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.
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