Take It To Jesus

There are moments in life when words simply don’t come. When the weight of sorrow is so heavy, when the ache is so deep, when the confusion is so thick, that nothing I could possibly say would be enough. That’s how I’ve felt so many times walking through this season with my husband. Watching him collapse in seizures I cannot stop. Watching depression press down on him like a shadow that won’t lift. Watching joy fade from his eyes. And knowing that no matter how deeply I love him, no matter how much I want to carry this for him, I can’t.

What do you say in moments like that? How do you find words when your heart is breaking? How do you explain pain that doesn’t make sense, pain that no answer could truly resolve?

The truth is, sometimes there are no words.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s okay.

Because there is a place where words are not required. A place where our tears are prayers, where our silence is heard, where our brokenness doesn’t need to be polished or packaged to be received. That place is the presence of Jesus.

When I don’t know what to say, when I don’t know what to pray, I can still take it to Him. The grief. The fear. The confusion. The anger. The questions that swirl in my mind at night. The tears that fall without permission. The hope that flickers between belief and despair. All of it—He welcomes it. He is not repelled by my rawness. He is not offended by my honesty. He is not weary of my repetition when I cry out again and again for the same breakthrough, the same healing, the same miracle. He hears me before I can even form the words.

And He says, Bring it to Me.

There’s something comforting in knowing I don’t have to figure it out before I can bring it to Jesus. I don’t have to have the right words, the right prayers, the right faith. I just need to come. To pack up all my broken and bleeding pieces, all my grief and doubt, and lay them down at His feet. He is strong enough to carry what I cannot.

I’ve realized that in seasons of deep pain, we don’t just need answers—we need presence. We need a place to go when the questions have no answers. And the place to go is always Him. He is the refuge for the weary. The healer for the brokenhearted. The anchor for the soul in the storm. He does not promise a life free of suffering, but He does promise to never leave us in it. He doesn’t always calm the storm around us, but He does calm the storm within us.

So often I want resolution. I want healing today. I want the seizures to stop, the depression to lift, the weight to be gone. And I pray for those things daily. But while I wait, He gives me Himself. And somehow, His presence is enough to hold me.

There are times when my husband’s pain feels like too much to watch. When I sit beside him and wonder if we will ever find light again. When I long for answers, and the silence feels unbearable. In those moments, I whisper in my own heart: Take it to Jesus. Because I know there is no place else where I will find true rest. No place else where I will be fully seen and fully known in my sorrow.

Taking it to Jesus doesn’t mean pretending the pain doesn’t exist. It doesn’t mean plastering on a smile and saying “it’s fine” when it isn’t. It means carrying my honest, unedited heart to Him and trusting that He can handle it. It means leaning into His love even when I don’t understand His plan. It means resting in the truth that He is good, even when life is not.

Jesus Himself knows what it is to weep. He knows what it is to be pressed by sorrow, to carry anguish so deep it feels like it might crush the soul. He is not a distant God who looks at my suffering from afar; He is a Savior who stepped into suffering Himself, who carried my griefs and bore my sorrows. That’s why I can trust Him with mine.

When my mind won’t stop racing, when the tears won’t stop falling, when fear won’t loosen its grip, I remind myself: I don’t have to explain this to Him. He already knows. And somehow, that makes it easier to breathe.

I think sometimes we put pressure on ourselves to hold it together for everyone else. To be strong, to be composed, to be hopeful, to keep pressing forward no matter what. But Jesus never asked me to be strong for Him. He asked me to come to Him—weak, weary, broken, burdened—and He promised He would give rest.

So that is what I do. Some days with trembling faith, some days with no words at all, some days with only tears. But still, I come.

Because in His presence, I find a peace that doesn’t erase the storm but steadies me through it. In His presence, I find comfort that goes deeper than explanations. In His presence, I remember I am not alone, not abandoned, not unseen.

I don’t know when the storm will end. I don’t know how healing will come. I don’t know what tomorrow will bring. But I do know this: I have a place to go with my pain, my questions, my exhaustion, and my grief.

I can take it to Jesus.

And that makes all the difference.

The Hope in the Falling Leaves

There is something sacred about the season of fall. The air shifts, carrying with it the scent of earth and woodsmoke. Mornings grow cooler, evenings come sooner, and the world feels as though it is slowing down just enough for us to notice its quiet beauty. The trees, once clothed in summer’s steady green, now burst into a final symphony of color—crimson, gold, amber, and rust—painting the horizon with fire before the long rest of winter. It is not a fading away, but a crescendo. A reminder that the end of a season can hold as much glory as its beginning.

When I walk beneath branches heavy with color, my soul cannot help but feel hope. Each leaf that turns and drifts to the ground tells a story: change is not the end, but a passage into something new. The trees do not fight the season; they release, they let go, and in that surrender, they become radiant. It is a gentle lesson for my heart—sometimes the most beautiful moments come when I stop clinging and learn to trust what God is unfolding.

Fall shows us that life is not only found in the flourishing of summer, but also in the letting go. The leaves, once vibrant with growth, now blaze with a beauty they never held before. They fall to the earth in a quiet surrender, covering the ground like a soft blanket, preparing the way for rest, for renewal, for what will bloom again in spring. It is a reminder that there is purpose even in endings, that God’s hand is in both the rising and the fading, both the beginning and the release.

This season whispers to my soul that change is not something to fear. Too often, I resist it. I hold on tightly to what was familiar, afraid of what the next chapter might bring. Yet as I watch the leaves fall, I am reminded that letting go makes room for what God is planting in the unseen. Just as the trees stand steady and tall through the long winter, my life too can endure seasons of waiting and stillness, knowing that spring will surely come again.

Hope is found here—in the bright blaze of color, in the gentle fall of leaves, in the promise that nothing is wasted. Even as creation prepares to sleep, God is at work. Beneath the surface, roots deepen. The soil gathers strength. What looks like loss is really preparation for life. So it is with me. Even when I walk through seasons of change and uncertainty, I can trust that God is writing beauty into my story, weaving purpose into every transition.

Fall teaches me to see endings differently. It shows me that change is not a mark of failure but of growth, that release is not emptiness but space for God to move. It reminds me that hope is not tied to what I can hold onto, but to the One who holds every season in His hands. Just as surely as the trees will bloom again, so too will He bring new life to the places in me that feel barren and bare.

So I lift my eyes to the canopy of color above me, and I let hope rise within. If God can turn the simple act of leaves falling into a radiant display of glory, then surely He can take the changes in my own life and make them beautiful. Surely, He can bring purpose to the letting go. And surely, just as the earth rests and rises again, He will renew me in His time.

Through It All Love Remains

I often find myself thinking back on my parents, who passed from this world some years ago. Even though time has carried me forward, their absence still feels tender, like a part of me longs for just one more conversation, one more hug, one more chance to say thank you. Grief never fully disappears—it softens, it changes shape, but it never really leaves. And yet, as I reflect on their lives and the love I witnessed between them, I realize something beautiful: love outlasts death. Love remains.

We come into this world fragile and dependent, children of God on our way, and from the very beginning we are surrounded by love that protects, nurtures, and teaches us how to live. I think of my mama’s smile—the kind of smile that warmed the room and made me feel safe. I think of my daddy’s tears of pride, the weight of love in his eyes that showed me what it means to care deeply. They were not perfect, but they lived with a faithfulness that marked me for life.

They protected me when I was young, held me when I was afraid, guided me when I was uncertain. Their love was the first reflection I ever saw of God’s love—steady, sacrificial, enduring. And now that they are gone, that love still lives in me, shaping how I see the world and how I love others.

I think of the seasons of their lives together—the sweat and the sacrifice it took to build a home, the tears they shared when life was hard, the laughter and joy that kept them going. They raised me in the everyday rhythm of faithfulness. And though I didn’t always see it clearly then, I see it now: through it all, love remained. It wasn’t fleeting. It wasn’t conditional. It was a constant, an anchor in the storms of life.

Now, as I stand in my own marriage—walking with my husband through challenges neither of us expected, carrying burdens that sometimes feel too heavy—I understand their example in a deeper way. I see how love is not about everything being easy. It is about choosing to stand side by side through pain, through joy, through uncertainty. It is about remaining faithful even when life turns out differently than you imagined. It is about looking at one another in the middle of the storm and saying, I will not let go.

That is what I saw in my parents, and that is what I carry into my own life today. Their legacy is not in possessions, or accomplishments, or even words—it is in the enduring truth that love remains.

Kingdoms rise and fall. Life changes in an instant. The future becomes the past faster than we realize. But love—true love—does not disappear with time. It is eternal, because it comes from God Himself, who is love. The same love that held my parents together, the same love that carried them through their own storms, is the love that now carries me.

Sometimes I wonder how I would survive this world without love. Without the love I was given as a child. Without the love I cling to in my marriage today. Without the love of my Savior, who walks with me in every valley. And the truth is, I couldn’t. Love is the thread that holds everything together, even when life feels like it is unraveling.

We all live, and we all die. There is no escaping that reality. But as I think about my parents, I am reminded that death is not the end. The end is not good-bye. Because love is stronger than death. Hope lives on. The flame of their love, the flame of God’s love, still burns in me, still shapes me, still gives me strength to keep walking forward.

I see it in the way I fight for my marriage. I see it in the way I hold on through the storms. I see it in the way I believe that healing is still possible, even when the road is long. I see it in the way I try to love others faithfully, just as I was loved.

And so, when I think of my parents now, I grieve, yes. I miss them with a longing that words cannot describe. But I also give thanks. Because the impact of their love is still here. It did not fade with their passing. It lives in me. It lives in the choices I make. It lives in the way I keep holding on.

The sun rises, the seasons change, time marches on—but love remains. Always.

When My Words Run Out

There are moments when words fail me. Moments when the weight of what my husband and I are walking through feels heavier than anything I can carry, and I have no solutions, no wisdom, no ability to make things better. I watch him fight his way through PNES seizures, through the cloud of depression, through the heaviness of despair, and I feel so helpless. If I could take it from him, I would. If I could carry it on his behalf, I’d do it in a heartbeat. But I can’t. And in those moments when my heart aches with desperation, when I feel powerless to fix what is breaking before my eyes, I am reminded that there is one thing I can do—speak the name of Jesus.

There is power in His name. Not as some empty phrase or whispered hope, but as the very name that holds authority over every storm, every sickness, every shadow of fear. When I speak His name over my husband, I am calling on the One who commands the winds and waves, the One who has already defeated darkness, the One who sees what I cannot see. “I speak the name of Jesus over you,” I whisper, sometimes through tears, sometimes through clenched hands, always through faith that even if I cannot change this, He can.

In the hurting, in the sorrow, when days feel long and nights feel endless, I call upon Jesus to move. Because only He can reach into the depths where fear hides. Only He can breathe peace into a weary soul. Only He can do what I cannot. I speak His name not because I always feel strong, but often because I feel weak. It is an act of surrender—laying my husband, our circumstances, and my own weary heart at the feet of the One who still heals.

I have learned that prayer is not always eloquent. Sometimes it is nothing more than a cry: Jesus, help us. Sometimes it is desperate, sometimes it is broken, sometimes it is soaked in tears. But every prayer carries weight when spoken in His name. “I pray for your healing,” I find myself saying. Not just physical healing, but emotional, mental, spiritual wholeness—the kind only God can weave together. I pray that fear would lose its grip, that the heaviness pressing in would lift, that peace would wash over him in the middle of his seizures, in the middle of his hopeless moments.

I pray for breakthrough. Oh, how often I’ve whispered those words. Breakthrough for his mind, breakthrough for his body, breakthrough for our marriage, breakthrough for the darkness that sometimes feels endless. Because even if today looks the same as yesterday, I believe there is a day when everything can shift in a moment. That is the power of Jesus’ name. Circumstances are not too big for Him. Fear is not too deep for Him. Darkness is not too strong for Him.

When I don’t know what else to do, I keep returning to this one act: lifting the name of Jesus over our lives. His name is not magic—it is Majesty. His name is not wishful thinking—it is authority. His name is not powerless—it is the very power that raised the dead, opened blind eyes, healed the brokenhearted, and still moves mountains today.

So I will keep praying in Jesus’ name. I will keep speaking His name over my husband, over his seizures, over the depression that weighs him down. I will speak His name over myself when I feel weary, over our home when it feels heavy, over our future when it feels uncertain. Because even when I feel powerless, I know that His power is made perfect in weakness.

I don’t know how or when healing will come. I don’t know what tomorrow will look like. But I know this: Jesus is still in the business of miracles. And until the day I see the breakthrough we’ve been crying out for, I will keep standing in the gap, praying, pleading, and declaring in faith—

In Jesus’ name.

Unlimited Together

There is a power in love that defies limitation. It is not the kind of power that demands attention or shouts its strength from mountaintops. Instead, it is the quiet, steady power of two lives joined by God, standing shoulder to shoulder, hand in hand, determined to walk through every valley and climb every mountain together. When I think of us, I cannot help but feel this truth deeply—we are unlimited together. Not because of our own strength, but because of the One who has written our story and the love He has poured into our lives.

From the very beginning, it was no accident. Our meeting, our connection, the way our hearts grew intertwined—it was always part of something greater. God saw the storms we would face. He knew the weight that life would bring, the struggles we could not foresee, and He wove us together so that we would not carry them alone. Where one of us falters, the other rises. Where one is weary, the other speaks courage. And where both of us feel weak, God Himself stands as our anchor, reminding us that His strength is made perfect in our weakness.

Together, we have faced trials that at times felt insurmountable. The reality of Tim’s seizures, the uncertainty they bring, the long nights filled with fear and the weary days filled with questions—these are battles that could easily leave us broken. But time and again, I see the way our love holds, the way our faith stretches beyond what we can see, and I know we are not bound by these struggles. We are not defined by them. Instead, they become part of the canvas where God paints His grace and endurance into our story.

Tim dreams the way we planned them, and though life has sometimes delayed or altered those dreams, we hold fast to them. Because dreams are not just about circumstances—they are about hope. And hope is something that cannot be taken from us. When we walk in tandem, carrying each other’s burdens, we discover a strength that surprises us. What once looked impossible becomes possible, not because it suddenly grew easy, but because we chose not to give up. We chose to believe that even in the struggle, there is beauty. Even in the fight, there is victory.

There are moments when I am reminded of Ecclesiastes 4:12: “Though one may be overpowered, two can defend themselves. A cord of three strands is not quickly broken.” That is who we are—two lives, intertwined, held firmly by the unbreakable strand of God’s presence. Alone, we might stumble. But together, wrapped in His love, we are strong. That strength is not flashy or loud. It shows up in the quiet ways: in the hand held during a seizure, in the whispered prayers in the night, in the choice to keep moving forward when fear tempts us to stop.

And so, when I say we are unlimited, I do not mean that life will always be easy, or that every dream will unfold exactly as we imagined. Instead, I mean that together, there is no fight we cannot face. There is no storm that can strip us of our love. There is no trial that can silence the faith that God has planted within us. Unlimited means that our love stretches beyond circumstance, because it is anchored in a God who has no limits.

There is such hope in knowing that love is not an accident but a calling. We are not here by chance. We were placed in one another’s lives to be companions on the journey, not only for the joyful days but also for the days of deep struggle. And what a gift that is—that when life feels too heavy for one, there is another to help carry it. What a blessing that God knew I would need you, and you would need me, and that together we would be stronger, braver, and more steadfast than we could ever be apart.

So, yes—we are unlimited together. Not because we avoid pain, but because we walk through it with hope. Not because we have all the answers, but because we trust the One who does. Not because our love is perfect, but because it is grounded in a perfect God who continually strengthens and sustains us.

The world may see limitations in our journey, but I see something else entirely. I see resilience. I see beauty rising from ashes. I see two lives bound together in love and faith, refusing to let go, refusing to give up, and choosing again and again to believe that God’s plan is greater than anything we could imagine. That is what makes us unlimited. And with Him guiding us, there truly is no fight we cannot win.

No Accident

It was no accident me finding you. Long before our paths ever crossed, Someone far greater was weaving our stories together. What looked to us like chance was, in truth, the hand of God gently guiding, aligning, preparing hearts for a love that could carry the weight of life’s hardest storms. Long before I ever knew your name, He knew I would need your presence. And long before you ever saw my face, He knew you would need my love.

When I look back, I see His fingerprints all over our story. Every step, every twist in the road, every detour that didn’t make sense at the time—it all led here. It led to us. And in that realization, my heart rests, knowing that our love is not fragile or accidental, but divinely purposed.

There are days when the journey feels heavy, when life hands us more questions than answers, more trials than ease. Yet even then, I find comfort in remembering that we are not walking by chance—we are walking on ground that God Himself prepared. He placed us in each other’s lives not only to share joy but to help carry the burdens, to be each other’s safe place, to remind one another of His goodness when faith feels small.

Love like this is more than romance; it is covenant. It is the daily choice to believe that what God joins together, no storm can tear apart. It is leaning into the truth that even in our weakest moments, His strength holds us steady. Our story, with all its twists and valleys, is still being written by the same hand that first drew us together.

So no, it was no accident. It was grace. It was mercy. It was love authored in heaven, poured into two imperfect lives, and made whole in Him. And because of that, I know that whatever lies ahead, we will not face it alone. We were never meant to.

Living Proof Of Prayer

Every night, I find myself doing the same thing—folding my hands, bowing my head, whispering prayers into the silence. Sometimes they feel strong, full of faith and hope. Other times, they feel fragile, more like desperate cries than polished words. And still, I pray. I pray for my husband as he battles seizures that wrack his body and depression that weighs down his spirit. I pray for healing, for peace, for strength, for joy to return to his eyes. I pray for myself too—that God would steady me when I feel like I cannot carry this anymore.

There are nights when I wonder, Is He hearing me? Does my voice really reach heaven? Do my prayers matter? The silence of waiting can feel long. The answers don’t always come when or how I want them. But then, I remember something powerful: I am living proof that prayer matters.

I look at my own life and see that I am only here because someone prayed. I think of my parents, now gone, who prayed over me as a child. I think of my mama’s whispered pleas and my daddy’s earnest petitions that God would guide me, protect me, and lead me. I think of times in my life when I didn’t even realize I was being carried—not by my own strength, but by the prayers of those who loved me. I am standing today because somebody prayed.

That reminder gives me courage to keep praying. Because maybe, right now, my husband cannot find the words for himself. Maybe the weight of his struggle makes prayer feel impossible. But I can stand in the gap. I can be the one at his bedside, lifting him to the Father, believing that God hears every word, every cry, every groan too deep for language. And if my life is living proof that prayer changes things, then I will keep praying in faith that his life will bear that proof too.

Prayer is not wasted breath. It is not a shot in the dark. It is not wishful thinking. Prayer is partnership with the God who holds the universe, the God who bends low to listen, the God who delights in being near His children. Prayer is where I take all that I cannot carry and lay it before the One who can.

Some days, it feels like all I can do is pray. But what a powerful all that is. Because prayer invites heaven to touch earth. Prayer moves mountains unseen. Prayer reaches places my hands cannot go. Prayer reminds me that while I am limited, my God is limitless.

So I will keep bowing my head. I will keep folding my hands. I will keep whispering the name of Jesus over my husband, over our marriage, over my weary soul. I will keep believing that prayer matters, because I have already seen its fruit in my own story.

And maybe one day, Tim will be able to look back and say the same words: “I’m only right where I am today because somebody prayed.”

Until then, I will keep praying.

You Never Let Go

There are days when the road feels unbearably heavy, when life feels like walking through a valley so shadowed that light barely breaks through. That’s where I’ve found myself in this season—walking with my husband through seizures that come without warning, through depression that grips him fiercely, through uncertainty that leaves us both weary. It feels at times like we are caught in the middle of a storm that refuses to lift.

And yet, even here, even in the valley of the shadow of death, I have found a truth that will not leave me: God’s perfect love casts out fear. Not because the circumstances are easy, not because the storm suddenly quiets, but because His presence is stronger than the darkness. His nearness is my lifeline.

I whisper to myself often: “I will fear no evil, for my God is with me.” That promise is not just for some distant future—it is for right now, in the middle of seizures, in the middle of tears, in the middle of exhaustion. Fear comes knocking, trying to convince me that this storm will never end, that hope is gone, that joy has slipped away forever. But when I remember who is with me, fear begins to lose its grip. If the God of heaven is walking beside me, whom shall I fear? What storm could truly undo me? What valley could truly overcome me?

The truth is, I am not always strong. I cry. I break. I doubt. I feel the weight of loneliness and helplessness. But even then, I know this: God never lets go. Through every calm and every storm, through every high and every low, He holds me steady when I cannot steady myself. When my faith feels small, His grip on me does not weaken.

There is something beautiful about that kind of faithfulness. Human love, as deep as it can be, grows weary. My own strength, as determined as it tries to be, falters. But His love never fails, never runs out, never lets go. That is why I can keep walking, even when the valley is long and the shadow is deep. Because the One holding my hand is the same One who carries light into every darkness.

Sometimes, my prayers are no more than this: “Lord, don’t let go of us.” And every time, I feel the quiet assurance that He won’t. He is not a God who abandons. He is not a God who grows tired of carrying His children. He is not a God who lets the storm decide the outcome. He is near, always near, and His presence is the anchor that keeps me from being swept away.

So, I keep walking. One step, one day, one breath at a time. Through the valley, through the storm, through the highs and the lows, I know this truth will never change:

He never lets go.

Let It Rain

There are days when life feels upside down, when everything you once counted on shifts beneath your feet. Sunshine turns to rain, blue skies turn to gray, and what once felt like joy now feels like sorrow. I know that place well. I’ve watched my husband’s laughter turn to silence, his strength swallowed by seizures, his spirit weighed down by depression. I’ve felt good days collapse into bad ones without warning, leaving me exhausted and aching for relief. Happiness, once so natural, now often feels distant, like something I can only glimpse through the storm.

And yet—right in the middle of the downpour—I’m learning to remember this: I cannot always trust in the things I see. If I did, despair would have the final word. If I measured God’s presence by my circumstances, I might believe He’d forgotten me. But faith is not built on what I see—it’s built on who He is. And He has never stopped working, even in the rain. Sometimes the storm that feels like destruction is the very place He is shaping me most.

It’s a strange thing to pray, “Let it rain.” Everything in me wants to plead for the clouds to part, for the storm to pass, for the sun to shine again. But deeper still, I know this truth: what I need more than sunshine is Him. If rain is what keeps me dependent on Him, if storms are what drive me to His side, then even in the pain I can whisper, “Lord, I need You more and more.”

That doesn’t mean the storm is easy. It doesn’t mean the rain doesn’t sting. But it does mean that even in the downpour, there is purpose. Rain brings growth. Rain softens the hardened ground. Rain washes away what does not belong. And in my own life, I’ve seen how the storm has drawn me closer to God, taught me to pray with desperation, reminded me that I cannot hold everything together on my own.

“Not my will but Yours, Lord.” Those words are not always easy to say, especially when I long for healing, for peace, for restoration, for my husband’s freedom from the weight he carries. But they are words that anchor me in trust. Because His will is good, even when I don’t understand it. His ways are higher, even when they feel hidden. And if rain is part of the path, then He will be with me through every drop.

So I keep walking, not with perfect strength, but with a surrendered heart. Let it rain, let it pour—because even here, in the middle of the storm, I know He is with me, and He is working on me.

In The Eye Of The Storm

There are seasons in life when it feels like the ground beneath us shifts without warning, when the life we once knew is suddenly unrecognizable. For me, that season began the day seizures entered our story—not the kind that can be measured by brain scans or solved by a prescription, but PNES: psychogenic non-epileptic seizures. They came hand in hand with depression and the shadows of suicidal thoughts, wrapping their fingers tightly around my husband’s mind and body. From that moment forward, life felt like a storm that would not relent.

Every day brings its own gusts of wind. One moment, we may be laughing together, trying to carve out some sense of normalcy, and the next moment, I’m watching helplessly as his body gives way to another seizure. It is heartbreaking to see the man I love, the one I married, the one who used to be so strong and steady, collapse into something neither of us can control. It feels like the storm tosses us without mercy, stealing the sense of safety and rhythm that once marked our days.

And yet—somehow—through this storm, there is an Anchor.

“In the eye of the storm, You remain in control.” These words are not just lyrics; they are survival to me. Because in truth, nothing about this season feels controllable. I can’t stop the seizures. I can’t fix the depression. I can’t erase the weight of hopelessness that sometimes creeps into his eyes. And most days, I can’t silence the exhaustion inside of me, either. But I have learned that while I may not be in control, my God never ceases to be. His hand has not slipped. His grip has not weakened. What feels to me like chaos, He sees as already woven into His purpose. That does not mean He causes the pain—but it does mean that no wave rises higher than His command.

“And in the middle of the war, You guard my soul.” War is the only word that feels fitting for this battle. It is not just physical—it is emotional, mental, spiritual. Depression is ruthless; it seeks to consume not only the one who carries it, but also everyone who loves them. It drains joy, steals energy, and whispers lies that life is not worth living. And standing beside someone you love who wrestles with that darkness feels like being on the frontlines of a war you never signed up for. Some nights, I lie awake with worry, asking God to step in, to shield us, to breathe hope into what feels so broken. And somehow, even when the circumstances do not change, I find my soul guarded. There is a quiet strength that carries me when I feel I cannot take another step. There is a peace—fragile at times, but still present—that reminds me I am not alone.

“You alone are the anchor, when my sails are torn.” How fitting those words are. Because torn is exactly what I feel. Torn between faith and doubt. Torn between the desire to keep standing strong and the urge to collapse under the weight of it all. Torn between loving well and the raw ache of frustration. Torn between hope for the future and the grief of what has been lost. Yet, in the midst of being torn, the Anchor holds. His love does not shift when I waver. His faithfulness does not weaken when mine feels thin. He steadies me when I cannot steady myself.

There are days I question why this storm has not ended yet. Why healing feels so far off. Why prayers sometimes feel like they vanish into silence. And yet, I also know this: love surrounds me here. God’s love does not wait for the storm to pass—it encircles me right in the middle of it. His presence is tangible in the small mercies: a moment of laughter with my husband between seizures, the comfort of a quiet drive together, the gentle reminder that I still wake up every morning with breath in my lungs and a God who has not abandoned me.

Storms have a way of revealing what anchors us. For some, when the winds rage, their anchors break loose—anger, distractions, denial, or self-reliance. I have tasted all of those, and they have never held. But God has shown me again and again that He alone can anchor a soul in the deepest of waters. He alone can whisper peace in the chaos. He alone can hold steady when everything else feels torn apart.

Walking through Tim’s PNES, his depression, and the long nights of tears has taught me that faith is not about being unshaken—it is about being held when we are shaken. Faith is not about never questioning—it is about finding that even in our questions, God’s love is steady. Faith is not about escaping storms—it is about finding the eye of the storm, the very center where His peace meets our pain.

I don’t know when this storm will end. I don’t know what healing will look like for my husband, for our marriage, for our hearts. But I do know this: every storm has an eye, and every eye has peace, and every peace has His name written across it.

So, I will keep holding on. I will keep believing that God is writing beauty into this brokenness. I will keep clinging to the truth that His love surrounds us—even here, even now, even when I cannot see the horizon.

Because in the eye of the storm, He is still in control.

And that truth is enough to carry me through today.

Hold Hands and See the Light

Can we ask ourselves, for the sake of humanity, to pause for just a moment? Can we step beyond the walls that history and tradition have built around us—the walls of different religions, different languages, different flags—and meet each other not as strangers, but as kin? The question is as old as humanity itself, yet it echoes more urgently now, in a world stitched together by technology and torn apart by division. We are born with hands that know how to reach, hearts that know how to love, and eyes that know how to see beauty. Yet somewhere along the path of growing into nations, into systems, into ideologies, we forget. We learn to tighten our fists instead of extending our palms. We learn to define our neighbor as “other” before we allow them to be “friend.” And so we ask again: can we, for just a moment, hold hands and see the light that we have?

Religion has always been a double-edged gift. It carries profound wisdom, stories that illuminate the human spirit, traditions that bind communities together. Yet it has also been used to draw lines between people, to insist that one truth cancels out another. When we worship our interpretations more than the mystery they point to, we lose sight of what unites us. But imagine for a moment standing on a mountaintop at dawn. The sky softens from violet to gold, the world hushed before the rising sun. Does the light ask you what faith you follow? Does it shine brighter on one soul and dimmer on another? No—it simply illuminates. In that shared light, we are revealed as human beings before we are anything else. Religion may guide us, but the light reminds us that we are already bound together.

There is something ancient and universal in the gesture of holding hands. A child reaches for a parent. Lovers intertwine their fingers. Friends clasp palms in reunion or farewell. Protesters link arms in defiance. In every culture, across every century, the hand extended is a symbol of trust and of belonging. When we hold hands, something wordless passes between us. We feel warmth, pulse, presence. We know, without needing proof, that life flows through another being just as it flows through us. It is an unspoken agreement: I see you, I will not let you fall, we are in this together. What if humanity could hold hands, not just in moments of disaster or celebration, but as a way of being?

Seeing the light that we have is not only about recognizing the external sun or the glow of candles in sacred halls. It is about perceiving the inner radiance that belongs to every human heart. Each person carries a spark of creativity, of kindness, of resilience. It is the spark that makes a child laugh, that drives an artist to paint, that inspires an inventor to solve what seemed unsolvable. Too often, we look outward for salvation, for someone else to show us the way. But what if we paused and realized that the light we are seeking already burns within us—and within those we might call strangers? This light does not depend on doctrine, wealth, or nationality. It is the gift of simply being alive. To see it is to honor the miracle of another’s existence.

We cannot ignore that our world is deeply divided. Nations defend borders with weapons. Communities fracture over politics. Families split apart over differences of belief. The air is heavy with fear and suspicion. In such a world, the invitation to hold hands and see the light may feel naïve. And yet, history shows us that breakthroughs are born from such simple, radical acts of unity. When civil rights marchers linked arms in the face of injustice, they declared that dignity was stronger than violence. When communities worldwide light candles after tragedy, they proclaim that hope is greater than despair. When two people of different faiths choose friendship, they prove that humanity is deeper than doctrine. Small gestures ripple outward. One hand held becomes two, then twenty, then thousands. A chorus of hearts begins with a single note.

The question, then, is not whether humanity as a whole can unite, but whether each of us, individually, is willing to take the first step. Can we ask ourselves—truly, deeply ask—whether we will choose openness over suspicion, kindness over indifference? The temptation is to wait for leaders, institutions, or movements to model this for us. But perhaps it begins simpler than that. Perhaps it begins with the person beside us on the bus, with the cashier at the store, with the neighbor we rarely greet. Each time we extend a hand, each time we recognize the light in another, we tilt the world a little closer to healing.

We do not need forever to change the world. We need only a moment. A moment to pause, to let down our guard, to allow ourselves to see clearly. A moment when we no longer measure worth by creed or color or passport, but by the undeniable truth that every human heart beats with longing and love. This moment is fleeting, but it is powerful. For in that instant of recognition, we glimpse the possibility of a humanity not defined by fear but by compassion. The challenge is to carry that moment into the next, and the next, until it becomes our way of life.

The future we dream of—a world where children grow without fear, where differences are celebrated rather than feared, where wisdom outweighs greed—depends not on miracles from above but on choices made here and now. It depends on whether we will dare to hold hands, to look one another in the eye, and to say: I see the light in you, and I will honor it as I honor my own. This is not a call to erase religion, culture, or tradition. These are treasures that enrich the human story. Rather, it is a call to place humanity above the boundaries we have built, to remember that we belong to each other before we belong to categories.

If humanity has a prayer that transcends all languages, perhaps it is simply this: may we remember we are one. May we cherish the light within and without. May we hold hands, not only in times of crisis, but in everyday peace. This prayer does not need temples, churches, or mosques. It needs only our willingness to live it.

So let us ask ourselves, not once, but again and again: for the sake of humanity, can we hold hands for a moment and see the light that we have? The answer lies not in speeches or decrees, but in the choices we make each day. Perhaps the world will not change overnight. But when one hand reaches another, when one soul sees the light in another, a seed is planted. And if enough seeds take root, humanity may yet bloom into the garden it was always meant to be.

A Little Girl’s Game, A Lifetime of Love

Today, my thoughts drift back to when I was a little girl. I can still see it vividly: the sun streaming through the windows of our living room, the smell of fresh laundry in the air, and the sound of my daddy’s laughter filling every corner. We used to play a little game, a game that, at the time, was just a simple exchange between a father and his daughter.

He would ask, “Who’s the only girl in my heart?” and I would giggle, twirling in my Patton leather shoes, my little dress swirling around me. And I would say, with all the certainty a little girl can muster, “Daddy, don’t you know, Daddy, don’t you know… you’re the only man in my heart.”

It’s funny how those early games feel so small when you’re a child, yet in retrospect, they carry a weight far beyond my understanding at the time. They were lessons in love, trust, and the safe, unshakable bond between a parent and child. Every twirl, every whispered word, every shared laugh built a foundation that would carry me through life’s uncertainties.

A few years later, I remember walking home from school, books tucked under my arm, and a young boy at my side. I saw the flicker of concern in my father’s eyes—a tender, protective instinct I would one day understand fully. He asked, softly, almost hesitantly, “Can I walk with you?” And we played our game again, just as we always had. I smiled, I held his hand, and the words came naturally: “Daddy, don’t you know, Daddy, don’t you know… you’re the only man in my heart.”

Those moments were ordinary, yes—but they were extraordinary in their quiet depth. They were building blocks of love, anchors that tethered me to safety even as the world outside our home grew bigger, louder, and more uncertain. They taught me what it means to cherish someone completely, and that love is not measured in grand gestures alone but in the constancy of presence and the simplicity of shared laughter.

And then came the day I had waited for and dreaded in equal measure—my wedding day. The day I would step into a new chapter of life, a day of celebration and tears, of joy and reflection. As I walked down the aisle, every step felt surreal, yet every heartbeat carried with it the memory of my daddy’s hands holding mine, the echo of our little game in the rhythm of my life.

When the ceremony began and the music played softly around us, I could feel my father’s eyes on me, and I knew what he was thinking, what he had always known: that his little girl had grown, that she was stepping into a new life with someone he trusted to love her well. And yet, amidst the grandeur of the day, I wanted to pause time. I wanted to reach out across the years and remind him of what had always been true.

So I whispered the words I had learned as a little girl, the words that had shaped the way I understood love and devotion: “Daddy, can we play our little game? Who’s the only little girl in your heart?”

I watched his eyes soften, watched his lips curve in that gentle, proud smile I have always loved. And in that moment, the years of laughter, of tears, of lessons learned and lessons taught, all converged in the quiet truth between us. He took my hand, just as he always had, and softly said, “Honey, don’t you know, honey, don’t you know… you’re the only little girl in my heart.”

Time moved forward, as it always does. Seasons changed, moments passed, and eventually, the day came when I had to say goodbye. On his burial day, I leaned over his casket, my heart breaking and yet overflowing with love, and whispered once more, as I had so many times before, “Daddy… you’re the only man in my heart.” The words came with tears, a lifetime of memory, and the ache of absence that only deep love can leave. Even in that final moment, I wanted him to know that he had shaped me, guided me, and held my heart forever.

There is something sacred in that exchange, in the simplicity of words that carry a lifetime of meaning. It is a reminder that love, the truest love, is not fleeting. It does not fade with time or change with circumstance. It endures. It anchors us, steadies us, and reminds us of who we are and who we are loved by.

As I reflect on all those moments—the twirls in my Patton leather shoes, the walks home from school, the whispered game on my wedding day, and the quiet goodbye at his burial—I see more than memory. I see a legacy. I see the enduring power of love that is steady, faithful, and true. And I carry that with me, not just in memory, but in the way I love others, in the promises I make, and in the moments I choose to cherish.

Life is fleeting, and moments slip away like sand through our fingers. But love—real, unwavering love—is eternal. It is the whisper in the night, the hand that steadies us, the words that echo across decades. It is the game that we play, that we carry forward, that shapes who we are and who we love.

And in that reflection, I understand fully what it means to love and to be loved unconditionally. I understand that no matter where life takes me, no matter the trials and triumphs that await, there is a foundation that cannot be shaken: the love of a father who has always held his little girl in his heart.

Because in the end, it is these moments—these simple games, these whispered words—that remind us what truly matters. That remind us that love is not measured in grand gestures alone but in presence, in devotion, in the quiet assurance that someone will always be there, holding your hand and keeping your heart.

And I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that I will carry that love forever—both in my memory and in the way I give love to those around me. Because he was right then, as he is now: I am, and always will be, his little girl.