A PICTURE, ONE YEAR LATER

They say a picture is worth a thousand words. If that’s true, this one holds more than I ever planned to tell. 

I’m choosing to share this reflection on the first anniversary of this picture’s taking, Mother’s Day, 2025. I kept the image in this post on purpose, so when I invite you to look again, you can. No, this isn’t about narcissism. It’s about testimony. So stay with me, I promise, I’m going somewhere.

When you look at the picture, what do you see? Chances are, you don’t know the story behind it. But today, I get to share it. When that picture was taken, I should have been just weeks away from delivering our baby girl, Rebekah. Look again. You’ll notice something right away, I’m not “showing.”

Five months earlier, I nearly lost my life during a hemorrhagic miscarriage. Everything had seemed fine. Her DNA results were perfect. I was experiencing the most peaceful, anxiety-free pregnancy I had ever known. And then, in a moment that still feels surreal, her heartbeat could no longer be found. What followed was uncontrolled bleeding, emergency intervention, a blood transfusion, surgery, and then coming home to tell my boys that their sister was born in heaven, instead of on earth. There is no manual for that conversation.

The week this picture was taken carried its own weight. I had been asked to lead one of the most powerful worship songs I’ve ever encountered, Speak Jesus. A friend, fully aware of my process, gently said, “That’s a heavy calling.” He was right.

I found myself holding many emotions at once: grief, gratitude, confusion, and obedience. I sensed God wasn’t asking me to resolve those feelings, but to acknowledge them, to let them coexist.

I was grateful, deeply so, for two healthy, incredible boys who have defied every expectation doctors once placed on them in light of their Autism Spectrum and ADHD diagnoses.

I was grieving, because that Mother’s Day should have landed in my final week of work before maternity leave. I was broken, thinking of the women in the room who carried similar losses quietly, unseen.

And I was longing for answers I didn’t have, hoping I could somehow “close the chapter.”

But for the first time in a while, I didn’t try to lead from strength.  I didn’t try to explain it away spiritually. I told God the truth: This is hard.

At the same time, our church family was walking through an incredibly tender season. Our pastor’s wife, beloved, faithful, and deeply cherished, was courageously battling cancer. There was uncertainty. Collective prayer. A shared ache that sat heavy in the room. Just days after this picture was taken, she went home to be with Jesus at only 47 years old.

It was a season marked by grief layered upon grief. That day, standing there, I remember quietly surrendering. Not with polished words. Just a holy release. God, I can’t do this on my own, and I don’t want to. I’m in pain, and it hurts.

Scripture tells us,  “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted; He rescues those whose spirits are crushed.”  Psalm 34:18 (NLT)

I’ve learned something sacred since then. When you walk through deep loss, your heart never fully returns to its original shape; it stays tender, a little fractured. But strangely, that’s where God chooses to dwell most closely. Brokenness becomes the space where His presence feels nearest, not because pain is good, but because He is faithful.

There’s a kind of tuning that only happens in surrender, not fixing. Not performing and just staying present. I share this not to reopen wounds, but to tell you this: if your heart feels broken, you are not abandoned. You are not behind. You are not disqualified.

You are closer than you think. And sometimes, the most Spiritually Tuned prayer we can offer is:  I can’t do this alone.

That is enough.

Let’s tune in.