A Sacred Pause in the Storm: Finding God’s Faithfulness When Life Feels Heavy
The night before we had to come home from Treasure Island, I dreaded leaving the beach. Andrew kept asking me, “What time do you want to head back?” and every time my answer was the same: “Never.” If it weren’t for the kids being hungry, I might have sat there all night.
Thursday morning, as we prepared to leave, I stood out on the balcony one last time—soaking in the view, whispering thanks to Jesus for the gift of this past week. It was a true gift in the middle of so much heaviness. Silent tears streamed down my cheeks. I wiped them away, gathered the last suitcase, and handed it off to the kids one by one. When the last of them stepped out, I stood alone in the quiet as the door closed behind me.
And then, in that silence, I broke. I sobbed.
I didn’t want to leave. Not because I don’t love my home or the people in it, but because of the weight I knew I was walking back into.
It was the chaos of uncertainty - back-to-school, an intense hockey travel season, and all the daily demands.
It was the bittersweet answer to prayer - Boston Children’s Hospital - but also the ache of being away from my best friend and support system, this time for much longer.
It was the fear of another hospital admission with a medically fragile child, holding my breath until we safely get him to Boston.
It was the sadness of watching other families play freely on the beach while my son stayed inside, unable to join us.
It was the frustration of a sister who just wants her brother to be well and needs constant reminders of compassion and grace.
It was the innocent smile of a 6-year-old who knows nothing different, but who declared this week “the best week ever.” A little boy who knows has a really sick brother that missed out on so much. His suntan, sandy hands, peeling nose, and that little white tushy were all reminders that summer had passed while I spent most of it under fluorescent hospital lights, away from him.
And yet, it was also the whisper of God’s goodness. The storm raged around us all week, but it never once rained on us. His promises shone through the heaviness.
Eventually, Addie came back to the room asking if I was coming. I quickly wiped my tears, grabbed my bag, and followed her out the door. At the car, as I loaded suitcases, I couldn’t hold it in anymore. Tears streamed down my face as my kids asked what was wrong and Andrew looked at me, confused. All I could say was, “I don’t want to go home.”
This was the first time I had ever cried about leaving vacation. Usually, I’m ready to sleep in my own bed and slip back into my routines. But with a medically fragile child, the reality is - nothing changes. The diagnoses come home with us. The medical needs don’t pause. In fact, it’s was slightly harder while we were away because of the preparation required, the triple checks of every little detail to ensure I can keep him safe while we are away was critical and nothing can be forgotten at home.
Still, for a short window of time, it was less intense.
I had laughed more. Breathed deeper. Put work aside. I was fully present.
Yes, I still feared a hospital trip - even in Florida. And we had a few close calls. But the week was a sacred pause our family desperately needed.
I needed.
Moments of reconnection with Andrew over a random coffee shop visit.
Moments of pure joy watching my kids’ faces light up over spontaneous unplanned fun.
Moments where they got to simply be kids on summer vacation. Something they never thought would happen this year.
I cried more times than not that day.
When we made it to the airport. One more step closer to home. Tears.
As I watched the fear and panic on Jax’s face as Mr. Bear got separated on the TSA belt and had to be searched. He watched intently as to his location at all times. Wondering why he was on the other side. Scared he wouldn’t get him back. Mr. Bear holds a special place in his heart and fills a void in his arms when mom is gone. He is slightly weighted with sand in his bottom and 4 paws. I brought him back from my trip to Colorado and no sooner did I return home Logan and I were back in the hospital for the first of several admissions this summer.
Mr. Bear is special. He isn’t just a stuffed animal, he’s a piece of comfort.
I cried again when the plane took off. And when it landed. I cried when we got home - relieved to be in my own bed but grieving the end of such a precious escape.
Tears ran down my face as I settled into bed once again thanking God for the unexpected gifts he gave us.
The gift of pause.
Even now, three days later, there are still tears.
It’s been three days since we got home, and I’ve cried every single day. Sometimes it’s just a tear or two as my thoughts drift or I watch Logan struggle. But today, the tears poured nonstop.
After a very hard morning, for the first time in well over a month, I finally made it through the church doors. I was late, as usual, juggling Logan’s pump and troubleshooting it as we walked in. The reality of my life as the mom of a medically complex child hit me hard, even there. We made our way to the front row - the place where there are always open seats. As we rounded the corner, our pastor’s family smiled and waved at us. Familiar and safe faces. Family. I set down our things and returned to fussing with Logan’s pump until he was settled.
Then the worship team began to sing Same God (Elevation Worship). I joined in right at the chorus:
O God, my God, I need You
O God, my God, I need You now
How I need You now
O Rock, O Rock of ages
I'm standing on Your faithfulness
On Your faithfulness
I couldn’t even sing. Tears streamed down my face. Eyes closed, hands lifted near my face, it was all I could do to let the lyrics become my prayer.
Later in the song, the words washed over me again:
I'm calling on the God of Mary
Whose favor rests upon the lowly
I know with You all things are possible
I'm calling on the God of David
Who made a shepherd boy courageous
I may not face Goliath
But I’ve got my own giants…
And then the closing lines:
I’m calling on the Holy Spirit
Almighty River, come and fill me again.
Those words became my cry: Come and fill me again.
I had no idea what God had in store for me that day, but I knew I desperately needed the Spirit to fill me up. And He did, through the sermon. For the second time in a week God reminded me of his faithfulness in the small still moments I could have easily missed.
Our pastor began with this: The answer is not the thing, but His presence is.
He walked us through Scripture after Scripture, reminding us of God’s provision, but first His shelter, His protection. The very first passage he shared was Psalm 91:4:
He will cover you with his feathers, and under his wings you will find refuge; his faithfulness will be your shield and rampart.
That verse is my anchor. It hangs framed above my office desk - the same verse given to me at the retreat where I earned my Live Well Practitioner certification. It was the verse that cracked me wide open, shifting the trajectory of my life and the practice I thought I was building (keyword: I).
Then came the story of the Samaritan woman. Living water, nourishment for the soul. Drink of Him and thirst no more. That story is one of the foundational blueprints behind how Living Water Women’s Wellness became a vision. A vision that expanded beyond my wildest imagination to become Living Water Family Wellness.
In the first twenty minutes of service, I released the weight I had been carrying, and in its place, the Spirit filled me again. God reminded me - He will cover me. I am not alone. I never have been. I serve a mighty God who has already gone before me and none of this is a surprise to him.
Through most of the sermon, Logan’s head rested on my shoulder. He shifted and groaned in pain as his feed ran, nausea coming in waves. In those moments, I looked into his eyes as our pastor spoke boldly about the trials we endure and God’s faithfulness, that He uses our trials for His glory. That He has already prepared a way. That He doesn’t want us dragging our baggage into the new life He’s building. He wants us to leave it behind. To simply trust Him.
Trust Him.
Seek Him.
Listen to that still small voice.
Be still and know.
Trust is hard. Logan and I have both wrestled with it. I am slowly learning to leave my baggage behind and let God refine me, even when it hurts. When the wounds are raw and the pain runs deep. At 41, it’s taken years in the fire to even begin to understand what it means to truly trust my father, God. A trust I never experienced with my own father. For Logan, at just 15, I can only imagine how heavy it feels.
At the end of the sermon, three reflection questions were asked:
- Have the circumstances of life distracted you?
- Can you be okay with His quiet work you don’t see?
- Is Jesus enough for you?
That first question hit hard. How could the circumstances of my life not distract me? These past four days alone have tested me. I’ve prayed and pleaded for God to provide healing for my son, for our family. We are so close, yet I’m terrified of the “what ifs.” Still, I know this: even if the outcome isn’t what I long for, it doesn’t mean He isn’t faithful.
So, is Jesus enough? The short answer is yes. The deeper answer is layered with raw emotions. I know He is good. I know He is able. But I am human, and sometimes the distractions feel louder. Distractions that I know the enemy takes every opportunity to leverage. And yet - if this season has taught me anything - it’s that yes, Jesus is enough. Even in the contentment of being in the fire, He is enough. I am not alone. He has never abandoned me and he never will. So I can hold onto that truth when life feels a little scary.
It wasn’t long after that I was asked about Boston and tears fell again. Sometimes I get frustrated with myself because I don’t always know why I am so emotional. What am I carrying deep down that needs to be released? What is is that I am afraid to acknowledge or say out loud to anyone?
And wouldn’t you know it - Later, when my pastor asked about Boston, the tears came again. I realized what I hadn’t wanted to admit: I am terrified of going alone. Not because I can’t navigate the medical world, believe me I can, or care for Logan and myself. But because being at CHOP without Andrew, caring and advocating for our medically fragile kid is isolating and exhausting beyond words.
For 23 years, Andrew and I have grown up together, built this life side by side, and witnessed God work in powerful ways. Over time, he has become the husband and father I never knew I needed but always longed for - a man whose heart is after God. He has boldly stepped into the role of head of our household, giving me space to step back and allow him to lead. He carries extra space for my faith when mine feels no bigger than a mustard seed.
He has grown into a man I deeply cherish and respect, one I now see through a new lens. I also see God’s faithfulness in him - in the way he loves me unconditionally, in the way he lets me be broken and messy without judgment, and in the way he reminds me I don’t have to carry the weight of it all alone. This year will mark the longest stretch of time we’ve ever been apart - close to six months in total - and I feel the ache of that deeply.
Our pastor said something in that moment that captured it all perfectly: “You see something that makes you love him that much more and you don’t want to lose it. Don’t worry—I’ll make sure it’s still here when you get home.”
That stuck with me all day.
I’ve cried most of today. I took a nap only to wake up and cry some more. I’m exhausted, puffy-eyed, head pounding, yet the tears keep coming.
Jax asked me why I was so sad and I simply asked him for a hug. As he flopped his little body on mine, I laughed and said “what kind of hug is that” he smirked and said, “I think laughing makes things better.” Then he wrapped his arms around me, patted my back gently, and whispered, “I love you so much. You’re my bestest.”
As I sit here and reflect on what I am feeling maybe that's the heart of it. When I’m in Boston, I don’t have Andrew to scoop me up, dust me off, and let me simply be. I was raised to be strong, to never show weakness, to hustle and persevere. Qualities that were praised - yet created chaos. But for the first time in my life, I have a husband and a God who carry me. Who remind me that it’s okay to feel fear and know regardless I am safe. That I can trust. That I can just be. That unconditional love is exactly that, unconditional.
Last week, Andrew surprised me by sharing his vision during our coffee date. That through what we are building together, Andrew wants to expand and equip men to honor God with their bodies, deepen their faith, and lead their families with courage - breaking generational strongholds and building a legacy of strength, hope, and devotion to God.
Through our trials and tribulations, together, we envision a community where Living Water brings restoration to every generation—healing hearts, renewing bodies, breaking generational strongholds, and strengthening families in faith while planting seeds of hope for tomorrow and for generations to come.
Together, we are building Living Water Family Wellness -
a reflection of God’s faithfulness in the storm,
a place of refuge and renewal,
where weary souls find rest, families are strengthened,
and hope is restored through His living water.
