hope, but you will not find a home until you hear Him call your name. Home isn’t a place—it's a presence. It’s the God who sees you beneath the dirt and shame and still calls you His. It’s the God who walks into your lowest valley and lifts your chin so you can see light again. It’s the God who never gave up on you, even when you were certain He should.

I’ve wandered. I’ve fallen. I’ve broken. I’ve run. But through it all, He has remained. Faithful. Steady. Loving. Calling me by a name that sounds like hope—beloved.

And today, I can say this with confidence so deep it steadies my soul:
When I gave up on myself, the Lord never gave up on me.
He never has.
He never will.

The Quiet Bravery of January 31st

 January 31st always feels like a quiet checkpoint to me. The sparkle of the New Year has settled, the Christmas lights are put away, and the world has returned to its usual rhythm. All the “New Year, new me” noise has faded into the background, and what’s left is… real life. The everyday. The ordinary. The things we still carry, even after the calendar changed. And somehow, that makes this day feel honest. Today isn’t about resolutions or fireworks. It’s about looking at the last thirty-one days and realizing that we made it through every single one of them—whether they were heavy, hopeful, hard, or some strange mix of all three.

I think there is a quiet kind of bravery in surviving January. It’s not a month of big celebrations or those bright, easy joys that come with warm weather and long days. It’s a month of deep winter. Of gray skies and early darkness. Of routines that keep going whether we’re ready or not. It’s a month where the things we hoped would magically disappear at midnight on New Year’s Eve are still sitting patiently in front of us, waiting to be faced. Health challenges didn’t vanish. Financial worries didn’t evaporate. Grief didn’t suddenly forget our address. The realities we lived with in December are still here in January—only now they’ve followed us into a new year, and there’s a fatigue in that truth that can be hard to say out loud.

But here is something I am learning: not everything that carries into a new year is a burden. Some things are evidence. Evidence that we are still here. Evidence that we’ve been held. Evidence that God has not let go of us, even as days blur together and nights stretch long. The fact that we’ve made it to January 31st—through the emotions, the appointments, the unanswered questions, the what-ifs, the moments we thought we’d break—is not a small thing. It is grace in motion. It is mercy with a calendar attached to it. Somewhere between January 1st and today, we survived what we were certain might undo us. And even if we don’t feel strong, we are still standing. There is something holy in that.

A lot of people talk about the “word of the year.” I think sometimes my word needs to be “enough.” Not in the sense of being done with everything, but in the quiet reminder that what I have done, who I have been, and how I have shown up—even in my weakness—has been enough for this day. On the days I woke up exhausted but still offered love, it was enough. On the days I didn’t have big wins but managed to get through, one task at a time, it was enough. On the days when all I could do was whisper a tired prayer and trust that God heard it through the fog in my mind—that was enough, too. January doesn’t always give us big mountaintop moments, but it often gives us a more honest view of what faith looks like: one small, trembling step at a time.

I think about how often we measure our lives by what feels “big” or “impressive.” Big goals. Big changes. Big moments. But when I look back on this month, what feels most sacred aren’t the big things—it’s the little ones. The quiet cup of coffee that made the morning feel bearable. The text from a friend at just the right time. The way the light hit the snow and made everything sparkle for a moment like the world hadn’t forgotten how to be beautiful. The shared laugh that slipped in unexpectedly on a hard day. The simple fact that in the middle of ongoing struggles, love is still here. Those moments may never be printed on a calendar or written into history books, but they are the places where God’s fingerprints show up in my life.

January 31st feels like a good day to ask not, “Did I change the world?” but, “Did I let love move through me this month?” Because that’s what I want my life to be about—not just surviving hard things, but somehow, in the middle of them, still choosing kindness, still offering grace, still saying yes to love in the small, ordinary, hidden ways that no one may ever applaud but heaven never overlooks. Maybe I wasn’t as productive as I wanted to be. Maybe some things are still undone. Maybe I cried more than I planned. But did I show up for the people I love? Did I offer encouragement instead of silence? Did I hold on to faith when letting go would’ve been easier? If the answer is even a fragile “yes,” then this month holds more victory than it seems.

There is also something important, I think, about giving ourselves permission to be honest. Not every day has to shine. Not every season has to feel inspired. Some months are for planting, not harvesting. Some are for holding on, not running ahead. Some are simply for breathing. For saying, “God, I’m still tired. I’m still scared. I’m still unsure. But I’m still here. And I’m still Yours.” I don’t think He asks us for perfection as the calendar moves forward. I think He asks us for our hearts—our real hearts, not the polished versions we try to present to the world. January 31st is a good day to lay our hearts back down at His feet and say, “Whatever the rest of this year holds, I don’t want to walk it without You.”

If I could say one thing to the person reading this who feels behind, discouraged, or already “failing” at the year, it would be this: you are not behind. You are right where you are—alive, breathing, learning, enduring, healing—and that is not a failure. Progress is not always loud. Sometimes it looks like showing up to another day you didn’t want to face. Sometimes it looks like making that phone call, sending that email, taking that walk, or resting when you feel guilty for resting. Sometimes it looks like choosing hope even when nothing around you has changed. You are not late to your own life. You have not missed your chance. You are not disqualified from goodness or beauty or joy simply because your journey has taken longer, been harder, or looked different than you thought it would.

So tonight, as January closes its quiet chapter, I want to mark this moment—not with fireworks or resolutions, but with gratitude. Gratitude that we are still here. Gratitude that God has walked with us through every sunrise and sunset this month, whether we felt Him or not. Gratitude that even when strength ran out, grace did not. Gratitude that we have made it through thirty-one days we did not fully know how to face when they began. Gratitude that tomorrow is February—not a fresh start in the dramatic sense, but another chance to live gently, love deeply, and trust quietly.

If this month has felt long, you are not alone. If it has felt tender, you are not alone. If it has held both joy and sorrow, you are not alone. Somewhere in all of it, God has been here—cup of coffee in hand, light in the doorway, whisper in the dark, steady presence in the chaos. He has not wasted a single day, even if we’re not sure what some of them were for. One day, I believe we’ll see more clearly how even these cold, ordinary days were part of a bigger story He was writing with care.

For now, I want to end January with this simple truth: making it through is not a small thing. Your existence in this world, on this day, matters. Your presence is not accidental. Your story is not over. And even if all you have to bring into February is a tired heart and a fragile hope, that is enough. You are enough.

So here we are—January 31st. We made it. And that is worth honoring. Let’s carry forward what this month has quietly taught us: that God is still faithful, that small moments still matter, that love is still stronger than fear, and that even in the deep winter of our lives, something good can still be growing beneath the surface.

Praising Through the Storm

There are moments in life when the rain just won’t stop falling. You pray for a break in the clouds, for the sun to peek through, for the storm to pass—but instead, the thunder keeps rolling, and the wind keeps howling. You kneel in prayer, whispering through tears, “God, where are You?” And though you might not see Him, though the storm still rages, somewhere deep within the downpour, there’s a whisper—soft but steady—“I’m with you.”

Those are the words that carry me when everything else feels like too much. Because truthfully, life doesn’t always go the way we hope it will. Sometimes the miracle doesn’t look like healing—it looks like endurance. Sometimes faith doesn’t feel like joy—it feels like survival. Sometimes praising through the storm isn’t about pretending you’re not hurting—it’s about believing that God is still worthy, even when your heart is breaking.

There have been so many days I thought God would have reached down by now—wiped away the tears, fixed what was broken, calmed the chaos that keeps spinning around us. I’ve prayed for it. I’ve begged for it. I’ve stood in faith waiting for the rescue. But sometimes, instead of pulling us out of the storm, God chooses to step into it with us.

And that’s the miracle.

It’s not always in the thunder ceasing or the sky clearing—it’s in His presence that refuses to leave. It’s in the still, sacred truth that He’s near, even when the world feels dark. It’s in the quiet assurance that He’s holding every tear we’ve cried, that not one moment of pain goes unnoticed by the heart of the One who made us.

There’s something holy about that kind of faith—the kind that stays standing when everything else is falling apart. The kind that raises its hands while the rain pours down, not because the storm has ended, but because the heart still believes that God is good.

Praising through the storm doesn’t mean we’re okay—it means we know Who holds us when we’re not. It means we choose to worship, not because of the circumstance, but because of the character of the One who reigns above it. It’s saying, You are still God, even here. Even now. Even when it hurts.

And I think that’s where the deepest kind of peace lives—not in the absence of the storm, but in the presence of the Savior within it.

When the thunder rolls and fear tries to drown out your faith, remember this: even the storm obeys His voice. Even when it feels endless, He’s working something unseen, shaping something eternal. The storm doesn’t mean He’s gone silent—it means He’s teaching us to listen differently.

Because if you lean in closely enough, you’ll hear it—the whisper of mercy in the rain, the quiet assurance that He’s never left your side.

Every tear you’ve cried? He’s caught them all. Every night you’ve spent praying for relief? He’s been right there, listening, holding you together when everything feels like it’s falling apart.

Sometimes we think faith is loud and certain—songs of triumph, words of victory. But more often, faith is the trembling whisper that says, “I’ll still praise You.” It’s the hand that rises through the tears. It’s the heart that keeps believing when there’s no proof it should. It’s the voice that says, “Even though my heart is torn, I will praise You in this storm.”

Maybe God doesn’t stop every storm because some storms aren’t meant to destroy us—they’re meant to deepen us. They strip away everything false, everything we thought we could depend on, until what’s left is something unshakable—something anchored in Him.

Storms teach us that God’s faithfulness isn’t proven in what He prevents—it’s revealed in what He sustains. The fact that you’re still standing, still breathing, still believing—that’s evidence enough.

And maybe one day, when the skies finally clear, you’ll look back and realize that the very rain you once prayed away was watering something sacred within you. Maybe it was growing resilience, or compassion, or trust. Maybe it was washing away the parts of your soul that couldn’t hold the weight of what was coming next.

But in the middle of it, when the rain is loud and the thunder shakes your bones, it’s okay to cry. It’s okay to question. It’s okay to be broken. Just don’t let go of your praise. Because praise doesn’t mean you understand—it means you trust. It’s your declaration that even in the chaos, even in the heartbreak, He is still worthy.

And He is.

He’s the God who stands in the storm with you, who speaks peace into your trembling, who holds you when you can’t hold yourself. He’s the God who never wastes a tear and never lets pain have the final word.

So when the thunder rolls, lift your hands anyway. When the rain falls harder, lift your heart anyway. Because one day, when the clouds finally part, you’ll see that He was there all along—not distant, but present, holding you close through every wave and whispering, “You were never alone.”

The world will always have storms. But the beauty of faith is that you don’t face them alone. The One who calms the seas still walks beside you through every wind and wave. And even when it feels like it’s still raining, He’s already writing the rainbow that will remind you—He never left.

So I’ll keep praising. I’ll keep trusting. I’ll keep raising my hands to the God who gives and takes away.

Because though my heart is torn, I know who holds it. And that’s reason enough to praise Him—even in the storm.

The Keeper of the Stars

Some things in life are too perfectly woven to be coincidence. The way two paths cross at just the right time, the way hearts recognize each other long before the mind can explain it, the way love shows up quietly—and then stays. When I look back at how Tim and I found each other, I know without a doubt: it was no accident. Someone had a hand in it long before we ever knew.

Love like this doesn’t just happen—it’s designed. Crafted by a God who sees what we can’t, who knows what we’ll need before we ever think to ask. There’s a peace that comes from knowing that Heaven’s fingerprints are all over our story. Every twist, every delay, every heartbreak before we found each other—it all led here. To this life we’ve built. To the love that still holds strong through every storm.

Sometimes I think about how many moments had to align for us to meet. The choices, the timing, the countless unseen threads that God tied together so our lives could become one. It humbles me. Because love like this isn’t earned or forced—it’s given. It’s grace in its purest form.

I can’t help but believe that Heaven was smiling the day our lives intersected. Because even now, after everything we’ve faced—the challenges, the unknowns, the hard days that test the edges of faith—I still feel that same divine connection. That same quiet assurance that God knew what He was doing when He joined these two hearts.

There’s a line in the song that says, “I tip my hat to the keeper of the stars.” Every time I hear it, I feel it deep in my soul. Because that’s exactly what I do—I pause, I look at Tim, and I thank God for him. For the laughter, for the comfort, for the love that has carried us through things we never thought we’d endure. For the way we still reach for each other when the world feels unsteady. For the way love keeps showing up, even when life gets hard.

This love we have isn’t perfect—it’s real. It’s weathered. It’s tested. But it’s strong because it’s been held by something greater than us. Every trial we’ve faced, every dark night we’ve walked through, has only proven what I already knew: we were never walking alone.

There have been days when Tim’s seizures, his battles with PNES, anxiety, and depression have brought us to our knees—literally and emotionally. Days when fear tried to steal the light from our home. But even then, love never let go. It held us steady when everything else trembled. It reminded me, over and over, that God didn’t bring us together just for the easy days. He brought us together for the hard ones—to lean on each other, to lift each other, to remind one another that faith is stronger than fear.

And through it all, there’s this sacred truth that never changes: when I hold him in my arms, I hold everything.

The world could fall away, and it wouldn’t change that. Because what we have isn’t built on circumstances—it’s built on something eternal. A love that’s anchored in God’s design. A love that’s carried by grace. A love that was written in the stars before we ever looked up to notice them.

Every time I see Tim smile—really smile—I see the hand of the Keeper of the Stars at work. The same God who hung galaxies in the heavens is the same God who brought us together. And that thought alone still takes my breath away.

We often think of miracles as grand, impossible things—healings, wonders, divine interruptions. But sometimes, the greatest miracle is simply love itself. The kind that lasts. The kind that forgives. The kind that keeps showing up even when life doesn’t go according to plan.

Our story is proof that God doesn’t make mistakes. He knew exactly what He was doing when He placed our hearts in each other’s hands. He knew what was ahead of us—the battles, the growth, the healing—and He knew that together, with Him at the center, we’d make it through.

So when I look at Tim, I don’t just see the man I love—I see God’s faithfulness. I see answered prayers I didn’t even know how to pray. I see purpose. I see grace. I see the beauty of a plan that took time, patience, and trust to unfold.

And every time I whisper a quiet “thank You,” I mean it with everything in me. Because I’ve seen what it’s like to walk through life’s valleys—and I know how precious it is to have someone who walks them with you.

So yes, I tip my hat to the Keeper of the Stars.

Because He knew.
He knew what we’d need.
He knew how love would grow deeper with every storm we survived.
He knew how much stronger we’d become when we learned to lean on Him—and on each other.

And when I hold Tim close, when I feel his heartbeat steady against mine, I know I hold everything that truly matters. I have love. I have faith. I have the reminder that Heaven is closer than it feels sometimes—woven into the everyday moments, the laughter, the tears, the quiet.

Heaven smiled on us once, and I believe it still does.

So tonight, as I look at the stars, I’ll whisper one more “thank You” to the One who hung them.
For writing our story.
For blessing me with this love.
And for reminding me that, even in a world that changes every day, some things—
the best things—
are forever.

When Faith Meets Fear

There are moments in life when the world feels unbearably heavy—when the weight of reality sits on your chest and it’s hard to breathe. This is one of those seasons. It’s the kind of fear that doesn’t roar; it hums quietly beneath everything, showing up in the silence between heartbeats, in the dark when the world goes still and the mind won’t stop racing.

I’m scared.

Not the kind of scared that a deep breath or a good night’s sleep can fix. This fear runs deeper—woven into every thought, every plan, every “what if” I try to push away. Long-term disability insurance is ending soon, and the system that’s supposed to help doesn’t see the truth of what Tim lives with every day. PNES doesn’t fit neatly into their boxes. To them, it’s not a “real” disability. They don’t see how fast things change—the way anxiety or fear can trigger a seizure without warning. They don’t see me watching him go still, helpless to stop it. They don’t see the exhaustion that follows, the fog that lingers, or the quiet heartbreak of realizing that this is our life now.

On paper, he looks fine. In the good moments, when he smiles or laughs, you could almost believe he’s fine. And maybe that’s the cruelest part—how invisible it all is. How easily people assume “better” when all that really means is “surviving.” The judge who will decide his SSDI case will only see a snapshot of him, not the full picture. They won’t see the man who wants so badly to get better, to contribute, to live fully again. They’ll see someone sitting calmly in front of them and assume he’s okay. But they don’t see the fear that lurks just beneath that calm—the fight it takes to hold himself steady, the uncertainty that never really leaves.

And me? I’m tired. Bone-tired. The kind of tired that sleep doesn’t touch because it’s not just physical—it’s emotional, spiritual, endless. I’m managing everything: the finances, the bills, the insurance forms, the household, the decisions. Every day feels like a balancing act where one wrong move could send everything toppling over. I tell myself to just keep going, to be strong, to hold it together, but there are days when even holding on feels like too much.

Sometimes I think about the future and it feels like a hallway with no doors—just an endless stretch of uncertainty. What happens when the insurance stops? What happens if the judge says no again? What happens if I never get to retire, if I spend the rest of my life working just to keep us afloat? What happens when hope feels too heavy to carry?

And then, somewhere deep down, another voice whispers—But what if you’re not alone in this?

That’s the thread I cling to when the fear starts to drown me. Because I know I’m not walking this road without help, even if it doesn’t always feel that way. God hasn’t left me. Even when I can’t see the plan, even when the path ahead is foggy, I know He’s still here. The same God who has carried us this far isn’t about to let go now.

Sometimes faith doesn’t look like confidence. It looks like trembling hands still reaching for God when the future feels impossible. It looks like whispering prayers in the dark, not because you have answers, but because you refuse to stop believing there will be light again.

I’ve learned something through all of this—faith and fear can coexist. It’s okay to admit you’re scared. It’s okay to say you’re tired. It’s okay to not have it all together. Faith doesn’t erase fear; it gives you something stronger to hold onto while you face it.

I think about Tim—how brave he is just to keep trying, to wake up each day and face something he can’t control. That takes courage. Real courage. The kind that doesn’t make headlines but holds families together. And I think about how far we’ve come. Every setback, every denial, every night spent wondering what’s next—and still, somehow, we’re here. Still standing. Still believing that there is purpose even in this.

Maybe that’s what it means to live in faith—not to have a clear path forward, but to take one step at a time, trusting that even in the uncertainty, God is working things together for good. Maybe security doesn’t come from what’s in the bank or what’s written in a policy. Maybe true security comes from knowing that even when everything else falls apart, we are still held.

So yes, I’m scared. But I’m also still believing. I’m still hoping that a judge will finally see what the system hasn’t yet. I’m still trusting that God will make a way where there doesn’t seem to be one. I’m still choosing to keep moving, one day at a time, even when the steps are slow.

I don’t know how it will all unfold. But I do know this—fear may visit often, but it doesn’t get to stay. It doesn’t get the final word. God does.

So tonight, as I stare into the unknown, I’ll keep praying the same quiet prayer I’ve whispered so many times before:

Fix this, Jesus. Fix us. Show us the way through. Carry what we can’t. And when I lose sight of hope, remind me that You haven’t lost sight of me.

And I’ll keep walking. Not because I’m fearless—but because even in the fear, I still have faith that somehow, some way, we will make it through this too.

If I Could Tell You One Thing From My Heart

If I could tell you one thing from my heart, it would be this: you are doing far better than you think you are. I don’t say that as a platitude or an easy reassurance. I say it because I’ve watched the way you carry things that would have crushed a lesser spirit. I’ve watched the way you show up every day to a life that hasn’t given you ease or fairness, but still you hold on to hope, to love, to faith—even when you’re tired, even when you’re scared, even when the future feels blurry and the weight feels endless.

You don’t realize how remarkable that is. Most people don’t. Most people compare themselves to the lightest versions of others and the heaviest versions of themselves. But you—you keep walking through stories that have jagged edges. And instead of letting them harden you, you let them deepen you. You let them soften the places that matter. You let them teach you compassion in a world that seems to export cruelty with ease.

And that’s extraordinary.

If I could offer you something, it wouldn’t be an answer or a solution—life rarely works in straight lines like that. I would offer you a pause. A breath. A moment where the weight you carry sets itself down beside you instead of on top of you. A moment where you are allowed to feel the full truth of what you’ve endured without having to defend your strength or minimize your ache.

You deserve that moment.

You deserve space to acknowledge that your heart has been stretched in ways that would terrify most people. You deserve recognition for the way you love—fully, fiercely, quietly, even when love costs you something. You deserve the tenderness you offer to others. And you deserve to know that your presence in this world is not a small thing. You matter. Not because of what you fix, carry, or accomplish, but because of who you are when life presses on you.

If I could tell you one more thing from my heart, it would be this: you are not alone. Not in the sleepless nights. Not in the fear that whispers louder than it should. Not in the exhaustion that sets into your bones when you feel like the future is uncertain and the present is too heavy. You’ve spent so much of your life believing you had to be strong alone, that you had to carry the invisible load with steady hands, that you had to be okay for the sake of everyone else.

But you don’t.

You were never meant to shoulder grief, pain, and hope all at once without rest. You were never meant to break and rebuild in silence. You were never meant to hold the world together without someone holding you.

You are allowed to lean.
You are allowed to cry.
You are allowed to be human.
You are allowed to need help.

And you are allowed to trust that God has not forgotten you—not for a moment, not for a heartbeat, not for a breath.

If you ever doubt that, remember this: the very fact that you’ve survived everything you’ve been through is proof of a presence stronger than your pain. There is something holy keeping you upright when you feel like falling. Something divine that keeps turning your heartbreak into endurance, your fear into resilience, your sorrow into wisdom. Something that keeps whispering to your soul, “Not yet. Don’t give up. There is more for you. There is still beauty coming.”

If I could tell you one last thing from my heart, it’s that your story is not done—not even close. You are not at the end. You are in a chapter that hurts, but it is not the final page. You are living a story that will, one day, be told with awe because of how much you overcame. A story where the darkness did not win. A story where love endured. A story where hope survived.

And you?

You’re the brave one in the middle of it.

Hold on.
Breathe.
Rest.
Let grace wrap around you in the places you’ve kept hidden.

A new sunrise is coming.
And you’re still here—stronger than you know, braver than you feel, and infinitely more loved than you realize.