I Left a Lot at God’s Feet Last Night

Somewhere in that room… we were standing right in the middle of it. A story of exhaustion, surrender, and the beginning of healing

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Five months ago, while sitting in our tiny little apartment in Boston, ten hours away from home, talking to Andrew about what to get the kids for Christmas—I decided on a whim to purchase tickets to see Phil Wickham in Baltimore for April.

I had only been in Boston maybe a week and honestly had no idea if I would even be home to go to the concert.

The last concert Andrew and I went to, I was five months pregnant with Logan… 17 years ago.

Yet here I sat—alone, with a really sick kid and absolutely no guarantees of a date night—something in me said, just book it.

Pit seats. Less than $100. One of my favorite artists.
His music plays on repeat in my life—on the good days and the breaking ones. There’s something about him… something steady, something grounding in seasons of trial.

Even now, writing this—I’m fighting back tears.

Part of me knew I would be devastated if we were still in Boston come April.
And the other part of me had no idea the kind of healing I would need if I made it to the other side of this mess.

The past year and a half has taken something from me I still don’t fully have words for.

And the last month?
It’s been a collision of reflection.

Not just childhood trauma.
Not just the past ten years.
But everything—layered, stacked, surfacing.

  Delaware was one of the best decisions we made for our family.
And yet it cost us everything at the same time in our walk with God.

We took up our crosses.

And He led us straight into the wilderness.

He stripped us.
He gutted us.

Not because He’s cruel—
but because He’s a loving Father.

And I didn’t understand the fire we were about to walk through.

If I’m being honest… I haven’t transitioned well coming home from Boston.

When you have a really sick child with complex needs, you lose yourself in the role of caretaker.

You fight harder—because no one ever fought for you.

You don’t settle. You can’t.
Not when your child’s life is on the line.

It’s fear… every single day.
It’s exhaustion you wouldn’t wish on anyone.

And lately, people keep telling me I look exhausted.

They’re not wrong.

I learned a long time ago how to bury things. Smile. Push through.

But for the first time…
everything I’ve carried internally is showing up externally.

I am empty.
I am rocked.

And somewhere in all of it—I found myself frustrated with God.

Not angry… but stretched between gratitude and exhaustion.

Because He never left. Not once.
He fought for us in ways no one else ever has.

But I was shutting down.

Emotionally. Spiritually.

Not on purpose—
but because I was just… done.

Coming home from Boston removed every safety net I had learned to depend on.

And replaced it with uncertainty I wasn’t ready for.

We were home one week before everything unraveled again.

Logan had setbacks—avoidable ones—because of administrative failures in our school system.

Failures I had warned them about.

I watched him lose progress.
I watched weight fall off his body that he fought so hard to gain.
I lived in fear of another hospital admission.

And before I could even unpack…

we were heading back.

Apologies from the medical team.
Acknowledgment that it was preventable.

I was angry.
I was devastated.
And if I’m really honest—I was terrified of the fight still ahead of me.

February and March?
A blur.

Honestly… the last 17 months feel like a blur.

Constant Hospital stays.
Exhaustion.

Moments I saw God clearly.
Moments I pulled away.

But He never stopped pursuing me.

He chased me down like a runaway.

Then April came.

And something started to shift.

New appointments.
New multidisciplinary treatment teams.
Meetings that brought reassurance. 

A little breathing room.

Maybe we could stay home.
Maybe we could avoid another admission.
Maybe we could avoid relocating to another state again.
Maybe… we could just be together again.

And for the first time—I felt like maybe we were starting to heal.

Just enough.

Because I didn’t have it in me to do it all over again.

But healing?

Healing brings everything to the surface.

And PTSD doesn’t care that you’re “home now.”

The triggers still hit.
The hypervigilance doesn’t shut off.

One look at him in bed—and I’m right back there.

And it reminds me of everything we lost.
Everything we missed.

How much we as a family missed together.

 But God wastes nothing.

Spring break week… I unraveled.

Everything I had buried came up at once.

That’s been my pattern: survive now, process later.

So when the processing hits—it feels unbearable.

Like I am crawling out of my skin.

And that’s exactly where the enemy shows up.

Whispering lies when you’re too tired to fight back.

You’re too broken.
You’ve been forgotten.
You’re alone.
You were never equipped for this.

And suddenly… you’re questioning everything God has already done.

I cried a lot more in those weeks since being home.

Not new—but different.

Raw. Unfiltered.
On the floor.
In Andrew’s arms.
On walks.

Crying out to God while simultaneously pushing Him away.

Frustrated—with the pain I’m carrying.

Exhausted—By every decision. 

Overwhelmed—by the financial burden.

Trying to figure out what healing even looks like anymore.

Not just survive… but heal.

I owe it to myself.

I owe it to my husband and kids.

But for the very first time in my life I truly had no idea where to even begin.

What was broken?

What needed fixing?

What even needed to be healed—and what did healing even mean for me anymore?

Because it’s one thing to guide others.

It’s another when it’s you.

So I started small.

A weighted vest.
Walking.

Trying to regulate my nervous system.

Trying to take steps—literally and figuratively.

And still… I felt defeated.

Then I remembered the concert.

Just days away.

And something in me stirred.

Hope.
Excitement.
Anxiety.

All at once.

 The what-ifs ran through my mind like endless open tabs.

And yet I found myself counting down like a kid at Christmas.

Restless with what was stirring in my spirit.

I didn’t understand when I purchased the tickets what the “pit” section even was.

I had no idea it would be standing room only.

And that alone stressed me out for a multitude of reasons.

My body already aches on a good day… forget standing for hours in a line and then hours at a concert.

I didn’t know how many people would be packed into that space.

I didn’t know how I would navigate the venue.

What if I needed to sit, or eat, or even just find my way back to Andrew?

The unknown felt overwhelming.

And as we drove to Baltimore—detouring through random towns, sitting in traffic, hitting delay after delay—I could feel my anxiety rising in waves.

I was doing everything I could to calm myself.

Reminding myself: God will take care of the rest.

But my body didn’t believe it yet.

My soul felt restless… no matter how much truth I tried to speak over it.

We ended up arriving about an hour earlier than expected.

And instead of waiting, we decided to go straight to the venue just to see what the line looked like.

Much to our surprise… we were the fourth group there.

Fourth.

Two and a half hours before the doors even opened.

We were second in line to enter.

And that’s where God started moving.

Not loudly.

But quietly… through people.

Gentle conversations.
Shared stories.
Different backgrounds, different lives… but all of us standing there for the same reason.

God.

And maybe without even realizing it… we were all showing up carrying something.

At some point in conversation, we all started talking about our kids, and I found myself opening up.

And before I knew it—I was telling them about Boston.

About Logan.

About not even knowing if I’d make it here.

Ironically, those memories had been coming up all week—photo reminders popping up of just how sick Logan really was…

how far we’ve come…

and how far we still have to go.

And there I was.

Sitting on warm concrete.
Second in line.
Waiting to enter a room with 5,000 people.

To worship.
To breathe.
To maybe… heal.

As the doors got closer to opening, I could feel both excitement and anxiety building.

The unknown of the “pit” still sat in the back of my mind.

But there was also something deeper happening.

Something God had already been preparing in me all week.

I didn’t fully understand it yet… but I could feel it.

When the doors opened…

Our tickets were scanned.
I was directed down the stairs toward Pit 1.

And somehow…

I was the first person to enter the pit.

The first.

What a moment.

I picked my spot.
Andrew stood next to me.
We just looked at each other, taking it in.

I could touch the stage.

I never—even for a second—imagined that would be my experience when I bought those tickets months ago.

Phil Wickham… just feet away.

I don’t even think it fully registered.

Months of waiting.
Months of surviving.
Months of not knowing if we would even make it here…

And now I was standing at the front.

I had no idea what God was about to unpack in me over the next few hours through the gift of music therapy.

No idea the story He was about to reveal through something so simple…
and yet so powerful—

music.

And even writing that now—music therapy—it hits differently.

Because it’s been part of Logan’s healing all along.

Countless music therapists during inpatient stays.
Some of his favorite sessions at Boston Children’s.

Music is how he regulates.
How he drowns out the noise of the world.

And for the first time…

I was experiencing that for myself.

Tauren Wells was the opening artist.

And I was not prepared.

When he started singing Take It All Back…

I was instantly somewhere else.

Back to a single moment at a retreat—
a moment that marked the beginning of some of the deepest valleys I would walk through with God.

It wasn’t just a song.

It was a memory.
A marker.
A moment still living inside me… whether I realized it or not.

Lyrics that carried weight. Authority.

Then he sang Joy in the Morning.

And if you’ve ever really listened—not just heard it—but listened…

it walks you straight through the valley.

“Cause it ain’t even faith till your plan falls apart…”

That line didn’t just land.

It exposed something.

Because the last ten years—especially the last three—
have made absolutely no sense.

Door after door closed.
Plans falling apart.
Dreams unraveling.

I fell apart.

Completely.

And yet…

I still chose Him.

Even if all I had left was a mustard seed of faith.

Because His Word says that’s enough.

So I held onto it—tight.

Even when nothing around me made sense.

And then the reminder—

God’s not done with you.

And I can’t even explain how many times over the past few years I’ve had to remind myself of that.

Because when you’re standing in the middle of ruins…
when all you see are ashes…
when everything you thought life would look like is gone…

it’s really easy to believe the story is over.

That you’ve been forgotten.

The weight of a broken heart, deep wounds and scars that most can’t see.

That somehow you missed it.

Then Phil Wickham walked out.

And what struck me wasn’t the music.

It was his posture.

No arrogance.
No performance.

Just humility.

And his first words were—

This night isn’t about me.
It’s not even about you.
It’s about God.

And everything grounded in that moment.

Because in a world chasing platforms…

he pointed it all back to Him.

As the night went on…

it stopped feeling like a concert.

It was worship.
It was preaching.
It was testimony.

And slowly… piece by piece…

God started putting things together in my heart.

When he sang Homesick for Heaven…

that’s when the tears finally came.

Not because I hadn’t heard it before—I had, hundreds of times. 

I love the visual I create in my head when I hear him sing 

"I wanna walk with Moses on streets of gold
And dance with David before Your throne
To thank You face to face for the grace You’ve given
I wanna see my children run into Your arms
And worship the Savior who wears my scars…"

But this time… it hit differently.

Because when he sang about seeing the ones you love again—

I paused.

My first thought was:

“I don’t really have that.”

I grew up in dysfunction.
Even losing my mom… it didn’t carry that same ache.
I didn’t even go to her funeral.

But then—

it hit me.

Savannah.

She’s there.

She’s always been there.

Waiting… with our other two babies.

And suddenly I realized—

part of what I’ve been carrying…

is that it’s been almost ten years.

Ten years since she died.
Ten years since everything shifted.

And I never really stopped to process it.

Then came Battle Belongs. 

And it felt like a direct confrontation.

Because my life has felt like a battlefield for so long…

I don’t even know what it feels like for it not to.

I see the battle everywhere.
I feel it constantly.

I fight to breathe.
I fight to keep going.
I fight to show up.
I fight just to get to tomorrow.

And I am tired.

So tired.

But the truth?

This fight was never mine.

And that’s the message I’ve been preparing to teach.

Isn’t that ironic?

The message in my mouth…

was the one my heart hadn’t fully received yet.

Every fear.
Every stronghold.
Every ounce of exhaustion.

The weight is heavy.

The list is long.

But He sees something different.

Victory.
Mountains moved.
Beauty in the ashes.

Because His love surrounds me like a fortress.

Maybe this is the real battle—

learning what the love of a Father actually looks like.

Because I didn’t have that growing up.

And yet I look at my kids…

and no matter how frustrated I get…

there is nothing they could do that would make me love them less.

Nothing.

And maybe that’s what God is rewriting in me.

Breaking generational patterns.

Shifting everything.

When Phil took a break, Jamie MacDonald took the stage.

I didn’t expect her to hit me the way she did.

Light. Fun. Quirky.

But then she shared her story.

Every song—its own testimony.

About wanting to walk away from music.
About laying it all down.

And God telling her to pick it back up.

Even in her hesitation.
Even in her brokenness.

Because He was going to use her story and her voice to heal others.

Then she sang Desperate.

And something in me cracked open.

“Redeem this wreckage… restore my peace…
I’m not asking… I’m begging… "

That wasn’t just a lyric.

That was my prayer.

That’s exactly where I’ve been.

At the end of myself.
Hanging by a thread.

"God… I’m desperate."

By the time Phil Wickham came back out and shared his testimony…

everything started to come together.

He talked about asking God—before the tour even started—
What do You want me to say to Your people?

And the verse—

If you confess with your mouth that Jesus is Lord
and believe in your heart that God raised Him from the dead,
you will be saved.
Romans 10:9.

A verse he already knew.
A verse he had read countless times.

But this time… he got stuck.

Not on the whole thing—
just the beginning.

If you confess with your mouth that Jesus is Lord…

And he said, “God, I know You’re Lord of my life.”

But in that moment… something shifted.

Because what he felt the Holy Spirit pressing was—

You say I’m Lord of your life…
but am I Lord of all of your life?

And it hit him.

Hard.

There were places he was still operating in his own strength.
Places he was keeping God out.
Places where distraction had crept in…
where he had to stop and take inventory of his own life.

And it wasn’t even the verse itself that wrecked me.

It was the question that followed.

Is He Lord of all of your life?

And I knew.

I didn’t even have to think about it.

The puzzle pieces from the last few weeks—
they all started clicking into place at once.

There were still places I was holding on.

Still trying to do things in my own strength.
Still operating in survival mode.
Still carrying things I was never meant to carry alone.

And in that moment…

everything I had been processing finally made sense.

I didn’t need more answers.

I needed to let go.

Not just in words.

Fully.

Because somewhere along the way…
I had let the enemy take a seat at a table he was never invited to.

And in my weakness—
I started trying to do more in my own strength
instead of letting God carry what was never mine to carry.

The weight I’ve been holding?

It’s heavy.

It’s been heavy for a long time.

And in that moment… I knew—

it was time to give it back.

All of it.

Lay it at His feet.

Not pieces.
Not the “easier” parts.

All of it.

Because if He is Lord of my life…

then He is Lord of all of my life.

Not just the parts I feel comfortable surrendering.

And the truth?

The self-sufficiency that kept me “safe” for so long…

was never what God intended for me.

He doesn’t want self-sufficient.

He wants dependent.

Fully.

On Him.

On a Father’s love that actually moves mountains.

I’m not beyond repair.

But without God?

I am.

And the part that hit me the hardest—

He’s been building beauty in the ashes for years.

Years.

Waiting for me to slow down long enough to see it.

Because yes—there have been moments I’ve seen His faithfulness.

But there have also been moments…

where I know I missed it.

And maybe that’s the freedom in this season—

I don’t have to have it all figured out.

I don’t have to do it perfectly.

And most importantly…

I don’t have to do it alone.

In fact—

He never wanted me to do it alone.

He wants to do it with me.

Because His plans?

They’re far greater than anything I could build on my own.

Watching Phil up there…

worshipping, surrendering, giving God all the glory—

you could feel it.

The freedom.

But also the cost.

Because that kind of freedom doesn’t come without surrender.

It doesn’t come without dying to self.

He’s human.

Just like me.

He’s wrestled.
He’s tried to do things his own way.
He’s had to be corrected, redirected, humbled.

He’s had to apologize.
Repent.
Realign.

And that’s where the story shifts.

That’s where everything changes.

That’s where the Author actually takes the pen…

and the next chapter gets written differently.

Last night…

was healing.

Real healing.

Not surface-level.

Not temporary.

The kind that hits your soul and you feel it.

For the first time in a long time—

I felt something shift inside me.

I got to share it with my best friend.

I got to stand in a room full of strangers…

who were all carrying something.

Fighting something.

And for a moment—

we all laid it down together.

I left that arena different.

Not fixed.

But different.

I left a lot there.

I left a lot at God’s feet.

And my road?

It’s still long.

The work is still heavy.

But I’m not carrying it the same way anymore.

Because I’m not doing it in my own strength anymore.

It’s not lost on me how important that night was.

Because months ago—

I was sitting alone in Boston.

Scared.
Exhausted.
Desperate.

And I couldn’t have imagined a moment like that being possible.

My scars run deep.

But I know a God who meets you there.

And when He shows up—

He doesn’t do it halfway.

I will always be a work in progress.

And I’m done hiding that.

My kids know my heart.

They know the truth.

They know what it looks like to be honest.
To be humbled.
To keep showing up anyway.

They know that mustard seed faith is enough.

But more than anything—

they know Jesus.

And this part matters—

because I’m not rushing past it.

Last night didn’t fix everything.

Nothing in my situation magically changed.

My road is still long.
Still heavy.

But something shifted.

For the first time in a long time—

I stopped trying to carry all of it on my own.

I left a lot in that arena.

I left a lot at God’s feet.

And maybe…

that’s what healing looks like right now.

Not having all the answers.

Not having everything figured out.

But finally letting go of what I was never meant to carry alone.

And then Monday came.

And just like that—

everything flipped again.

Saturday brought healing and renewal only God could have known I would need…

because Monday morning
we received news about our youngest—
unexpected… life-altering news
that we’re still trying to wrap our heads around.

And in the middle of my tears…

Andrew looks at me and says,

“I guess none of our kids are boring.”

And I laughed.

While crying even harder.

Because that’s us.

That’s our life.

That’s our story.

And if I’m being honest—

that moment right there?

That’s faith too.

Holding grief and humor in the same breath.

Breaking… and still choosing to laugh anyway.

Because God doesn’t just meet us in the worship…

He meets us in the aftermath too.