In the Hands of the Healer

Our God is still in the business of healing. That truth is not confined to the pages of Scripture or the testimonies of long ago—it is alive, it is present, and it is working in the unseen places even now. I know with certainty, even when everything around me tries to whisper otherwise, that He still has miracles He longs to pour into the lives of His children. His heart has not grown distant, His hand has not grown weak, and His compassion has not faded with time. He is the same God who touched the blind man’s eyes and opened them, who told the lame to rise and walk, who spoke to the dead and called them back to life. And just as surely as He healed then, He still heals now. That truth is what I hold to as I walk through the relentless reality of Tim’s health—through the seizures, the exhaustion, the uncertainty, and the grief of watching the person I love most battle something I cannot fix.

I trust in the power of our Great Physician. He is the One who knows the intricacies of the body because He formed it. He understands the deepest aches of the soul because He breathed life into it. He sees the unseen wounds that doctors cannot chart and medicine cannot reach, and He moves with a precision and a tenderness that no human hands can replicate. When I am tired beyond words—when my days are marked by emergency moments, unpredictable episodes, and the constant vigilance that Tim’s PNES demands—He meets me there. When my spirit is weary from the weight of watching my husband suffer, when my faith feels like it’s flickering to its last ember, He is still the steady flame that does not go out. Even in the quiet moments when doubt creeps in, when prayers feel unanswered, and when waiting feels like it’s stretching into forever, I know that He is still working behind the scenes.

In the doubting, in the waiting, I will still pour my praises out. Praise isn’t reserved for when life is good or the answers have come—it is a lifeline when the storm rages. It’s the anchor that keeps me tethered to the truth when the waves try to pull me under. My worship isn’t a bargaining chip to convince God to move; it is my declaration that I believe He is who He says He is, no matter what my circumstances try to argue. And so, even when my heart feels raw and my voice shakes, I lift my eyes and my voice to heaven, because praise has a way of shifting the focus from my pain to His power.

I place my heart, my soul, my mind, and my strength in the hands of the Healer. In His hands, nothing is wasted—not the nights I sit beside Tim in fear, not the days I carry his burden alongside my own, not the tears I try to hide from the world. My sighs are not ignored, and my weakness is not despised. In His hands, sickness will lift, and chains will break—not always in the way I expect, not always in the moment I wish, but always in the way that carries the deepest redemption. The hands that stretched out to heal lepers, that reached for a sinking Peter, that bore the weight of nails for my freedom—those are the hands holding Tim and me now.

And I believe that in His timing, wholeness will come, restoration will arrive, and the story that seems so heavy with pain will shine with His glory. This is why I can keep going. This is why I can still sing through the ache and still believe in miracles when the night feels long. Because I know who holds us. I know the power of the One we serve. And I know that in the hands of the Healer, we are never without hope.