Praising Him in the Darkness

I haven’t slept a single night through since March 13, 2024. That date is etched in my memory like a scar on the heart—a before and after that I never saw coming. The day after, everything changed. My husband, my sweet Tim, collapsed, and the world as I knew it tilted on its axis. What followed was a blur of fear, confusion, hospital rooms, and a diagnosis that neither of us had ever heard before—PNES. Three letters that rearranged our lives in ways we never imagined.

Since that day, the nights have been long. Rest feels like a stranger I used to know. There’s a quiet ache in the hours when the world sleeps and I lie awake listening—to the rhythm of his breathing, to the hum of the stillness, to the sound of my own racing thoughts. Those hours are heavy. They hold the weight of worry, of fear, of exhaustion that runs deeper than the body. But somewhere in those sleepless nights, something holy began to happen.

But in those sleepless nights, something sacred has happened too. I’ve learned how to pray like never before.

Before all this, I thought I knew what prayer was—quiet moments before bed, whispered gratitude, requests lifted heavenward. But when life shatters, prayer stops being routine. It becomes the breath that keeps you alive. It’s not polished or poetic. It’s raw, messy, sometimes tear-streaked and trembling. It’s simply the sound of a soul reaching for something—someone—bigger than the pain.

I’ve learned to talk to God in the middle of the night like He’s sitting in the chair beside me. Sometimes I say nothing at all. Sometimes I cry until there are no words left. Sometimes I just whisper His name because that’s all I can manage. But somehow, in those moments, peace comes—not the kind that fixes everything, but the kind that keeps me standing when I shouldn’t be able to.

Because I’ve learned something important: giving your burdens to God doesn’t make them disappear. It just means you don’t have to carry them alone.

There are nights when I still feel the weight of fear pressing down hard. The questions, the uncertainty, the ache of watching the person I love most struggle with something so cruel and invisible. But even then—even there—I can feel Him beside me. Not taking away the pain, but steadying me under it. Whispering, “You’re not alone, child. I’m still here.”

And He has been. Every sleepless night. Every weary morning. Every time I’ve felt like I couldn’t do this one more day.

It’s in the quiet hours that I’ve begun to understand what real faith looks like. It’s not found in the sunshine moments when everything makes sense. It’s found in the midnight hours when your heart breaks and you praise Him anyway. It’s found in choosing to believe that He’s still good, even when nothing feels good. It’s found in the small, sacred act of trusting that He’s working—even in the dark.

The world tells us that faith should look like certainty. But I think faith often looks more like surrender. It’s the letting go—not because you don’t care, but because you finally understand you’re not in control. It’s laying your fears, your hopes, your exhaustion at His feet and saying, “I can’t do this, but You can.”

So, night after night, I pray. Sometimes it’s the same words over and over. Sometimes it’s silence. But always, it’s an offering of trust in the One who never sleeps, the One who watches over both of us while the world is still.

I won’t pretend it’s easy. There are moments I’m angry, moments I’m scared, moments I’m bone-tired and wonder how much more I can give. But even then, there’s a small, unwavering truth that keeps me steady: I am not alone in this.

God hasn’t abandoned us in the shadows. He walks in them. He sits in the hospital rooms. He stands beside the bed in the middle of the night. He’s in every deep breath, every held hand, every moment that I think I can’t take another step—and somehow, I do.

My prayer is that one day, sleep will return. That I’ll close my eyes without fear, without tension, and wake to a morning full of peace. I long for that day. But until then, I will praise Him in the darkness.

Because I’ve learned that worship doesn’t depend on circumstances. It’s not a response to how easy life is—it’s a declaration of who God is. And He hasn’t changed. Not since March 13. Not now. Not ever.

He’s still faithful.
Still good.
Still God.

And though my nights are long and the road is hard, I’ve learned to find beauty in the in-between. There’s beauty in the quiet moments of prayer that rise like incense in the stillness. There’s beauty in the resilience of love that refuses to give up. There’s beauty in the faith that stays, even when the answers don’t come.

I’ve discovered that sometimes, praise isn’t loud. Sometimes it’s the whisper of a weary heart saying, “Even here, I trust You.”

And maybe that’s the most honest kind of praise there is.

So tonight, I’ll once again lay my head on the pillow, knowing that sleep may not come. But peace will. I’ll whisper a prayer for Tim, for strength, for calm. I’ll ask God to give me enough grace for one more day. And when the darkness stretches long, I’ll remember this truth: the same God who holds the stars in place holds us too.

And when the morning comes—whether I’ve slept or not—I’ll rise again. Because even tired, even worn, even afraid, I am held by the One who never lets go.

Until the day peace returns and sleep finds me again, I will keep praising Him in the darkness. Because He’s still here. Because He’s still worthy.

Because even in the sleepless nights, He’s teaching me what it really means to rest.