Daily Reflection – Lifting My Love to You, Lord

Lord, I lift my husband to You.
Each morning begins with hope laced in exhaustion—the quiet prayer before the sun breaks through the blinds, the whisper under my breath as he sleeps beside me, finally resting after another long night of mental storms and trembling stillness. I’ve done everything I know to do. I’ve learned what I can, asked the questions, wiped away tears, held him through seizures, and held my breath through silence. But still, I lift him to You.

This journey has not been linear. PNES is an invisible monster. It wraps itself around him, distorting his mind, shaking his body, and stealing the moments that should be calm, joyful, ordinary. Complicated circumstances cloud his view—years of darkness before diagnoses, guilt where there should be none, trauma he never deserved. Sometimes, even now, his eyes look out past me, caught somewhere deep within a memory that still has claws.

And Lord, in those moments, I freeze. I fear I won’t have the words he needs to hear. I fear I’ll say too much—or not enough. I fear that I’m not enough. And yet, I keep showing up, praying quietly as I sit beside him on the floor, as I wait for his mind to return fully to the room, as I hold his hand through each storm. Lord, I pray for wisdom. Not the kind that fixes everything, but the kind that brings peace. The kind that softens my voice, steadies my hands, and keeps my own heart from crumbling when his body does.

This isn’t just a friend I lift to You, Lord. This is my best friend. My partner. My love. My safe place. And I know, even on the days when I feel like I’m failing, that he means even more to You. More than I can imagine. When I am worn thin, You see him whole. When I see his struggle, You see his strength. When I fear the future, You see the purpose in each moment of the fight.

I want so badly to take this away from him—to trade places, to silence the tremors, to rewrite the history that haunts his nervous system. But Lord, I know… this is something he has to do. His healing is his own. I cannot carry him through it, but I can walk beside him. And so, with hands open and heart trembling, I lift my husband up to You.

Strengthen him, Lord. Wrap Your arms around him when mine can’t reach. Speak to him in the silence between seizures. Remind him that he is not broken—he is becoming. That healing isn’t a straight path, but a sacred one. That his life, even now, has power.

And for me, Lord, grant the grace to keep standing beside him without growing bitter. Fill my cup so that I can pour without running dry. Let me love him well in the moments that feel too heavy. Let me be light where the shadows linger.

This battle is not over—but neither is his story.
So today, and again tomorrow, I lift my husband to You.