A Light for the Heart That Holds On

There’s a line that has echoed in my heart lately—“I can see a light that is coming for the heart that holds on.” It’s a promise, a whisper of hope that speaks to those of us walking through long, unrelenting seasons of struggle. For Tim and me, that line feels personal. His journey with PNES has been a road marked by uncertainty, fear, and faith all woven together. There have been days when the light felt distant, barely a flicker in the fog. And yet—even in the darkest moments—we’ve learned that holding on is not just surviving. It’s trusting that the light is real, even when you can’t yet see it breaking through.

Living with PNES means living with unpredictability. It’s the waiting, the watching, the helplessness that comes when the seizures take over and the world stands still for a few terrifying minutes. It’s the fatigue that lingers long after, the fear that shadows every plan, the constant recalibration of what “normal” looks like now. There are moments when it feels like the life we knew before has been replaced by something smaller, something confined within the boundaries of what we can handle today. And yet, through it all, God keeps whispering, “Hold on. I am here.”

The truth is, we don’t get to choose the storms that come. We don’t get to control how long they last or how fierce they become. But we do get to choose where we place our gaze. And somewhere along the way, we’ve learned that if you keep your eyes on the light—even when it’s faint—you’ll find the strength to keep walking. That light isn’t just the promise of relief someday; it’s the presence of God right now, in the middle of it all.

There’s something sacred about learning to live in the “but until that day comes.” That in-between space—between what hurts and what’s healed, between the questions and the answers—is where faith becomes real. It’s where trust stops being a concept and becomes a lifeline. There’s a tenderness that grows in the waiting, a deeper kind of faith that doesn’t depend on circumstances. When life strips away your certainty, you start clinging to something stronger. You start to realize that even when everything else falls apart, He doesn’t.

We’ve come to know that God’s glory isn’t only revealed in the miracles we can see—it’s revealed in the quiet endurance that only His strength can sustain. It’s in the nights when Tim can’t sleep and I sit beside him in the dark, whispering prayers into the silence. It’s in the mornings when he wakes weary but still determined to face the day. It’s in the moments when fear tries to choke us, and yet somehow peace finds a way to breathe through. Those are the miracles that happen right here, in the trenches of daily life.

“A glorious light beyond all compare…” That line reminds me that the suffering we experience now isn’t the end of the story. There is something waiting on the other side of this—a place where pain no longer exists, where fear no longer holds power, where the body and mind are whole again. But the beauty of God’s promise is that He doesn’t just save that glory for someday. He gives us glimpses of it now—through kindness, through grace, through the resilience that keeps us going.

Every day that Tim chooses to keep fighting, even when it’s hard—there’s glory in that. Every time he laughs again after a difficult spell, every time we find joy in the small things, every time we remind each other that we’re still here, still standing—that’s the light breaking through.

There will be an end to these troubles. That’s not wishful thinking—it’s the unshakable truth of God’s Word. But until that day comes, we live to know Him here on this earth. And maybe that’s the most powerful part of this journey: realizing that knowing Him doesn’t always come through easy seasons. Sometimes we come to know Him best when life doesn’t make sense. When we’ve reached the end of ourselves, that’s where His presence becomes the most tangible.

We’ve seen Him in hospital rooms and quiet living rooms. We’ve seen Him in the faces of people who have prayed with us and stood beside us. We’ve seen Him in the stillness after the storm, when we exhale and realize we made it through one more day. He’s there in the pain, not just beyond it. He’s not waiting for us on the other side of the valley—He’s walking beside us in it.

Faith isn’t pretending that everything’s okay. Faith is believing that even when it’s not, we’re still held. That there’s a light ahead strong enough to guide us, and a presence beside us faithful enough to carry us.

When I think about the light that’s coming, I think about every person walking through their own version of this valley—different diagnoses, different heartbreaks, but the same ache to see that light again. I want to tell them what I remind myself: you are not walking through the darkness alone. You are being guided by the One who sees the path even when you can’t. The One who promises that there will be an end to these troubles.

And when that day comes—when all that’s broken is made whole, when all the pain is finally quiet—we’ll understand what this waiting was for. But until then, we keep living. We keep loving. We keep believing that even in the middle of our pain, God is still good.

We live to know Him here on the earth.

Maybe that’s the miracle in itself—not that the storm ends, but that we can still see glimpses of heaven through it. That in the hardest parts of life, we can still feel His love wrapping around us, holding us together when we want to fall apart. That even when we’re weary, His light still finds us.

So we keep going. One day, one moment, one prayer at a time. Because we know there’s a light that is coming for the heart that holds on—a glorious light beyond all compare. And though this season may be long, and though the road may be hard, we are not without hope.

The diagnosis changed our days, but it did not define our future. The seizures may shake the body, but they cannot shake our faith. The night may last longer than we want, but morning will come—and with it, the light that has been there all along.

Until that day, we’ll keep holding on. We’ll keep trusting in the promise that even here, in the middle of the storm, there is beauty to be found. We’ll keep living to know Him—deeply, intimately, faithfully—right here on this earth.

Because this I know: for every heart that holds on, the light is coming. And when it does, every shadow will fade, every tear will make sense, and every weary soul will finally rest in the presence of the One who never left our side.