There is a quiet irony hidden inside the word illness. Our emotions, when left untended, can drift into places of unrest, imbalance, and inner ache — a kind of emotional illness that leaves us weary and overwhelmed.

But something remarkable happens when we place two powerful letters in front of that word: S for Spirit and T for Truth.

“When Spirit and Truth meet our emotions, illness becomes STILLNESS.”

Emotional STILLNESS is not the absence of feeling — it is the sacred space where our emotions are held, healed, and transformed by the presence of God.

The Unsettling Gift of Stillness

“Be still before the Lord and wait patiently for Him.” — Psalm 37:7

Stillness sounds peaceful in theory, but in practice it can feel like stepping into a room where every echo of our past suddenly grows louder. Our lives are filled with mind clutter, noise pollution, and a constant stream of useless information that steals our time and fractures our attention.

We long for quiet — until the quiet arrives. Then the ghosts of old memories, unresolved grief, and buried fears rise to the surface.

Stillness becomes unsettling. Silence becomes intimidating. And we instinctively reach for noise again because the noise feels safer than the truth.

But God does some of His deepest work in the places we resist the most.

The Storm of Emotion — and the God Who Speaks to It

Emotions are not flaws; they are divine fingerprints. They set us apart as image‑bearers of a God who feels, who loves, who grieves, who rejoices. Yet navigating our emotions can feel like steering a fragile vessel through gale‑force winds.

In the thick of the storm, it’s easy to forget the One who walked on water. We forget the One who spoke to the wind, “Peace, be still” (Mark 4:39). We forget the One who holds back oceans and sustains galaxies.

He is still the God of power and might. He is still the God who calms storms — both around us and within us. And He invites us to walk on the waves with Him, not drown beneath them.

The Secret Place Where Healing Begins

“In the stillness of prayer, God is found.”

There is a holy hush that settles over the soul when we retreat into the secret place — not to perform, not to strive, but simply to be.

No false pretense. No harsh self‑judgment. Just the quiet nearness of a Father who knows how to comfort the aching places we hide from everyone else.

Stillness becomes a sanctuary where the divine presence wraps around the wounded heart like a warm blanket. It is here that recovery can begin. It is here that the soul exhales.

“But the LORD is in His holy temple; let all the earth be silent before Him.” — Habakkuk 2:20

There is reverence in stillness. There is revelation in stillness. There is restoration in stillness.

The Battle in the Quiet

Stillness is not empty — it is contested. The enemy loves noise because noise keeps us numb.

When we finally quiet ourselves before God, the enemy rushes in with accusations, shame, and reminders of our past. He tries to convince us that his voice is God’s voice.

But Scripture is clear: “Resist the devil, and he will flee from you.” — James 4:7

Stillness is where we learn to recognize the Shepherd’s voice above every lie. Stillness is where truth becomes louder than fear. Stillness is where we remember who we are — and whose we are.

The Revelation Found in Rest

“Rest in God alone, O my soul, for my hope comes from Him.” — Psalm 62:5

God calls us into stillness not to punish us, but to prepare us. Not to expose us, but to restore us. Not to silence us, but to speak to us more clearly.

In stillness, He reveals His provision. In stillness, He deepens our faith. In stillness, He uncovers purpose, calling, and identity — the things He placed within us before we took our first breath.

Sometimes His answers don’t align with our desires. But surrender is where trust becomes real. And trust is where transformation begins.

He beckons us into the quiet so He can cover us with His feathers, renew our strength, and awaken the joy we thought we lost.

Stillness is the place where we discover who we have been all along — we were simply drowned out by the noise.

Emotional stillness is not the absence of emotion, but the sacred space where God restores the soul to its true identity. And it is here He calls, “Come away with me child, and rest a while.”

Prayer

Father, Teach us the beauty of stillness. Quiet the noise within and around us so we can hear Your voice with clarity and peace. Heal the places in us that feel fragile, overwhelmed, or afraid. In the stillness, reveal Your truth, Your comfort, and Your purpose. Let Your Spirit settle our emotions, calm our storms, and draw us deeper into Your presence. May we rest in Your love, trust in Your goodness, and rise renewed by Your strength. Amen.

This is a conversation space exclusively for subscribers—kind of like a group chat or live hangout.

This is a quiet place for honest hearts where we engage in Spirit-led dialogue for the everyday soul. A place where reflection becomes relationship. I hope you find this a gentle space to think, feel, and grow. A sanctuary where real talk for real life, is rooted in grace.

• Let’s walk this road together.

• Become a gathering place for seekers and storytellers.

• be part of a community where your voice matters and your heart is welcome.

• You are invited into this circle of grace, honesty, and hope.

• Come join the conversation — you belong here.

Join chat

How to get started

1. Get the Substack app by clicking this link or the button below. New chat threads won’t be sent sent via email, so turn on push notifications so you don’t miss conversation as it happens. You can also access chat on the web.

Get app

2. Open the app and tap the Chat icon. It looks like two bubbles in the bottom bar, and you’ll see a row for my chat inside.

3. That’s it! Jump into my thread to say hi, and if you have any issues, check out Substack’s FAQ.

When pain hits, the first question that rises is often, “Lord, what did I do wrong?” We’ve been conditioned to believe that hardship is punishment, that suffering is the result of failure, that loss is a sign of God’s disappointment in us.

But that’s just not the truth - even though it might feel like it.

Sometimes God allows pruning not because we’ve done something wrong, but because He sees something ahead — something we cannot yet see — and He knows what must be removed for us to grow into it.

When the Blade Comes Close

Let me be candid? Pruning hurts. It brings tears. It brings fear. It brings a kind of internal trembling that makes me wonder if I’ll ever feel whole again.

There are days when the emotional and spiritual cutting feel unbearable — like God is taking too much, too fast, too deeply and certainly too soon. But even in those moments, something in me whispers, “He is not cutting to harm me. He is cutting to heal me.”

Jesus said:

“Every branch that bears fruit He prunes, that it may bear more fruit.” — John 15:2

Did you see it? Every branch that bears fruit…” Here we see Him pruning a fruitful branch. Not a dead limb, a leafless branch or diseased bark. Why? Jesus tells us why;

“… that it may bear more fruit.” It’s as if Jesus says, “Look at all that good fruit. Let’s produce even more!” It occurred to me as I reflected on this verse that pruning is not punishment but rather proof of His care for me.

What I’ve Learned From the Garden

I’m not a master gardener, but I’ve learned enough to understand this: A good gardener never prunes out of frustration. He prunes out of intention. Pruning stimulates growth. Pruning increases fruitfulness. Pruning protects the plant from future harm. Pruning produces healthy branches so sunlight can reach the places where new fruit will form.

A tree doesn’t understand why the blade is touching it. But the Gardener does.

There is a spiritual parallel at work here; God, the Master Gardener, prunes us in this same way. While He indeed prunes fruitful branches, there may be seasons where He needs to also remove what is dead. He sometimes needs to trim what is draining us. He cuts away what is wounding us. He shapes what is healthy so it can become even more fruitful. And He does it with precision. With purpose. With love. Never with anger. Never with disappointment. Never with the intention to destroy.

James wrote:

“Count it all joy when you face trials… for the testing of your faith produces perseverance.” — James 1:2–3

Joy doesn’t mean we enjoy the cutting. It means we trust the Gardener. I’ve had to embrace the truth that while pruning seems long and painful, it is temporary. I am learning to rest in the truth that fruit is eternal and this temporary suffering will never compare to the glories of heaven. Pruning is necessary for this glory.

Paul said:

“Our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory…” — 2 Corinthians 4:17

Walking Through Painful Seasons

Pruning seasons are some of the loneliest places I’ve ever walked. There are days I can’t feel God at all. Days when grief sit heavy on my chest. Days when I wonder if I will ever be the same.

But here is what I’m learning — not from theory, but from survival:

• Jesus walks BEFORE me to prepare the way.

• Jesus walks BESIDE me to steady my steps.

• Jesus walks BEHIND me to guard what I cannot see.

• Jesus walks WITHIN me to comfort where words cannot reach.

I don’t always perceive His presence. But my feelings do not determine His faithfulness. His Word does.

He promised:

“I will never leave you nor forsake you.” — Hebrews 13:5

Never. Never, ever, ever! Not in the cutting. Not in the crushing. Not in the crying. Not in the confusion. Not in the seasons when everything feels stripped bare.

How to Persevere When You’re Being Pruned

Here are the things I’ve had to practice — sometimes imperfectly, sometimes desperately:

1. I do my best to stay close to the Vine. Even when I don’t feel spiritual. Even when I feel numb. I must stay near Jesus.

2. I let myself grieve. Pruning involves loss. Loss deserves tears. I shed them regularly.

3. I try not to isolate. I let safe people sit with me. I don’t need fixing or answers— I simply need presence.

4. I keep talking to God. Even if all I can say is, “Help me.” And I say that a lot!

5. I trust the process (Well, some days). I don’t have to understand why something is happening to be transformed by it. But I sure wish I did. The absence of closure and explanation is a constant struggle for me. I somehow feel if I could just make sense of things the pain would lessen. And so I trust while in the presence of uncertainty and try to extend grace to myself even when I faulter.

6. I remember the purpose. God prunes with my future in mind — a future I just cannot yet see. I pray often for Him to show me even a glimpse of my purpose.

The blade definitely cuts, yet His Word reveals the blessing that always follows. The God who prunes me is the same God who will bring me into full bloom. I keep watching for those flower blossoms to unfold. I trust God to give me the strength to accept the blade for the greater good of the pruning.

A Prayer for the Pruned Heart

Lord, when Your pruning blade comes close, steady my trembling heart. Help me trust that Your hands are gentle, Your timing is perfect, and Your purpose is always good.

Cut away what harms me, even when I cling to it.

Shape what is healthy, even when I resist it.

Strengthen what remains, even when I feel weak.

Make me fruitful in ways I can’t even imagine. Remind me, again and again, (and ten-times again) that You prune because You love me — not to break me, but to make me whole. Amen.

I want to make wise choices. I want to be informed. I want to honor God. But we’re living in a world drowning in information, and instead of clarity, I often feel swallowed by noise. And the noise never seems to stop. Everywhere I turn, someone has an opinion — professionals, influencers, friends, strangers, algorithms. Everyone has something to say, and somehow all that talking leaves me more confused than when I started.

Somewhere along the way, I stopped trusting my own God‑given instincts. Maybe this is what grief temporarily does to the mind. Through the prolonged stress, it appears I stopped listening to that quiet inner nudge. I stopped giving myself permission to question things that didn’t sit right. I was conditioned — like so many of us — to defer to authority, to silence my own discernment, to shrink back from critical thinking.

I have come to believe that when you’re overwhelmed, exhausted, and unsure which voice to trust, decision‑making starts to feel a little ridiculous.

Honestly? Some days it feels like I’m tossing bologna at the ceiling just to see what sticks.

Yes, bologna. That floppy, questionable lunch meat from childhood. Because sometimes life really is that absurd!

My Bologna‑Ceiling Moments

There have been seasons where I researched, prayed, sought counsel, read articles, watched videos, and gathered so many opinions that I couldn’t even remember what I thought anymore. Some days I get so tangled up in the “what ifs” and “should haves” and “maybe this is the right way” that I end up mentally exhausted and spiritually numb.

And in those moments of exasperation and despair, I think, Fine. Let’s just throw the bologna at the ceiling and see what sticks. Yes, this is an immature junior high response to stress but that’s my current reality. Sometimes life isn’t pretty.

But here’s something I’ve had to learn the hard way:

I can only make the best decision I can with the information I have at the time. My expectations of myself are brutal and unproductive if I don’t manage them correctly. There is nothing wrong with setting boundaries and having healthy expectations. It’s when those expectations go amuck and deviate from truth. I can allow fear to lead me to a place of wanting perfection because perfection to me, means acceptance; acceptance means being loved; being loved means I’ll be safe and people will never hurt me or leave. This of course is not practical thinking, yet completely understandable as I navigate this fallen world. If not kept in check I can allow my past experiences to shroud my future. I must therefore release these false accusations, unobtainable stories, and resonate in the truth of God’s amazing grace and not my tyrannical condemnation of self. “

“There is therefore now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus.” Romans 8:1

Truth is, when it comes to decision making, if later I discover a better option, that doesn’t mean I failed. It means I learned. Even so, learning can often come with undesirable outcomes and for that, I still grieve. Yes, I forgive myself for not being perfect. I know I am covered by oceans of grace, yet grief still creeps in for a time to try and trip me up and perpetrate lies of hopelessness and futility.

I am always wiser in hindsight. I rarely have perfect foresight. And sometimes, in seasons of grief or overwhelm, I barely have any sight at all.

I realize through it all, God never asked me to be all‑knowing. He simply asked me to trust Him. Why is this such a struggle? It reminds me of the Apostle Paul’s admission of struggle in Romans 7:15, “ What I don’t understand about myself is that I decide one way, but then I act another, doing things I absolutely despise.”

Learning to Listen Again

The Bible doesn’t pretend life is simple. It doesn’t promise that every decision will be clear or that every path will be smooth. But it does promise guidance, presence, and peace.

“Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways acknowledge Him, and He will direct your paths.” — Proverbs 3:5–6

I’ve had to relearn that. I’ve had to relearn how to quiet the noise and listen for the Holy Spirit — not the loudest voice in the room, not the most confident opinion, not the pressure of expectations.

Jesus said:

“My sheep hear My voice… and they follow Me.” — John 10:27

Not because the sheep are brilliant. Not because they always choose correctly. But because they listen for the Shepherd’s voice and He is always faithful.

Even when I blow it, He doesn’t abandon me. He doesn’t shame me. He doesn’t say, “You should’ve known better.”

Only “I” say those things to myself. My loving, heavenly Father is encouraging me to think like He thinks, speak His truth, not my learned lies, and earnestly embrace the truth that I am who He says I am; a blood bought child of God. (Hebrews 9:12). Infinitely loved, eternally held and a divine delight in my Fathers eyes.

He gathers me up with His wrap‑around love and carries me through the consequences, the confusion, and the course‑corrections.

Our Histories Shape Our Decisions

I’ve also learned that not everyone approaches decisions from the same emotional starting point.

Some people grew up in stable homes where mistakes were allowed, questions were welcomed, and love was steady. For them, decision‑making may feel stressful, but not identity‑shattering.

Others — like me, like many of us — grew up in homes where safety wasn’t guaranteed, where love was inconsistent, where mistakes were punished, or where needs were overlooked. For us, decisions can feel terrifying. Every choice feels like a test. Every misstep feels like a guilty verdict.

These hearts need more patience. More gentleness. More presence. More love.

And that’s why I desire and pray for release from being my own “bologna police” — I no longer want to be the person who looks in the mirror pointing out what I should’ve done, could’ve done, or would’ve done if I were wiser, stronger, or more spiritual.

Sometimes the holiest thing I can do is sit in my confusion and not try to fix me. Jesus will place me on the Potters wheel and make me perfect by His hands, not my own. The child in me wants to invite Jesus to come sit with me and toss bologna at the ceiling as we giggle till tears stream down our face. Oh how I need joy tears to help balance the tears of grief and loss.

The Hope That Holds Me

Prayer is powerful, but I’ll be honest — sometimes it feels strange talking to God because I can’t physically see Him. I yearn for that intimacy where I gaze into His eyes, see Him smile, and hear His audible voice speak, “I love you.” Until that time, it’s my hope that keeps me semi-grounded and moving forward. When I can’t see him in my human limitation, hope is what whispers, “He is here. He is listening. He is guiding.” Hope is what reminds me that God is true to His promises even when life is not true to my expectations.

He restores joy. He rebuilds what is broken. He redeems what was lost. He restores what has been dismantled. He renews what has been destroyed.

Restoration takes time. Every person’s timeline is different. Patience begins with trusting God’s perfect timing.

Easy? Not at all.

Absolutely necessary? You betcha!

I don’t like waiting yet waiting strengthens hope in God. And so I wait. God’s plans unfold in His perfect time and I’m learning how to rest in this.

““Wait for the Lord; be strong, and let your heart take courage; wait for the Lord!” — Psalm 27:14

At the end of my life, I know I’ll look back and realize: I did the best I could with the wisdom I had at the moment of each experience. I made decisions with the light I was given. I walked through seasons I didn’t understand. And grace — not perfection — carried me through every mountain and valley.

A Final Word That Sticks

The Father cannot love us more than He already does. And nothing we do will ever make Him love us less. Even if every slice of bologna falls from the ceiling… even if nothing sticks… even if every decision feels uncertain…

God will always stick with me. And He will always stick with you.

So, friend… grab a package of bologna and come sit with me. Let’s laugh, pray, and toss it at the ceiling together — because even if nothing else sticks, our King always does. His love is the one thing that never fails, never loosens, and never lets go.

Prayer

Lord,
In the midst of all the choices, the noise, and the uncertainty of life, draw my heart back to You. Quiet the voices that overwhelm me and strengthen the faith that anchors me. Teach me to trust Your wisdom above my own understanding and to rest in the assurance that You are guiding my steps, even when the path feels unclear.

When I feel unsure, be my peace.
When I feel afraid, be my courage.
When I feel lost, be my Shepherd.

Thank You for Your unfailing love — a love that holds me steady, leads me gently, and never lets me go. Help me walk forward with confidence, knowing that Your grace covers my past, Your presence fills my present, and Your promises secure my future.

Amen.

Maybe that’s not what most people spend their quiet moments on, but in this undefined season of my life, my thoughts have taken on a mind of their own. Everything seems to be a lesson now, and I don’t even have to look very hard. There’s a cascade of reflections surrounding unchartered waters, hesitant new beginnings, old pains, and that strange in‑between place where silence breathes and the world looks curiously different and out of place.

The other day I made toast. Gluten‑free, because that’s my life now. The toaster looked fine—elements glowing red on both sides—yet when the slice popped up, only the right side was golden and crisp. The left side was spongy and raw. Half toasted. Perfectly imperfect. Ridiculous, and somehow exactly the metaphor I needed.

We like toast whole. We like both sides equal: golden, warm, butter melting into all the little crevices. Some people like it barely kissed by heat, others like it nearly burnt, but we all expect it to be toasted on both sides. We don’t anticipate a half‑done slice staring back at us like it’s confused about its own identity; yet, there it was. The defining moment of “me.”

I checked the toaster, fiddling with the settings, searching for a reason for this oddity. The toaster seemed to be working. So why this peculiar result? I have no idea. And that’s exactly the point.

It gave me pause to think that when someone you love is gone, you feel like that half‑toasted slice—one side warmed by memory and love, the other side cold and raw because the person who completed you is no longer here. You were whole, and now you’re half. You can’t make sense of it. You can’t fix it. You can’t toast the missing side back into existence. Oh, but how the heart longs to be able to.

Grief feels like that moment when the toaster pops up that half toasted bread and you realize life will never look the same again.

Remember The Brave Little Toaster? I love that animated movie. I thought about it recently.

The little toaster went through trials, fears, and lonely moments. It pressed on even when it felt abandoned. It kept moving when everything in it wanted to shut down. I can identify. Grief calls us to be brave in that same strange way.

Bravery however is not the absence of fear. Bravery is facing fear seemingly alone yet remembering that Jesus is beside you and nothing in or out of this world can pull Him away. He is never absent. He is always near.

Bravery is not standing before a giant believing you’ll win—it’s standing there knowing that with Christ, win or lose, you always win because Jesus is with you. Like the three Hebrew boys in the fire: Jesus didn’t meet them before they were thrown in fiery blaze. He met them in it.

Grief feels like an ominous valley. Psalm 23’s valley of the shadow of death. The place where you walk through darkness, yet cling to the promise that the Shepherd walks with you.

Maybe David wrote those words while facing Goliath, maybe not. But the truth remains: he was staring at something enormous, something threatening, something that could have destroyed him—and yet he knew God was preparing a table for him even in the presence of his enemies.

God has not stopped doing that for us.

Lessons From a Little Toaster

In The Brave Little Toaster movie, a group of old appliances set out on a journey to find their master after being left in a cabin in the woods. Sometimes grief feels exactly like that—abandoned in the woods, unsure where the Master is, unsure how to move forward.

Along the journey of uncertainty, we will face obstacles, dangers, and moments of despair. Yet we persevere. Persevering is not for the weak. It is pressing on when you don’t feel like moving. In grief, perseverance looks like simply getting out of bed every morning. It’s taking a shower when you would rather sleep in. It’s forcing yourself to eat something even though your stomach is in knots and seems to be doing back flips. Sometimes it’s sitting in the quiet while your mind is still reverberating with noise. It’s the waking up exhausted yet grateful you are still waking up.

There is one scene in the movie that has always stayed with me: Lampy, the little lamp, sacrifices himself by acting as a lightning rod to recharge a dead battery. His bulb burns out, but the battery comes back to life.

Isn’t that what Jesus did? He gave His life because our light had burned out. He absorbed the strike so we could shine again.

Later in the movie, we see the brave little toaster throw himself into the crushing gears of a junkyard machine to save the other appliances. Again, isn’t this what Jesus did for you and I. He stepped into the crushing gears of death to break its power over us once and for all.

There are so many parallels, so many quiet lessons tucked into a simple animated film. And somehow, all of them circle back to my half‑toasted slice of bread.

When Half Will One Day Be Whole

My half‑and‑half toast is a reminder that life on this side of loss will always feel a little uneven. One side warm with memory, the other side cold with absence. One side golden, the other unfinished.

Herein lies the hope that I hold on to:

There will come a day when half will become whole again. A day when what feels uneven will be level and smooth. A day when the raw places will be refined and healed. A day when loss will no longer define the shape of our lives but stand as a testimony of how faithfully Christ carried us through.

God is not finished with our story. He is not done healing the parts of us that feel undone. He is not done bringing warmth to places that feel cold.

One day, the slice will be whole again. Not because life returns to what it was, but because God makes all things new.

Even toast. Even grief. Even me. Even you.

Prayer

Lord, Thank You for meeting me in the places that feel unfinished, uneven, and painfully half‑done. You see the parts of my life that are warm with memory and the parts that feel cold with loss, and You hold both with tenderness. Teach me to trust that You are still working, still healing, still bringing wholeness where I can only see halves.

Give me courage for the days that feel heavy and strength for the moments when simply rising is an act of faith. Walk with me through the valleys, steady me heart when fear whispers loudly, and remind me that Your presence is the warmth I cannot manufacture on our own; just receive.

Restore what grief has taken. Redeem what sorrow has touched. Renew what feels broken beyond repair.

And as I wait for the day when everything is made whole again, let Your peace settle over me like morning light. Let Your love be the steady flame that never goes out. Let Your hope rise in me

, quiet but sure.

In Jesus’ name, Amen.

When two people become one in mind and spirit, the loss of one severs more than routine and familiarity. It severs the place where you were known most deeply; loved unconditionally and accepted completely. Catch that? Known. Loved. Accepted.

The empty chair is now a visible divide between heaven and earth—the place where laughter once echoed yet now only silence answers. It is proof that the love was real while at the same time a painful reminder that absence is permanent.

Grief is a deep wound; loneliness is a hunger. Try not to confuse the two. Grief is the reaction to intense loss. It is a deep mental anguish that is relentless. It’s the raw, bone‑deep rearrangement of a life that once had a center. The deeper the love, the deeper the wound. Grief is not a problem to be fixed. It’s a re‑forming of identity. A recalibrating and struggle to once again find ones true north. When your spouse dies, you do not simply lose a companion—you lose the person who saw you in ways no one else could and loved you even more because of who you are. You lose the home that felt like home because of their presence. The heart yearns to once again capture the fullness of relationship, to experience the life that once was, yet you must accept the harsh reality that life as you knew it is forever altered and permanently changed.

Grief can ambush you in grocery aisles, in a yoga class, in everyday tasks like laundry, cooking or mowing the lawn. It is aggressive and rude, barging into your space with no thought or care for the outcome. Grief is personal, unpredictable, and changes you in ways you never imagined nor can you easily accept or understand.

It’s important to differentiate between grief and loneliness. While on the surface they seem synonymous, they are not. Loneliness is different. Loneliness is the ache that comes from a gap between the connection you want and the connection you have. You can be in a crowded room and feel lonely; you can be surrounded by people and still be unseen. Loneliness is social pain that motivates us toward relationships. It can often be eased by presence, by being known, by honest conversation. Grief, however, sits deeper.

When we treat grief like loneliness—suggesting more social activity, more “hang in there” platitudes, or the well‑meaning push to “get back out there”—we miss the depth of what the bereaved carry. At times people well meaning people mistakenly assume the grieving person needs spiritual fixing or that their pain is evidence of weak faith. Suggesting such only shames the already grieving into silence. While it is true those wanting to comfort the grieving come from a place of love, not understanding the depth of grief can inadvertently wound the already shattered and broken heart.

The empty chair makes this clear. People see the empty chair and are at a loss for how to help the mourner. They may want to fill it with company, with distraction, with good intentions. But the chair is not the problem to be solved; it’s the evidence of a life now suddenly altered. The grieving person needs presence that honors the chasm between what once was, yet what will never be the same again.

True confession? I tried to control the uncontrollable. (Yeah, I’m still a work in progress). I tried to script conversations so people would respond the way I needed. I tried to manage other people’s comfort so I could feel safe. That illusion of control is seductive and exhausting. It promises peace if I can just make everything line up. But control is not comfort; it’s a prison.

In my season of grief, I have discovered what I need most is Jesus with skin on—someone who loves me who will sit in the silence with me, let the tears flow without trying to fix them, acknowledge the empty chair with me and not pretend it isn’t there. Scripture meets us in our pain. Psalm 34:18 says, “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted.”

Isaiah 41:10 says, “Do not fear, for I am with you.” These are not platitudes; they are promises that God sits in the pain and anguish with us. He is present in the silence, understanding in the questioning amid chaos, and sensitive to the ruminating that haunts us and steals our sleep. He knows our limitations, weaknesses and struggles. He knows we need human connection so His grace and compassion made provision. He lovingly places people to come alongside us in our journey, and uses them to reflect His heart of comfort towards us.

There is a vulnerable rawness to grief. You can’t rush a timeline. For the grieving, there is a real heart need for God’s promises to be the steadying voice when everything else is loud. For the one mourning, it’s all about God’s people showing up and just being present in the pain. Practical love matters. It’s vital to remember the empty chair. Acknowledge it. Name the person who sat there. Speak their name. Let memory be honored, not erased.

While not always easy, I know I must anchor myself in Scriptures that holds me, still I must confess, I have not yet arrived. I often cling to Psalm 147:3 “He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.” The Passion Translation resonates with me as I grieve; “God heals the wounds of every shattered heart.”

My heart has been shattered. I know only Divine Father can (and will) put me back together again. (Ok, admit it… You just heart the Humpty Dumpty rhyme in your head!)

Yes, grief sometimes shatters the heart to the point of despair, questioning if God will really deliver on His promises. This is raw truth and a very real struggle. But you know, God desires for us to be real and truthful with Him. Let’s face it…. He knows your heart and unspoken words anyway.

I am grateful for a loving Father who does not shame me by telling me to have more faith but rather He says, “I know child, I know. I am here.” then He sits with me in the moment, in the pain. I am still learning how to let God’s promises be the steadying voice when everything else is loud. Grief shatters the heart in a way that only God Himself can heal. It’s His promises that will outlast the empty chair.

The empty chair will not be filled again in the way it once was. That is the hard, holy truth. But the chasm between heaven and earth is not a place of abandonment. God is with us in the gap. He is the God who binds up the brokenhearted and gives beauty for ashes. He meets us with mercy, covers us with grace, hides us in the clef of the rock, leads us through the darkness of the valley, and lovingly sits with us in the ashes of sorrow and despair.

If you are grieving, your questions, your fears, your disappointments and asking God “why?” are not disqualifying. Your tears are not a failure of faith. Your experience is real, your sorrow sacred, your broken heart cradled in the arms of Jesus.

To those who want to help a grieving heart heal, simply come close. Sit. Listen. Hug the bereaved. What you may not realize is the grieving soul is suddenly deprived of physical contact. They need hugs to remind them of Jesus’ presence as well as to ground them in the present. Presence is powerful and healing. Remember the empty chair and regard it with reverence and tenderness. In doing so you honor what was lost and you make room for God’s healing to begin.

Oh, dear grieving soul- I see you, I hear you, I am you. I sit in the shattered dreams, long for the unspoken words, and contemplate life’s meaning, desperate to rediscover my new purpose in a world turned upside down and suddenly unfamiliar and seemingly void.

I don’t know much these days but this one thing I do know: God holds what we cannot, and He will carry us through until the morning light once again rises upon the horizon of our shattered heart.

This morning I walked past a majestic linden tree in my yard and found its fallen branches scattered like quiet testimony after a storm. The sight stayed with me: the wind had done what seasons and care sometimes cannot—it had stripped away what was dead, leaving the living trunk and the deep, hidden roots. As I stood there, the Holy Spirit pressed a simple truth into my heart: sometimes God allows a shaking so life can be healthier, not harmed. I am in that shaking!

The Linden Tree

This linden tree has always been my favorite. During the summer months it is so beautiful with its spring fragrance and its full canopy of generous leaves reflecting many shades and hues of green. It gracefully displays pretty little white, perfume like flowers. It is truly a magnificent creation of God.

However, after a massive windstorm, the ground was littered with brittle limbs that no longer served the tree. I realized that they were not part of its strength; they were weight and risk. What initially looked like destruction I realized was actually the opposite. The storm did not aim to destroy the tree but to remove what would otherwise rot and invite disease. As I reflected upon my current season of grief and loss, I felt that same gentle, painful wisdom in my spirit—pruning is not punishment but preparation.

The Lesson of Roots

What comforted me most was how firmly the tree still stood. Its roots are unseen, buried deep, anchoring it through the sudden gusts. I found myself whispering a tear filled prayer thanking the Lord for keeping my roots strong during my time of pain and uncertainty. I thought of lives that look fine on the surface until a strong wind comes; those with shallow roots topple quickly. Yet the person who has spent years growing in the truth of God’s Word—who has been watered by prayer, repentance, and faithful obedience—this is the child of God who will stand when the gale force comes, which surely, they will. I genuinely prayed, “Lord, I never want to topple; be the strength of my life; secure my roots in You.”

Albeit it painful, I am beginning to accept the truth that shaking is meant to remove dead weight so my roots can go deeper, and my trunk can grow stronger. While necessary, this shaking does not minimize the pain that comes from loss. Even so, I thank the Lord for holding me steady even when I feel like my root structure is severely challenged. He simply reminded me: Shallow roots break; deep roots endure.

Finding Solace

Jesus spoke to the storm and said, “Peace, be still.” (Mark 4:39). That same trustworthy voice speaks to our hearts when life’s winds roar. Jeremiah reminds us that the one who trusts the Lord will be like a tree planted by water, whose roots reach deep and who does not fear heat or drought. (Jeremiah 17:7–8).

When I feel frightened by the intensity of the winds coming against me, I return to this promise: the same Jesus who entered the storm with His friends is with me now. He came to Daniel in the lions’ den and stood with Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego in the fire—He is not distant from our trials; He is present in them. Somedays I “feel” this truth and other days I simply must believe even when I am sitting among life’s broken limbs and scattered branches.

In reflecting I believe the wind’s work is surgical. It takes what is dead, what clings out of habit or fear, and it exposes what must be tended. This pruning feels like deep loss, yet it is this very pruning that often frees our branches to bear new fruit.

This exposure is painful, yes, but it’s also clarifying. I am learning what to nourish and what to let go of. It is not easy. Letting go challenges familiarity, comfort, security and truly calls one to dig deep. The ask of God, “Do you trust Me?” suddenly becomes a declarative: “Trust Me.”

Trust involves an unwavering belief in the integrity, ability, and proven character of the one asking. In the shaking of life, the Father is asking me, asking you, to place all confidence and reliance on Him and His proven faithfulness. To remember that He is in the shaking wind and He is also the peace in the storm.

If like me, you find your branches breaking or your heart bending under grief, remember the roots God has been growing in you. They are the work of years—quiet, unseen, steady. The wind will come; it will test and it will clear. Take courage though in knowing that the presence of Jesus does not change. He speaks peace into the storm, He walks with us in the fire, and He steadies our roots so we can stand. Let the shaking do its work: it is not the end but the making of a stronger, deeper life for the Lord.

When the wind strips away the dead, trust the roots God has planted—He is standing with you.

It seems in 2026 there is so much noise in our heads that we continually wrestle with pockets of distraction amid cranial chaos. There’s seldom any vacant space with all the noise for us to hear and recognize that still small voice of God trying to penetrate our heart.

As I contemplated this small, almost invisible word, I began to reflect upon how such a small word, masterfully woven throughout Scripture seems to carry a holy invitation.

AS is a hinge word — a word that connects heaven to earth, God’s nature to our calling, and His love to our relationships. “AS” is not just comparison; it’s formation. It’s God saying, “Let what is true in Me become true in you.”

“AS” becomes an invitation to wholeness, to truth, and to grace.

While I can’t address ever scripture passage that might use “AS,” below are a few “AS” invitations in scripture that I am learning are critical for my current and future growth and healing. Maybe they will prove insightful for you as well.

1. AS Yourself — The Measure of Love

Jesus didn’t say, “Love your neighbor when it’s easy.” He said, “Love your neighbor as yourself.”

The word “as” becomes a mirror. It asks:

• How do you speak to yourself? (Yeah, I felt conviction here as well!)

• How do you care for your own needs? (It’s rewarding to care for others. However, one must also learn that it’s equally, if not exceedingly, more rewarding to care for oneself ).

• How do you extend grace to your own heart? (For me, I try to remember that the Lord’s heart is beating as one with my heart. How could that be anything other than grace?)

2. AS He Is — The Promise of Transformation

John writes, “We shall see Him as He is.” And in that seeing, we will be changed.

Years ago, I loved singing the Sandy Patti Song titled “Be Shall Behold Him.” Every time I performed that song, I was certain that the Lord would suddenly descend into the room, beautiful golden angel dust, glittering lights, legions of angels, all to accompany Him as He scooped me up into His arms and carried me away into heaven as we both laughed and giggled. The Lord must still have a ministry and destiny for me becasue as of the time of this writing, I haven’t been scooped up. (Check in on me tomorrow for a status update, lol)

Right now, in this season of my personal life transitions, I see dimly — through grief, through questions, through the fog of life. But the word “AS” curiously points me forward. It whispers: “There is a day coming when clarity will replace confusion, and you will behold Him without distortion.” Hallelujah!

Speaking of distortion, you know that “day coming when clarity will replace confusion”? Yeah, I’m considering ordering my “day coming” off of Amazon soon. Hopefully it will arrive Prime overnight shipping. (What? You think this is unrealistic? Sigh! Yeah, me too!)

“AS” becomes a promise of future glory.

3. AS I Have Loved You — The Pattern of Christ

Jesus sets the standard: “Love one another as I have loved you.”

Not as the world loves. Not as convenience allows. But as He loves — with patience, with truth, with sacrifice, with presence. God’s love is a beautiful mystery.

“AS” becomes the pattern of Christlike love.

4. AS Your Father Is Merciful — The Heart of God

Luke reminds us: “Be merciful, as your Father is merciful.”

This is not a command rooted in pressure. It is rooted in identity. We show mercy because we have received mercy. (Micah 7:18). We forgive one another because we have been forgiven. (Ephesians 4:31). We extend compassion because compassion has been extended to us. (2 Corinthians 1:3-7)

“AS” becomes the overflow of God’s heart in ours.

Closing Reflections

The word AS is a bridge — between who we are and who we are becoming, between earth and heaven, between our weakness and His strength.

It’s God’s gentle way of saying: “Let My life shape yours.”

“AS” in Scripture become an invitation to transformation, a reminder of identity, a whisper of the glory that is coming and a holy invitation to encounter the Divine.

Today I commit, to the best of my ability, and through the power of the Holy Spirit within me, to live my life as the Father intended. How about You? Are you ready to live in the holy weight of AS?

PRAYER: Lord, teach us to pay attention to the small words. Train our ears to hear Your still, tender voice. Help us, help me, to live the power of “as.” Father, I believe so many of Your children, including myself, yearn to love as You love, to forgive as You forgive, to walk as You walked, and to see You one day as You truly are. Thank You for the sacred language of Your Word that continually calls us and draws us ever deeper into Your likeness, Your presence, and Your truth.

When we base our “enough” standards on worldly comparison, unrealistic self-expectations or childhood woundings that we have not been able to forgive and make peace with, we will always fall short. Our gauge should never be the voice of both outer and inner world but rather the truth of the very One who created the world…created YOU!!

Jesus knew we’d struggle and He took great care to fill His word with encouragement and truth to help us along our journey of disseminating truth from lies. Here is what I wish to encourage you to do today: Read Psalm 139:1-18 which confirms: YOU ARE MORE THAN ENOUGH!

Psalm 139:1-18

Lord, you know everything there is to know about me. 2 You perceive every movement of my heart and soul, and you understand my every thought before it even enters my mind.

3-4 You are so intimately aware of me, Lord. You read my heart like an open book and you know all the words I’m about to speak before I even start a sentence! You know every step I will take before my journey even begins.

5 You’ve gone into my future to prepare the way, and in kindness you follow behind me to spare me from the harm of my past. You have laid your hand on me!

6 This is just too wonderful, deep, and incomprehensible! Your understanding of me brings me wonder and strength.

7 Where could I go from your Spirit? Where could I run and hide from your face?

8 If I go up to heaven, you’re there! If I go down to the realm of the dead, you’re there too!

9 If I fly with wings into the shining dawn, you’re there! If I fly into the radiant sunset, You’re there waiting!

10 Wherever I go, Your hand will guide me; Your strength will empower me.

1 1 It’s impossible to disappear from You or to ask the darkness to hide me, for Your presence is everywhere, bringing light into my night.

12 There is no such thing as darkness with You. The night, to You, is as bright as the day; there’s no difference between the two.

13 You formed my innermost being, shaping my delicate inside and my intricate outside, and wove them all together in my mother’s womb.

14 I thank you, God, for making me so mysteriously complex! Everything you do is marvelously breathtaking. It simply amazes me to think about it! How thoroughly you know me, Lord!

15 You even formed every bone in my body when you created me in the secret place; carefully, skillfully You shaped me from nothing to something.

16 You saw who You created me to be before I became me! Before I’d ever seen the light of day, the number of days You planned for me were already recorded in Your book.

17-18 Every single moment You are thinking of me! How precious and wonderful to consider that You cherish me constantly in Your every thought! O God, Your desires toward me are more than the grains of sand on every shore! When I awake each morning, You’re still with me.

God is NOT like man that He should lie: HE SAYS YOU ARE MORE THAN ENOUGH!!