The Quiet Bravery of January 31st

 January 31st always feels like a quiet checkpoint to me. The sparkle of the New Year has settled, the Christmas lights are put away, and the world has returned to its usual rhythm. All the “New Year, new me” noise has faded into the background, and what’s left is… real life. The everyday. The ordinary. The things we still carry, even after the calendar changed. And somehow, that makes this day feel honest. Today isn’t about resolutions or fireworks. It’s about looking at the last thirty-one days and realizing that we made it through every single one of them—whether they were heavy, hopeful, hard, or some strange mix of all three.

I think there is a quiet kind of bravery in surviving January. It’s not a month of big celebrations or those bright, easy joys that come with warm weather and long days. It’s a month of deep winter. Of gray skies and early darkness. Of routines that keep going whether we’re ready or not. It’s a month where the things we hoped would magically disappear at midnight on New Year’s Eve are still sitting patiently in front of us, waiting to be faced. Health challenges didn’t vanish. Financial worries didn’t evaporate. Grief didn’t suddenly forget our address. The realities we lived with in December are still here in January—only now they’ve followed us into a new year, and there’s a fatigue in that truth that can be hard to say out loud.

But here is something I am learning: not everything that carries into a new year is a burden. Some things are evidence. Evidence that we are still here. Evidence that we’ve been held. Evidence that God has not let go of us, even as days blur together and nights stretch long. The fact that we’ve made it to January 31st—through the emotions, the appointments, the unanswered questions, the what-ifs, the moments we thought we’d break—is not a small thing. It is grace in motion. It is mercy with a calendar attached to it. Somewhere between January 1st and today, we survived what we were certain might undo us. And even if we don’t feel strong, we are still standing. There is something holy in that.

A lot of people talk about the “word of the year.” I think sometimes my word needs to be “enough.” Not in the sense of being done with everything, but in the quiet reminder that what I have done, who I have been, and how I have shown up—even in my weakness—has been enough for this day. On the days I woke up exhausted but still offered love, it was enough. On the days I didn’t have big wins but managed to get through, one task at a time, it was enough. On the days when all I could do was whisper a tired prayer and trust that God heard it through the fog in my mind—that was enough, too. January doesn’t always give us big mountaintop moments, but it often gives us a more honest view of what faith looks like: one small, trembling step at a time.

I think about how often we measure our lives by what feels “big” or “impressive.” Big goals. Big changes. Big moments. But when I look back on this month, what feels most sacred aren’t the big things—it’s the little ones. The quiet cup of coffee that made the morning feel bearable. The text from a friend at just the right time. The way the light hit the snow and made everything sparkle for a moment like the world hadn’t forgotten how to be beautiful. The shared laugh that slipped in unexpectedly on a hard day. The simple fact that in the middle of ongoing struggles, love is still here. Those moments may never be printed on a calendar or written into history books, but they are the places where God’s fingerprints show up in my life.

January 31st feels like a good day to ask not, “Did I change the world?” but, “Did I let love move through me this month?” Because that’s what I want my life to be about—not just surviving hard things, but somehow, in the middle of them, still choosing kindness, still offering grace, still saying yes to love in the small, ordinary, hidden ways that no one may ever applaud but heaven never overlooks. Maybe I wasn’t as productive as I wanted to be. Maybe some things are still undone. Maybe I cried more than I planned. But did I show up for the people I love? Did I offer encouragement instead of silence? Did I hold on to faith when letting go would’ve been easier? If the answer is even a fragile “yes,” then this month holds more victory than it seems.

There is also something important, I think, about giving ourselves permission to be honest. Not every day has to shine. Not every season has to feel inspired. Some months are for planting, not harvesting. Some are for holding on, not running ahead. Some are simply for breathing. For saying, “God, I’m still tired. I’m still scared. I’m still unsure. But I’m still here. And I’m still Yours.” I don’t think He asks us for perfection as the calendar moves forward. I think He asks us for our hearts—our real hearts, not the polished versions we try to present to the world. January 31st is a good day to lay our hearts back down at His feet and say, “Whatever the rest of this year holds, I don’t want to walk it without You.”

If I could say one thing to the person reading this who feels behind, discouraged, or already “failing” at the year, it would be this: you are not behind. You are right where you are—alive, breathing, learning, enduring, healing—and that is not a failure. Progress is not always loud. Sometimes it looks like showing up to another day you didn’t want to face. Sometimes it looks like making that phone call, sending that email, taking that walk, or resting when you feel guilty for resting. Sometimes it looks like choosing hope even when nothing around you has changed. You are not late to your own life. You have not missed your chance. You are not disqualified from goodness or beauty or joy simply because your journey has taken longer, been harder, or looked different than you thought it would.

So tonight, as January closes its quiet chapter, I want to mark this moment—not with fireworks or resolutions, but with gratitude. Gratitude that we are still here. Gratitude that God has walked with us through every sunrise and sunset this month, whether we felt Him or not. Gratitude that even when strength ran out, grace did not. Gratitude that we have made it through thirty-one days we did not fully know how to face when they began. Gratitude that tomorrow is February—not a fresh start in the dramatic sense, but another chance to live gently, love deeply, and trust quietly.

If this month has felt long, you are not alone. If it has felt tender, you are not alone. If it has held both joy and sorrow, you are not alone. Somewhere in all of it, God has been here—cup of coffee in hand, light in the doorway, whisper in the dark, steady presence in the chaos. He has not wasted a single day, even if we’re not sure what some of them were for. One day, I believe we’ll see more clearly how even these cold, ordinary days were part of a bigger story He was writing with care.

For now, I want to end January with this simple truth: making it through is not a small thing. Your existence in this world, on this day, matters. Your presence is not accidental. Your story is not over. And even if all you have to bring into February is a tired heart and a fragile hope, that is enough. You are enough.

So here we are—January 31st. We made it. And that is worth honoring. Let’s carry forward what this month has quietly taught us: that God is still faithful, that small moments still matter, that love is still stronger than fear, and that even in the deep winter of our lives, something good can still be growing beneath the surface.

Praising Through the Storm

There are moments in life when the rain just won’t stop falling. You pray for a break in the clouds, for the sun to peek through, for the storm to pass—but instead, the thunder keeps rolling, and the wind keeps howling. You kneel in prayer, whispering through tears, “God, where are You?” And though you might not see Him, though the storm still rages, somewhere deep within the downpour, there’s a whisper—soft but steady—“I’m with you.”

Those are the words that carry me when everything else feels like too much. Because truthfully, life doesn’t always go the way we hope it will. Sometimes the miracle doesn’t look like healing—it looks like endurance. Sometimes faith doesn’t feel like joy—it feels like survival. Sometimes praising through the storm isn’t about pretending you’re not hurting—it’s about believing that God is still worthy, even when your heart is breaking.

There have been so many days I thought God would have reached down by now—wiped away the tears, fixed what was broken, calmed the chaos that keeps spinning around us. I’ve prayed for it. I’ve begged for it. I’ve stood in faith waiting for the rescue. But sometimes, instead of pulling us out of the storm, God chooses to step into it with us.

And that’s the miracle.

It’s not always in the thunder ceasing or the sky clearing—it’s in His presence that refuses to leave. It’s in the still, sacred truth that He’s near, even when the world feels dark. It’s in the quiet assurance that He’s holding every tear we’ve cried, that not one moment of pain goes unnoticed by the heart of the One who made us.

There’s something holy about that kind of faith—the kind that stays standing when everything else is falling apart. The kind that raises its hands while the rain pours down, not because the storm has ended, but because the heart still believes that God is good.

Praising through the storm doesn’t mean we’re okay—it means we know Who holds us when we’re not. It means we choose to worship, not because of the circumstance, but because of the character of the One who reigns above it. It’s saying, You are still God, even here. Even now. Even when it hurts.

And I think that’s where the deepest kind of peace lives—not in the absence of the storm, but in the presence of the Savior within it.

When the thunder rolls and fear tries to drown out your faith, remember this: even the storm obeys His voice. Even when it feels endless, He’s working something unseen, shaping something eternal. The storm doesn’t mean He’s gone silent—it means He’s teaching us to listen differently.

Because if you lean in closely enough, you’ll hear it—the whisper of mercy in the rain, the quiet assurance that He’s never left your side.

Every tear you’ve cried? He’s caught them all. Every night you’ve spent praying for relief? He’s been right there, listening, holding you together when everything feels like it’s falling apart.

Sometimes we think faith is loud and certain—songs of triumph, words of victory. But more often, faith is the trembling whisper that says, “I’ll still praise You.” It’s the hand that rises through the tears. It’s the heart that keeps believing when there’s no proof it should. It’s the voice that says, “Even though my heart is torn, I will praise You in this storm.”

Maybe God doesn’t stop every storm because some storms aren’t meant to destroy us—they’re meant to deepen us. They strip away everything false, everything we thought we could depend on, until what’s left is something unshakable—something anchored in Him.

Storms teach us that God’s faithfulness isn’t proven in what He prevents—it’s revealed in what He sustains. The fact that you’re still standing, still breathing, still believing—that’s evidence enough.

And maybe one day, when the skies finally clear, you’ll look back and realize that the very rain you once prayed away was watering something sacred within you. Maybe it was growing resilience, or compassion, or trust. Maybe it was washing away the parts of your soul that couldn’t hold the weight of what was coming next.

But in the middle of it, when the rain is loud and the thunder shakes your bones, it’s okay to cry. It’s okay to question. It’s okay to be broken. Just don’t let go of your praise. Because praise doesn’t mean you understand—it means you trust. It’s your declaration that even in the chaos, even in the heartbreak, He is still worthy.

And He is.

He’s the God who stands in the storm with you, who speaks peace into your trembling, who holds you when you can’t hold yourself. He’s the God who never wastes a tear and never lets pain have the final word.

So when the thunder rolls, lift your hands anyway. When the rain falls harder, lift your heart anyway. Because one day, when the clouds finally part, you’ll see that He was there all along—not distant, but present, holding you close through every wave and whispering, “You were never alone.”

The world will always have storms. But the beauty of faith is that you don’t face them alone. The One who calms the seas still walks beside you through every wind and wave. And even when it feels like it’s still raining, He’s already writing the rainbow that will remind you—He never left.

So I’ll keep praising. I’ll keep trusting. I’ll keep raising my hands to the God who gives and takes away.

Because though my heart is torn, I know who holds it. And that’s reason enough to praise Him—even in the storm.

The Keeper of the Stars

Some things in life are too perfectly woven to be coincidence. The way two paths cross at just the right time, the way hearts recognize each other long before the mind can explain it, the way love shows up quietly—and then stays. When I look back at how Tim and I found each other, I know without a doubt: it was no accident. Someone had a hand in it long before we ever knew.

Love like this doesn’t just happen—it’s designed. Crafted by a God who sees what we can’t, who knows what we’ll need before we ever think to ask. There’s a peace that comes from knowing that Heaven’s fingerprints are all over our story. Every twist, every delay, every heartbreak before we found each other—it all led here. To this life we’ve built. To the love that still holds strong through every storm.

Sometimes I think about how many moments had to align for us to meet. The choices, the timing, the countless unseen threads that God tied together so our lives could become one. It humbles me. Because love like this isn’t earned or forced—it’s given. It’s grace in its purest form.

I can’t help but believe that Heaven was smiling the day our lives intersected. Because even now, after everything we’ve faced—the challenges, the unknowns, the hard days that test the edges of faith—I still feel that same divine connection. That same quiet assurance that God knew what He was doing when He joined these two hearts.

There’s a line in the song that says, “I tip my hat to the keeper of the stars.” Every time I hear it, I feel it deep in my soul. Because that’s exactly what I do—I pause, I look at Tim, and I thank God for him. For the laughter, for the comfort, for the love that has carried us through things we never thought we’d endure. For the way we still reach for each other when the world feels unsteady. For the way love keeps showing up, even when life gets hard.

This love we have isn’t perfect—it’s real. It’s weathered. It’s tested. But it’s strong because it’s been held by something greater than us. Every trial we’ve faced, every dark night we’ve walked through, has only proven what I already knew: we were never walking alone.

There have been days when Tim’s seizures, his battles with PNES, anxiety, and depression have brought us to our knees—literally and emotionally. Days when fear tried to steal the light from our home. But even then, love never let go. It held us steady when everything else trembled. It reminded me, over and over, that God didn’t bring us together just for the easy days. He brought us together for the hard ones—to lean on each other, to lift each other, to remind one another that faith is stronger than fear.

And through it all, there’s this sacred truth that never changes: when I hold him in my arms, I hold everything.

The world could fall away, and it wouldn’t change that. Because what we have isn’t built on circumstances—it’s built on something eternal. A love that’s anchored in God’s design. A love that’s carried by grace. A love that was written in the stars before we ever looked up to notice them.

Every time I see Tim smile—really smile—I see the hand of the Keeper of the Stars at work. The same God who hung galaxies in the heavens is the same God who brought us together. And that thought alone still takes my breath away.

We often think of miracles as grand, impossible things—healings, wonders, divine interruptions. But sometimes, the greatest miracle is simply love itself. The kind that lasts. The kind that forgives. The kind that keeps showing up even when life doesn’t go according to plan.

Our story is proof that God doesn’t make mistakes. He knew exactly what He was doing when He placed our hearts in each other’s hands. He knew what was ahead of us—the battles, the growth, the healing—and He knew that together, with Him at the center, we’d make it through.

So when I look at Tim, I don’t just see the man I love—I see God’s faithfulness. I see answered prayers I didn’t even know how to pray. I see purpose. I see grace. I see the beauty of a plan that took time, patience, and trust to unfold.

And every time I whisper a quiet “thank You,” I mean it with everything in me. Because I’ve seen what it’s like to walk through life’s valleys—and I know how precious it is to have someone who walks them with you.

So yes, I tip my hat to the Keeper of the Stars.

Because He knew.
He knew what we’d need.
He knew how love would grow deeper with every storm we survived.
He knew how much stronger we’d become when we learned to lean on Him—and on each other.

And when I hold Tim close, when I feel his heartbeat steady against mine, I know I hold everything that truly matters. I have love. I have faith. I have the reminder that Heaven is closer than it feels sometimes—woven into the everyday moments, the laughter, the tears, the quiet.

Heaven smiled on us once, and I believe it still does.

So tonight, as I look at the stars, I’ll whisper one more “thank You” to the One who hung them.
For writing our story.
For blessing me with this love.
And for reminding me that, even in a world that changes every day, some things—
the best things—
are forever.

When Faith Meets Fear

There are moments in life when the world feels unbearably heavy—when the weight of reality sits on your chest and it’s hard to breathe. This is one of those seasons. It’s the kind of fear that doesn’t roar; it hums quietly beneath everything, showing up in the silence between heartbeats, in the dark when the world goes still and the mind won’t stop racing.

I’m scared.

Not the kind of scared that a deep breath or a good night’s sleep can fix. This fear runs deeper—woven into every thought, every plan, every “what if” I try to push away. Long-term disability insurance is ending soon, and the system that’s supposed to help doesn’t see the truth of what Tim lives with every day. PNES doesn’t fit neatly into their boxes. To them, it’s not a “real” disability. They don’t see how fast things change—the way anxiety or fear can trigger a seizure without warning. They don’t see me watching him go still, helpless to stop it. They don’t see the exhaustion that follows, the fog that lingers, or the quiet heartbreak of realizing that this is our life now.

On paper, he looks fine. In the good moments, when he smiles or laughs, you could almost believe he’s fine. And maybe that’s the cruelest part—how invisible it all is. How easily people assume “better” when all that really means is “surviving.” The judge who will decide his SSDI case will only see a snapshot of him, not the full picture. They won’t see the man who wants so badly to get better, to contribute, to live fully again. They’ll see someone sitting calmly in front of them and assume he’s okay. But they don’t see the fear that lurks just beneath that calm—the fight it takes to hold himself steady, the uncertainty that never really leaves.

And me? I’m tired. Bone-tired. The kind of tired that sleep doesn’t touch because it’s not just physical—it’s emotional, spiritual, endless. I’m managing everything: the finances, the bills, the insurance forms, the household, the decisions. Every day feels like a balancing act where one wrong move could send everything toppling over. I tell myself to just keep going, to be strong, to hold it together, but there are days when even holding on feels like too much.

Sometimes I think about the future and it feels like a hallway with no doors—just an endless stretch of uncertainty. What happens when the insurance stops? What happens if the judge says no again? What happens if I never get to retire, if I spend the rest of my life working just to keep us afloat? What happens when hope feels too heavy to carry?

And then, somewhere deep down, another voice whispers—But what if you’re not alone in this?

That’s the thread I cling to when the fear starts to drown me. Because I know I’m not walking this road without help, even if it doesn’t always feel that way. God hasn’t left me. Even when I can’t see the plan, even when the path ahead is foggy, I know He’s still here. The same God who has carried us this far isn’t about to let go now.

Sometimes faith doesn’t look like confidence. It looks like trembling hands still reaching for God when the future feels impossible. It looks like whispering prayers in the dark, not because you have answers, but because you refuse to stop believing there will be light again.

I’ve learned something through all of this—faith and fear can coexist. It’s okay to admit you’re scared. It’s okay to say you’re tired. It’s okay to not have it all together. Faith doesn’t erase fear; it gives you something stronger to hold onto while you face it.

I think about Tim—how brave he is just to keep trying, to wake up each day and face something he can’t control. That takes courage. Real courage. The kind that doesn’t make headlines but holds families together. And I think about how far we’ve come. Every setback, every denial, every night spent wondering what’s next—and still, somehow, we’re here. Still standing. Still believing that there is purpose even in this.

Maybe that’s what it means to live in faith—not to have a clear path forward, but to take one step at a time, trusting that even in the uncertainty, God is working things together for good. Maybe security doesn’t come from what’s in the bank or what’s written in a policy. Maybe true security comes from knowing that even when everything else falls apart, we are still held.

So yes, I’m scared. But I’m also still believing. I’m still hoping that a judge will finally see what the system hasn’t yet. I’m still trusting that God will make a way where there doesn’t seem to be one. I’m still choosing to keep moving, one day at a time, even when the steps are slow.

I don’t know how it will all unfold. But I do know this—fear may visit often, but it doesn’t get to stay. It doesn’t get the final word. God does.

So tonight, as I stare into the unknown, I’ll keep praying the same quiet prayer I’ve whispered so many times before:

Fix this, Jesus. Fix us. Show us the way through. Carry what we can’t. And when I lose sight of hope, remind me that You haven’t lost sight of me.

And I’ll keep walking. Not because I’m fearless—but because even in the fear, I still have faith that somehow, some way, we will make it through this too.

If I Could Tell You One Thing From My Heart

If I could tell you one thing from my heart, it would be this: you are doing far better than you think you are. I don’t say that as a platitude or an easy reassurance. I say it because I’ve watched the way you carry things that would have crushed a lesser spirit. I’ve watched the way you show up every day to a life that hasn’t given you ease or fairness, but still you hold on to hope, to love, to faith—even when you’re tired, even when you’re scared, even when the future feels blurry and the weight feels endless.

You don’t realize how remarkable that is. Most people don’t. Most people compare themselves to the lightest versions of others and the heaviest versions of themselves. But you—you keep walking through stories that have jagged edges. And instead of letting them harden you, you let them deepen you. You let them soften the places that matter. You let them teach you compassion in a world that seems to export cruelty with ease.

And that’s extraordinary.

If I could offer you something, it wouldn’t be an answer or a solution—life rarely works in straight lines like that. I would offer you a pause. A breath. A moment where the weight you carry sets itself down beside you instead of on top of you. A moment where you are allowed to feel the full truth of what you’ve endured without having to defend your strength or minimize your ache.

You deserve that moment.

You deserve space to acknowledge that your heart has been stretched in ways that would terrify most people. You deserve recognition for the way you love—fully, fiercely, quietly, even when love costs you something. You deserve the tenderness you offer to others. And you deserve to know that your presence in this world is not a small thing. You matter. Not because of what you fix, carry, or accomplish, but because of who you are when life presses on you.

If I could tell you one more thing from my heart, it would be this: you are not alone. Not in the sleepless nights. Not in the fear that whispers louder than it should. Not in the exhaustion that sets into your bones when you feel like the future is uncertain and the present is too heavy. You’ve spent so much of your life believing you had to be strong alone, that you had to carry the invisible load with steady hands, that you had to be okay for the sake of everyone else.

But you don’t.

You were never meant to shoulder grief, pain, and hope all at once without rest. You were never meant to break and rebuild in silence. You were never meant to hold the world together without someone holding you.

You are allowed to lean.
You are allowed to cry.
You are allowed to be human.
You are allowed to need help.

And you are allowed to trust that God has not forgotten you—not for a moment, not for a heartbeat, not for a breath.

If you ever doubt that, remember this: the very fact that you’ve survived everything you’ve been through is proof of a presence stronger than your pain. There is something holy keeping you upright when you feel like falling. Something divine that keeps turning your heartbreak into endurance, your fear into resilience, your sorrow into wisdom. Something that keeps whispering to your soul, “Not yet. Don’t give up. There is more for you. There is still beauty coming.”

If I could tell you one last thing from my heart, it’s that your story is not done—not even close. You are not at the end. You are in a chapter that hurts, but it is not the final page. You are living a story that will, one day, be told with awe because of how much you overcame. A story where the darkness did not win. A story where love endured. A story where hope survived.

And you?

You’re the brave one in the middle of it.

Hold on.
Breathe.
Rest.
Let grace wrap around you in the places you’ve kept hidden.

A new sunrise is coming.
And you’re still here—stronger than you know, braver than you feel, and infinitely more loved than you realize.

Make It Well with My Soul

There are seasons in life when faith feels less like a song of victory and more like a quiet whisper through tears. Times when even breathing feels heavy, and the weight of what we carry makes the ground beneath us tremble. In those moments, we don’t need polished words or grand declarations. We need the nearness of Jesus — not as an idea, but as a presence. We need Him to sit with us in the silence, to cry when we can’t speak, to hold what we can no longer carry.

“Make it well with my soul.” It’s more than a lyric; it’s a prayer. It’s the kind of plea that rises from the depth of brokenness when all our strength is gone. It’s the confession of a heart that isn’t asking for perfection, or even for relief — just for peace. Not the fragile kind that depends on circumstances, but the kind that Heaven knows. The peace that steadies trembling hands and softens a heart hardened by sorrow. The peace that comes not from the absence of pain, but from the presence of God.

Loneliness has a way of finding us, even in the most crowded rooms. It’s not always about being alone — sometimes it’s about feeling unseen, unheard, misunderstood. The kind of loneliness that comes when people move on while your world stands still. When others forget the battles you’re still fighting, or assume you’re fine because you smile. It’s in those moments we whisper, “Don’t let me face this loneliness alone.” Because we know what isolation does — it magnifies pain, it echoes fear, it makes us forget that even in the darkest valley, we are never truly abandoned.

And that’s where Jesus meets us — not always with answers, but always with Himself. He doesn’t stand at a distance shouting encouragement; He kneels beside us. He weeps with us, not because He is powerless, but because He is compassionate. He understands what it is to feel forsaken, to bear sorrow so deep it shakes the soul. And when He sits and cries with us, something sacred happens — the distance between heaven and earth disappears. Our tears become prayers. Our grief becomes holy ground.

Sometimes all we can say is, “Jesus, please… just sit and cry with me.” Because healing doesn’t always come through quick fixes or miracles on demand. Sometimes it comes through quiet companionship. Through the gentle presence of a Savior who doesn’t rush our pain or demand we move on before we’re ready. Sometimes His greatest miracle is that He stays — right there in the middle of the ache — until we can breathe again.

And then, slowly, through the cracks in our pain, hope begins to whisper. “It is well with my soul.” The words may tremble as we speak them, but they carry the weight of eternity. They remind us that our circumstances are not our identity, and our suffering is not the end of our story. The same God who calms the raging sea can calm the storm inside us. The same voice that spoke light into darkness still whispers to our hearts, “Peace, be still.”

There’s something powerful about that — the voice that commands creation also comforts the broken. “When the storm is raging, please don’t let me go.” It’s an honest plea, one that doesn’t demand the storm to end but simply asks for a steady hand to hold through it. Because storms will come — sometimes sudden, sometimes long — and they will shake everything that isn’t anchored in grace. But when our hearts are held by Jesus, we learn that peace isn’t found in escaping the storm; it’s found in resting in His arms while it rages.

“Oh voice that calms the sea, keep whispering to me.” The whispers of God are rarely loud — they come softly, often beneath the noise of our worry. They come through Scripture, through prayer, through the quiet knowing that we are still His. They remind us that He’s not finished yet. That even when we feel shattered, He’s holding the pieces with hands that know exactly how to make something beautiful out of them.

But when pain lingers too long, hearts can grow hard. Grief, disappointment, and fear can build walls where once there were windows. That’s why we pray, “Keep this heart from hardening like stone.” Because the danger of suffering isn’t only that it hurts — it’s that it tempts us to stop feeling altogether. It convinces us that numbness is safer than faith. But God doesn’t want numb hearts; He wants new ones. He wants to take what pain has turned to stone and make it flesh again — soft, alive, open to love, and capable of joy.

He does this by showing us, even in our suffering, that there is still reason to praise. “Show me through the pain, there’s reason still to praise.” That prayer might be one of the bravest a person can pray — not to remove the pain, but to redeem it. To find meaning in the middle of it. To trust that somehow, even this — the very thing that broke you — can be used for good.

And in time, as healing takes root, the song returns. It might start as a whisper, maybe even a cracked note through tears, but it’s there: It is well with my soul. It’s not denial. It’s not pretending everything’s fine. It’s surrender — the kind that releases the outcome and rests in the One who holds it all. It’s faith that says, “Whatever my lot, You are still my God.”

That declaration carries so much power because it acknowledges both pain and trust. It says, “I may not understand this, but I trust You anyway.” It’s a love song born from loss, a melody that rises from ashes. And it’s the very song that reminds us who we belong to — not a God who demands perfection, but a Savior who holds us through imperfection.

Faith like that doesn’t erase suffering, but it transforms it. It turns despair into depth, anguish into intimacy. When you’ve been through the fire and found Him faithful, you begin to see differently. The things that once seemed impossible to bear become the very places where His presence feels most real. You learn that peace is not a fragile calm but a fierce kind of trust — the kind that holds steady even when everything else shakes.

There are days when you won’t feel strong enough to pray. Days when “make it well with my soul” feels more like a desperate cry than a confident song. That’s okay. God hears both the melody and the silence. He’s as close in your weakness as He is in your worship. He doesn’t need you to perform; He just asks you to stay near.

Sometimes the healing comes slowly. Sometimes it doesn’t come the way we expect at all. But in every season, He remains the same — unchanging, unshaken, unfailing. He is still God in the storm. He is still God in the silence. And when we can no longer see the path, He becomes the light that guides us home.

So we keep singing, even when our voices shake. We keep trusting, even when the way ahead is unclear. We keep believing that peace is possible, not because life is kind, but because God is.

“Make it well with my soul.” It’s not a one-time prayer — it’s a daily surrender. It’s the continual letting go of control, the steady choosing of faith over fear. It’s learning to find God not only in the miracles but also in the waiting, the grieving, and the enduring. It’s realizing that peace isn’t the absence of storms, but the presence of Jesus in the middle of them.

And one day, when we look back from the other side of it all — when the storms have passed and the light breaks through — we’ll see that even in our pain, He was working. That every tear watered a garden of grace we couldn’t yet see. That every unanswered question led us closer to His heart.

Until then, we keep walking, keep worshiping, keep whispering the words that carry generations of faith before us:

It is well with my soul.

Because no matter what comes, no matter how dark the night or how heavy the burden — He is still our God. And He will make it well again.

The Church I Grew Up In

 There’s a little white church sitting quietly on the edge of town—nothing fancy, nothing polished, but everything sacred. The kind of place where the paint has weathered with the seasons and the bell still rings even when the wind is still. If you blink, you might drive right past it, thinking it’s just another relic of small-town history. But to those who’ve been inside, it’s holy ground. It’s the kind of place where heaven felt just a little bit closer—where the air seemed thick with prayer and grace still lingers like the faint scent of candles long burned out.

There are no flashing lights or towering stained-glass windows. The sign out front doesn’t boast a clever slogan, just a time for Sunday service and maybe a note about potluck night. The steeple leans a bit now, but it still points toward heaven, and the doors—those doors have never been locked. They’ve stayed open for the broken, the burdened, the lost, and the found. That little church has seen generations come and go, and yet its heartbeat remains the same: Jesus, only Jesus.

It was in that little church that many of us first saw the hand of God. Not through grand sermons or orchestrated events, but through the simple, ordinary moments that somehow became eternal. It was the whispered prayers of faithful mothers on Wednesday nights, the off-key hymns sung with hearts too full to care about pitch, and the laughter of children echoing through the fellowship hall. It was the cracked pews that held both our sorrow and our joy, the altar that caught our tears when words failed, and the communion table in the back where we learned the taste of grace.

You couldn’t tell us there wasn’t healing in those walls. We saw it—maybe not always in the miraculous, but in the quiet kind of healing that comes from community, from prayer, from love that refuses to give up. Angels walked those halls; I swear they did. You could feel their presence when someone would slip a hand into yours during prayer, or when a whole congregation would gather around a grieving family, offering casseroles, comfort, and the unspoken promise that no one walks through the valley alone.

On Wednesday nights, when the world felt quiet and small, the sound of prayer would rise from that place like incense. On Sunday mornings, we’d gather again, sleepy-eyed but full of expectation. We didn’t have much, but somehow, Jesus loved it. And that’s what made it enough. It wasn’t about the show or the spectacle—it was about the Savior who showed up every single time.

If you want to know why I am the way I am, it’s because of that church. Because of the lessons learned kneeling beside those wooden pews. Because of the people who lived out the gospel long before I ever understood it. It’s the mothers who prayed over us, the fathers who stood steady in faith, the pastors who preached not for applause but because they loved their flock. It’s the children who grew up singing “Jesus Loves Me” and the elders who never stopped believing it.

There are tear stains still in the carpet from nights of repentance, worship, and grief. There are fingerprints on the hymnals from hands that built this faith one verse at a time. There are names etched into memory—some who’ve gone home to glory, some who’ve wandered away—but their presence still lingers in the prayers that hover in the air. Because that’s what a church really is—it’s not the building, it’s the story of its people. It’s the sound of faith echoing through generations.

From wedding vows to funerals, from baby dedications to altar calls, that little church has held the full spectrum of life. Its walls have heard the laughter of new beginnings and the sobs of final goodbyes. The same bell that rang to celebrate a union has tolled to honor a departure. And through it all, God’s presence has remained steady—unchanging, unshaken.

It’s where I first learned the gospel—not from a textbook, but from lives lived out in love and sacrifice. It’s where my mother taught me to sing, her voice trembling but true, reminding me that worship isn’t about perfection—it’s about sincerity. It’s where I first understood that faith isn’t always loud or confident; sometimes it’s quiet, trembling, but still showing up week after week.

You can try to tell me the church isn’t alive today. You can point to scandals and divisions and all the ways humanity has stumbled in its stewardship of holiness. But I’ve seen too much to believe that God’s church is anything but alive. I’ve felt the Spirit move in tiny sanctuaries and massive auditoriums alike. I’ve seen lives changed, marriages healed, prodigals return. I’ve seen grace walk through the door in the form of a stranger’s kindness and redemption show up in the middle of a broken heart.

The church—God’s church—is not dying. It’s alive in every whispered prayer, every act of love, every heart that still believes there’s healing in these walls. It’s alive in the children who sing louder than anyone else, in the widows who still raise their hands in praise, in the families who show up even when life feels heavy. It’s alive in the way strangers become family, in the way grief turns into grace, in the way sinners become saints by the blood of Jesus.

And so I’ll tell my kids—and anyone who will listen—that there are still angels dancing down these halls. That every church, no matter how small or worn, can be a place where heaven meets earth. That even when the world grows cynical, even when faith feels forgotten, there are still people kneeling in prayer, still pastors preaching truth, still hearts being mended by the power of Christ.

We don’t need much. We never did. Just a place to gather, a song to sing, a Savior to worship. Jesus has always been enough.

So if you ever drive by a little white church with the steeple still attached, slow down. Listen closely. You might just hear the echoes of prayers that never stopped being answered. You might feel the warmth of a faith that refuses to fade. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll catch a glimpse of heaven’s light shining through its old, stained windows—proof that God’s church is still alive, still holy, still home.

Because it’s more than just a building.

It’s where faith was born.

It’s where love was learned.

It’s where grace still lingers in the air.

It’s the church I grew up in.

And it’s still alive today.

This Is My Manasseh

There are seasons in life when it feels like everything we loved or hoped for has been stripped away. Dreams fade, relationships fracture, faith wavers, and we are left standing in the ruins of what once felt sure. We look around at the wreckage of our hearts and wonder if restoration is even possible. But then, somehow—softly, quietly—God steps in and begins to rebuild. That’s the miracle of grace: it doesn’t just patch up what’s broken; it makes all things new.

“You redeem the innocence that’s stolen.” Those words strike deep, because there’s something sacred about innocence—it’s the part of us that believes freely, loves easily, and hopes without fear. And when life steals it through pain, betrayal, or hardship, we mourn more than just what happened—we mourn who we were before it did. But redemption is God’s specialty. He doesn’t just return what was lost; He purifies it. He takes what the enemy used for harm and turns it into something holy.

“You return the years I thought were taken.” If that doesn’t describe the faithfulness of God, nothing does. There are years we all wish we could have back—the ones filled with sorrow, regret, or survival instead of joy. Yet Scripture promises that He restores the years the locusts have eaten. The time you thought was wasted? It’s not. The prayers that seemed unanswered? They were building something unseen. The tears that fell in the dark? They watered the soil where new life would one day grow.

“You’re rebuilding every broken home inside my heart.” I love that line because it’s so personal. Sometimes the “home” that needs rebuilding isn’t a house—it’s the heart itself. It’s the place where hope once lived but now sits abandoned. But the same God who designed us from dust is also the Master Carpenter of restoration. He steps into the ruins, unafraid of the mess, and begins to rebuild room by room. He turns empty spaces into sanctuaries. He takes what was shattered by pain and lays a new foundation of peace.

And when He’s finished, we find ourselves whispering, “You made it all better.” Not because everything looks the same, but because somehow—through grace—it feels whole again.

“This is my Manasseh.” In the book of Genesis, Joseph named his first son Manasseh, saying, “God has made me forget all my trouble and all my father’s household.” Forget—not in the sense of erasing memory, but in the sense of releasing its grip. That’s what God does. He doesn’t delete the past; He redeems it. He transforms it from a source of pain into a testimony of His faithfulness.

When you’ve been through deep suffering—when you’ve watched life unravel and had to keep going anyway—you begin to understand that forgetting isn’t about denial. It’s about healing. It’s about reaching a point where the sting of the past no longer defines you. It’s about standing in the same place that once brought you pain and realizing it now holds peace. That’s Manasseh.

“Your goodness washes over all the pain of my past.” There’s something so beautiful about that image—God’s goodness flowing like water, softening every hardened edge, cleansing every wound. The past doesn’t disappear, but it loses its power. The bitterness that once took root begins to dissolve. The shame that once whispered lies begins to fall silent. And in its place, there’s freedom—a freedom that can only come from grace.

“This is my Manasseh. You’ve caused me to forgive.” Those words are both a declaration and a release. Forgiveness isn’t easy, especially when the wounds run deep. But it’s the only way to step fully into healing. Forgiveness doesn’t mean what happened was okay—it means we’re no longer letting it control us. It’s laying down our right to vengeance and picking up peace instead.

And here’s the truth: forgiveness is not just an act of mercy; it’s an act of faith. It’s trusting that God sees what we can’t, that He’s already working justice and redemption in ways we may never understand. It’s believing that His goodness is stronger than our grief.

“In all my broken places, You’re rewriting what’s been written.” What a powerful promise. The story isn’t over. The chapters of heartbreak, failure, and loss aren’t the final word. God is the Author and the Finisher of our faith, and when He picks up the pen, everything changes. He takes the same ink of sorrow and uses it to write redemption. He takes what was meant to destroy and uses it to build something eternal.

Maybe your heart, like mine, has places that still ache—places where dreams died or people walked away. Maybe you’re still waiting for your own Manasseh moment, still wondering if joy can exist after everything you’ve been through. But I can tell you this: it can. It will. Because God is not finished. He is rebuilding even now, often in ways we can’t yet see.

And one day, you’ll look back—not with bitterness, but with awe—and realize that the very thing that broke you also brought you closer to Him. You’ll see that His goodness really did wash over your pain. You’ll see that the forgiveness you thought was impossible became the key that unlocked your healing.

You’ll stand where you once fell. You’ll sing where you once wept. And you’ll say, “This is my Manasseh.”

Because when God restores, He doesn’t just mend—He multiplies. When He heals, He doesn’t just remove pain—He fills the emptiness with purpose. And when He rewrites your story, He doesn’t erase the past—He redeems it, line by line, until every page testifies to His love.

That’s who He is. That’s what He does.

And when the light finally breaks through the cracks of your broken places, you’ll know:

You are whole again.

You are free again.

And you are standing in your own Manasseh.