christianity

Day 30

The sorrow that I dreaded has made its home in my heart, where it will forever languish.

I am so sad, forever.

Perplexing thoughts cross my mind and the minds as many as people try to make sense of this situation, but it is truly senseless. My mom’s death highlights mental illness — mentally sound people do not and cannot end their own lives. There is no reason, there is no “why,” there is nothing to blame or to conclude about this situation other than the advancement of mental illness. My mother hid it extremely well. She knew well what mental illness is, and perhaps she did not realize the depth of her own struggles until her mind was too impaired.

She didn’t do this to us, she didn’t do this at us, she didn’t do this in spite of us.

There is much we don’t know and won’t understand and to a point, it doesn’t really matter: nothing will bring her back.

My Mom’s death doesn’t forfeit her love, it doesn’t forfeit what she believed, and it doesn’t forfeit all she strived to do and who she wanted to be.

In her right mind and in her fullest, she loved life. Her laughter filled the room and bellowed from every conversation. Her smile beamed brightest around her family and with her friends. She loved getting to discover the depth of others by asking provocative questions and teasing the answers out of one another. She loved Jesus and she wanted to experience the fullness of life that God promises here on earth (John 10:10). She was passionate about mental health and desperately wanted to see others healed on this side of eternity, and I think she believed that wholly for herself, too.

Mom fought a horrific battle that she could not share with us, and while that hurts us more than anything, these facts detail a torment she kept in the shadows. If only, if only she applied her studies and reached out in the way she encouraged others to do. Maybe she spent so much time encouraging others in the hopes that she, too, would find the courage to reach out.

She wanted to make a difference, she wanted to heal. She wanted so much from this life that gave her so much. Her life was beautiful and full of laughter and love, and, in her best moments, she felt that wholly.

My mom did not die because of any one thing: she died fighting an unspeakable battle, one we’ll never know how long she fought. This painful reality scorches my heart and sometimes it feels impossible to believe that my life is good and beautiful and kind, when all feels so dark and cruel.

But I know — I know, somehow, there is grace in this. My family and I have so much life left to live, and our lives will be filled with laughter and love and goodness and opportunity that we cannot begin to imagine right now. We are blessed. We are blessed with each other, we are blessed with our outstanding community who supports and mourns with us, and we were blessed with my Mom.

My Mom was a light and a gift that I will never have again, and her absence brings tumultuous tears to my eyes each day. While this is so dark, my Mom was not all of the light in the world.

I will carry this grief with me forever, but this sadness and this grief does not dismiss the many years of joy and abundance still to come.

Grief gifts us with a new understanding of God and life and the universe. It strips us bare of any preconceived ideas rooted in anything but truth, and the fire of affliction will bring about unimaginable glory.

Right now, it’s physically impossible for us to imagine or even desire a good life when my Mom was what made our old lives so good, but we will experience blessing and healing and a new good life.

Day 12

This is actually my second “Day 12” post: I deleted the first one because out of my wounds, I may have wounded another. As I heard John Mark Comer state, “our wickedness is fueled by our wounds.” I was childish in venting my frustrations with a person to the public, and I owe that individual and anyone who read my first post an apology. This is not the time, place, or space to address something of that nature. Especially because I know that person is hurting, too.

It’s heavy. It’s burdensome. Thoughts and sentences and simple human interaction, right now, is hard for me, it’s hard for my family, and it’s hard for our entire community. We all need grace, and grace in abundance.

Most of the time, I simply feel sick. I have no appetite [but don’t worry, I am eating], I feel nauseous and out-of-it and sad. I feel grateful, I feel sad, and I feel numb. Humans are so complex, how is it that we feel so much at the same time?

——————

We have been provided for in every way from the generous people from our church: “Give us this day our daily bread,” comes alive when each meal we have has been provided, with each meal perfectly supplying enough for my family each day. That has been beautiful and heartwarming and uplifting. People have been the hands and feet of Jesus each day, serving us, providing for us, ministering to us, and caring for us, and it has been astonishing and incredible to experience.

I cannot over-emphasize how grateful I am for our community and how in-awe I am for how we have been treated and loved.

I’ve never felt more provided for or taken care of than I do right now. “God is near to the broken hearted and saves the crushed in spirit” Psalm 34:18. I believe that now more than ever, despite my inevitable deconstruction. I believe it’s far easier to dismiss God than to have faith and trust in him under circumstances like these — this is when faith and trust becomes real.

—————

Daily Tip for Communicating with Someone in Mourning — Specifically Suicide Survivors

Saying “It doesn’t matter how they died,” is dismissive. When someone takes their own life, there is no natural cause, no illness, and no accident to blame.

Someone bereaved by suicide can only blame the person who committed the act, and his/her self. Suicide creates an arduous mental cycle. For me, it plays out something like this…

• I’m angry at my mom, she did this to me

• I’m confused. Why didn’t she reach out? Anyone would have helped her, I would have helped her

• I’m sad. She was in so much pain. What was she hopeless about? Why was she despairing?

• I’m confused and wounded. I don’t know what it’s like to have or to lose a child, but I cannot imagine she would give up life with her three living children because she was so desperate to be with her son. Her son, my brother, who also took his life.

• I’m sad, and I’m guilty. Did she know I loved her?

• I blame myself. Why didn’t I notice her? Why didn’t she want to confide in me? What did I miss?

And the cycle repeats. These are thoughts are examples of how suicide survivors think and process this type of death: grief from natural causes does not require this mental load. Thus, when one says that “it doesn’t matter how she died,” it points to their ignorance of the psychological impact and damage suicide survivors suffer.

Yes, all death is painful and comparing types of deaths certainly does not help anyone, but please try to understand the differences between a natural death and someone taking their own life.

Acknowledge the suicide survivor’s pain, and acknowledge your own pain. Vulnerability leads to life, bypassing of any type (spiritual bypassing, avoidance, denial, etc) leads to death. Take care of yourself — bypassing is not worth it.

Day 9

Our second church service since Mom left us filled me with encouragement once more. A healthy amount of tears dripped from my sore eyes onto my pallid cheeks as we sang of God’s good plans, his faithfulness, and his constance. All of which I believe, and I mean really believe.

However, I mentioned the dissonance between faith and desperate circumstances during Mom’s Celebration of Life, and I want to share more of what exactly that looks like. Suffering forces people to confront their inmost beliefs, and that is completely healthy and can become beautiful. My Mom loved Jesus with her entire being: the cacophony of confusion left in her wake prompts intense introspection and deconstruction.

Our Father in heaven,

your name be honored as holy.

Your kingdom come,

Your will be done

on earth as it is in heaven.

Give us this day our daily bread.

And forgive us our debts,

as we also have forgiven our debtors.

And do not bring us into temptation,

but deliver us from the evil one.

Matthew 6:9-13, CSB

Now, please understand, I’m not looking for answers and I do not plan to provide any at this time, but I do want to share the questions clamoring in my mind. Thoughts that, perhaps, cloud your mind as well. Maybe sharing my thoughts will help those echoing the same to feel less alone and less afraid, because two thoughts can be true at the same time: one can trust God and be utterly confused and skeptical at the same time. Thus, my questions:

• Good fathers are supposed to protect their family. Why don’t you [God] protect mine?

• If Jesus is the abundant life, how could my mom die? She loved him.

• If he [God] knew what Mom needed, why weren’t her needs met?

I’ve said this so many times — I believe that God can do all things, but I fear what he will allow to happen. This is precisely why: I have not experienced twice how despair and hopelessness kill those whom I love, and those who legitimately love Jesus.

Today, I was incredibly overwhelmed by the generosity and the care from mine and Scott’s small group. They ensured our current needs were met and provided provisions for our future needs. My family has experienced such incredible and support from people being the hands and feet of Jesus, and, because of them, right now my faith remains strong. I wrestle through these complex questions, but it is abundantly clear that we have our daily bread, that God is providing and caring for us, and that we will get through this. I cannot thank our community enough for all they have done. You have eclipsed this horribly dark and tragic time with light and love and I am amazed and humbled at all of this. Thank you.

Tips for Communicating with Someone in Mourning

Acknowledging the situation is better than avoiding the topic altogether. It may be awkward to speak up, but a simple “I see you,” goes a long way 💙

Redemption is Coming

Now without faith it is impossible to please God, since the one who draws near to him must believe that he exists and that he rewards those who seek him.

Hebrews 11:6, CSB

I lost faith when I went through a few years of loss and turmoil. My mind and thoughts were tormented by the harsh reality that my friend was gone, and my brother Patrick gave up his life to shame and depression. Unable to make sense of life anymore, my faith faltered. I was broken and in a state that felt impossible to recover from. My reality was horror. How can one have faith when his or her circumstances seem to contradict that which one believes?

We each respond differently to grief and suffering; while I struggled to believe, my mother remained steadfast. Her trust in God did not waiver despite the reality that her baby was gone, and I could not understand it. Thus, with water-brimmed eyes in 2019, I asked her how she could remain confident, and she provided aged wisdom:

“You are so young. I cannot imagine having to face the things that you have had to your whole life. I have faith because I have seen the faithfulness of God over the years. You spent the past 15 years watching destruction without redemption. You have been so strong.”

Her words made sense – It’s challenging to maintain faith when one’s life has been painted with suffering since its beginning. My life has been beautiful and even amidst intense suffering has been filled with mercy and blessing, but, like many, I began viewing life through lenses of sorrow as a young girl.

We are so very attached to outcomes. We have faith that God is good, that He is the God that delivers redemption and provides healing. Broken endings aren’t good, and they don’t look like redemption.

It’s been four years since my brother took his life from me and I assure you, death is not good. Mourning never ceases. My faith was unfathomably wounded back then. My heart turned to dust, my mind to ashes, but dust is what God used to breathe life into man.

We died that day, each of us who loved Patrick. Our hopes for earthly restoration disintegrated with his demise. We were broken beyond repair, we needed entirely new perspectives and new hopes. We had to relearn how to think, how to communicate, how to be still.

In the years following his death, I began to seek and experience the redemption my mom told me I had not yet experienced. I felt restoration in my own life and in my own mind. It has been beautiful because it feels like entering Spring after a harsh Winter. It was warm and safe and filled with healing and new life.

I have the faith I lacked those four years ago, and now I know that I can be the one to encourage fellow sufferers to hold on: you may not have had the chance to experience redemption and restoration, but you will. You will.

God is with us. He is our reward. He is our comfort, our strength, and our healing. Even when our faith falters, He brings life from loss and healing from grief.

God is good, even when life is not, and He is good when our nightmares become reality.

Have faith, my friends. Your story is not over, and your life does not have to be without redemption. Your heart can be healed. You can have abundant life after tragedy. Hold on, have faith, redemption is coming.

God With Us

Cast your burden on the Lord, and he will sustain you;

he will never allow the righteous to be shaken.

Psalms 55:22, CSB

It’s easy to read verses like Psalms 55:22 when life is calm and stable… It’s not so easy to believe them when your world is falling apart. Yet the truth remains.

When we are burdened, several choices assail us the moment we wake: will we wallow in bed while tears soak our pillowcase, will we immediately rise and numb ourselves through distractions, will we become introspective and choose how to think the remainder of the day – the possibilities are endless but nonetheless they confront us the moment we wake. Romans 12:2 details that the “renewing of your mind” enables us to discern the “good, pleasing, and perfect will of God”[1]. Casting your burden, renewing your mind – both require action.

Healing and sustainment do not passively occur in the lives of sufferers. Instead, action must prompt one to surrender the burden multiple times a day, and here one experiences the promised renewal. Earlier in the Psalm, David details the depth of his distress: “My heart shudders within me; terrors of death sweep over me. Fear and trembling grip me; horror has overwhelmed me” (v. 4-5).[2] Overwhelmed with anxiety and quivering with fear, it is only then that David declares that God will sustain him and will not allow the righteous to be shaken.

Jesus assured us that life would not be easy: “In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.”[3] Psalm 55 does not promise that we will be at ease, but rather reminds us of Immanuel – God with us.

The God who is with us in our anxiety.

The God who is with us in our mourning.

The God who is with us in our weakness.

The God who is with us in our desperation.

He is the God who is there, and the God who does not leave us there. He meets us where we are and renews us and gives us incomprehensible peace.

[1] Romans 12:2, CSB

[2] Psalm 55, CSB

[3] John 16:33, NIV

I Write to the Griever; I Write to the Friend

Shame cloaks one in fear. Fear keeps one in isolation. Isolation repeats the cycle.

It’s the tragic irony that prohibits us from knowing how to reach out to others when we need them most, and it’s often that same irony that keeps others from reaching out to us.

The concealment of shame safely shields one from oneself and from others – at times I have been afraid to voice my concerns and share my story simply because the story itself frightened me. Sharing makes life’s nightmares more real. Other times, the fear of another’s someone misunderstanding has kept my fingers from typing and my mouth from speaking.

But where does one turn when he or she internalizes those matters that are too dangerous to share with others?

I look to words – to books and to music, to poems and to plays – but what happens when there are no words?

The prevalence of centuries of literature whispers God’s mercy: one looks to the Psalms for comfort and contrition, the Old Testament stories and New Testament parables for history and application, and the prophecy books for detailed truth of who God has always been. These precious words preserve timeless truth. It is God who bestows light and life into man, and man who reflects the image of God (Genesis 1, John 1).

Mankind mirrors fractures of God’s mercy, not because God’s mercy is broken, but because we are broken and fallen creatures. Mercy cracks through the brokenness of man, reflecting the glory of God, through the gift of man’s words.

Words meant to heal, words crafted to explain, words written to comfort. Words to bring the shamed out of isolation and into compassion: words powerful enough to help the confused and broken feel understood and validated.

I didn’t get those words. I couldn’t find them.

When my world fell apart, I fell with it, and there were so few resources to explain. No one writes about the loss of a sibling, though most of the deceased are survived by siblings. It’s rare for young people to experience and detail loss.

And grieving a “complicated death” (ie: suicide, murder)? Some psychologists write to attempt to explain, but few first-hand accounts exist. These deaths are shrouded in the shame of the survived, leaving the survived isolated, tabooed, and unreached.

I intend to share the depths of a griever’s experience as a sibling, as a friend, as a woman, as a youth, and as a survivor. In weeks to come, I will share excerpts from my journals to convey the intensities of loss and the miracles of mercy. Some excerpts may be incredibly intense and seem hopeless, but these are the details of redemption and lament.

In the end, we’re each the griever and the friend.

So, let’s break the cycle. Truth is not powerless. Isolation, shame, and fear are powerless.

A Solemn Prologue

In the busyness of life, I nearly forgot my own. I nearly forgot my past – who I was, where I was, what life was like while I was there.

I nearly forgot the tears, the heartache, and the traumas. I nearly forgot that I was such a young girl dealing with such developed problems. I was such a child, scared, and hiding, yet mandated to make mature decisions.

I was 14 the first time I witnessed someone lose his mind to the brink of insanity.

What a child.

I was so young, enduring too much beyond my own comprehension.

Even now, colleagues marvel at what I went through, and yet I expect myself to be normal – to act like a person unacquainted with loss and torment.

Torment. Absolute torment. It was hell and I didn’t even know it, because hell had become normal.

Normal was hiding, wrapping clothes around me as a shelter to cry in peace. So much hiding. So much crying.

And I never could have imagined how much worse it could get. Oh, so much worse.

I can’t believe that was my normal. I can’t believe how much I hid from the world. Hide and hide and hide.

No wonder I have such difficulty grasping out of hiding.

I lived in Sheol. Abaddon was my home. I can’t believe I lived through it.

In some ways, I think I always knew someone would die. Maybe I knew, somehow, that something else would destroy me. Maybe. Maybe I knew that I needed to be destroyed. Maybe it was always there in the back of my mind, hiding safely behind the clothes of denial.

I loved. That is the crime that caused me so much pain. That’s the face I saw in the grave. A man so wounded, he forced gravity to take the life out of him. I was 21 years old when my brother stole his life from my arms, and I’m still trying to come to terms with that reality.

In Loving Memory

Life is too precious.

My Grossi met Jesus March 11, 2019. She listened to Him release the words, “Well done, Thy good and faithful servant.” I wonder if He had tears in His eyes as He said it. God watched Mary Ellen endure her deepest joys and most anguished sorrows. She made it—she fought the good fight, and she finished the race with joy. I wonder if it brought tears to His eyes.

He had comforted her when she mourned, as He comforts we who mourn.

I think that the hardest part about grief is knowing that you will never be able to make memories with that person again. Death prompts you to remember all the little things that you didn’t realize you would miss.

Her smile, her laughter, her lipstick, her spunk. Her resolution. She was stubborn, as many of you know, and she was strong. I admired her tenacity.

It’s in those little moments that you grow to love someone—it’s the collection of those small moments that builds our trust and our admiration. Those small, insignificant moments.

And it’s often not until death that we realize the magnificence of all those moments.

Mary Ellen Schraner built her life from a collection of moments that highlighted the importance of faith, family, and friends. This church and these people made those moments. You, here today, were everything to her. She found her foundation in Christ and her blessings and joys in you.

Nine years ago, my mother gave her a notebook entitled Grandmother, Tell Me Your Story. Within it poses the question, “What are some of the things you hope your children and grandchildren have learned from you?”

Her answer: “Faith—the belief in God, Cooking—Hospitality,” which I know many of you inherited, and “peace in the family.” Mary Ellen taught me those three things, and she taught me to have fun and to celebrate when life calls for celebration. She prayed for her family more than anyone I know, she welcomed me to her home many times, and she filled my heart with joy and abundance.

It’s strange that she’s not here with us. It doesn’t resonate well. My mother once said, “We are eternal beings. We were never meant to say goodbye.” I suppose that is why it is so devastatingly painful to miss someone who deposited memories into our own life that made us have a life worth living.

So, as we hold our breath, and as we will the world to stop spinning, let’s take the quietness of grief and utilize it as a reminder to cling to the mundane moments. Let’s hold one another a little closer, for a little longer. Life is far too precious and far too short to cling to anything but those who love us.

I John 2:17 reads, “And the world is passing away along with its desires, but whoever does the will of God abides forever.” This became one of my favorite verses the first time I endured grief from a separation that feels so very permanent, but the reality is that permanence fades when you recall Christ’s three words: “It is finished.”

Mary Ellen was ready to meet the Savior of the world, the God that held her tears in a leger. The God that gave her breath, and the God that took her breath away. The God who allowed tragedy, the God who prepared and encouraged her through devastation. The God who blessed her with so many people and things. The God who allowed her to live a full life—she was not afraid to meet the God she knew so well and loved so dear.

I wonder if she brought tears to her Savior’s eyes—happy tears. Christ knew that He brought her home. The heartache and the pain of this world has left her, and she has been made alive in the fullness of Christ.

While we cry because we miss her, I think that Christ may shed a tear in welcoming her home.

The Reset

And it was the end of an era I was not ready to let go of…

Two-Thousand and Eighteen: a year that completed four years of alteration.

– 2014 –

We moved to Virginia days after I graduated high school. I was sixteen, driving from Arkansas to Virginia with Shadow as my copilot, and leaving everything familiar behind except my family. We knew nothing of Virginia nor the East Coast, but I was supremely excited for the anticipated adventure. Though I had many dear friends there, I was ready to leave Arkansas. June 4, 2018, we arrived at our new home and a series of changes rapidly ensued.

[Journal Entry, dated July 25, 2015, italicized]

Sometimes I stop myself and take a breath and let it sink in; this is what I wanted, and this is how I imagined it. I have lots of friends who love me…we stay out late and stay up even later. We laugh and cry together, and I’m independent. This is what I always dreamed of. Yes, it’s horrifying, but if I’m really being honest, I’m in love with the constant chaos of everything around me.

Somehow, it’s terrifyingly beautiful.

I love my life, and I’m so thankful for where God has placed me. This past year has been a year of healing that I never could have dreamed of, and of rejuvenating that I didn’t know I needed.

I was exhausted when I left Arkansas. Now, being here has helped me so much. I love it, and I’m not ready to leave. But God is preparing my heart, and He will be with me. I love him, and I love my life. I am mortified of what will become of me, but I’m not afraid of who I will become. If I keep Him centered, what is to fear?

I wrote that a month before I left for Liberty University in a leather-bound journal that Laura Denson gave me. Thanks to the community God provided me with, Hampton was everything that I prayed for when I left Arkansas. I thought that going to LU would terminate many of the friendships I had made over the past year. While some naturally faded, others wonderfully strengthened.

[Journal Entry, dated December 11, 2017, italicized]

By the end of 2017, few people remained in Hampton whom I had met in 2014. Much of what I had grown accustomed to slowly faded away, and I no longer spent ample time with a majority of the people in these photos due to peoples’ moves, church changes, and/or other miscellaneous life transitions.

I was growing restless.

This season pains existence. Questions never cease, and answers never come. The twenties are so much harder than everyone tells you… Unpredictability characterizes this stage. My heart rips between here [Lynchburg] and Hampton… I’m exhausted from being alive. I need something new. I’m not even sure how I’ll make it next semester. I am so burnt out.

And thus, I drove home for Christmas break, and my friends and family reminded me why I held Hampton so dear.

29101873_1573586619361335_5092253459291498351_n

15966017_1182894635097204_3679704001536846580_n

– 2018 –

[Journal Entry, dated January 1, 2018, itlalicized]

I began the year by running away to Europe—I specialize in running when I’ fear reality—and came back with a refreshed perspective.

The Lord reveals things, not in our timing, but in His; yet He laces hints in unlikely moments. My stubbornness falters me, yet He gives perfect grace to woo me to Him. He called me out from the wilderness of my own mind and brought me back softly to His presence. He’s reminded me of His sovereignty and His plan. That’s right, God has a plan for me. It’s a truth I’ve treated as a lie for quite some time due to my sin of disbelief.

– – –

Walter was with me during my first year in Hampton, and he was the last person from that stage of my life that remained close. When Walter died, so left the last consistent reminder of 2014.

Thus, it was reset.

[Journal Entry, dated January 1, 2018, continued]

I allowed my ignorance and frustration to warp my mind; so I looked to my known God—a good God, a creator, an assigner of work, a loving Father, a sovereign king—and ascribed to Him all of my anxieties…I embraced negativity and ran from my Savior because of the pain in my heart. I hurt, deeply, and I blamed God for it.

Yet, all the while, it was He who spoke kindly to me. It was He who whispered truth, even when I barely listened. All the while, He was stirring up my affections, burdening me with trivial matters, exposing my heart slowly… Slowly, softly, gently, because He knew I could not take it all at once.

I lost Walter, my mini-cooper, the familiarity of Lynchburg and college life within two weeks. My family moved the day I graduated, I quit a job I enjoyed a month later, and Shadow passed away shortly after that.

I’m ready for 2019. I’m excited to see what God will do. He’s growing me and He’s healing me. 2018 made me realize the depths of my weakness, but I am relearning to abide in God’s strength. I feel stronger and braver than I have felt in quite some time.

It’s like one of those movies that ends where it began—when I returned to Hampton in May, everything I became familiarized with in 2014 was gone.

2018 was terrifyingly beautiful.

I moved to Hampton days after I graduated college. I was twenty, driving from Lynchburg to Hampton with Spotify as my copilot, and leaving everything familiar behind except my friends. I grew to love Virginia and embraced the East Coast, but I somberly and optimistically anticipate the next adventure.

The Splendor of Benevolence

While concluding our third (and presumed final) book, Candace and I enthusiastically agreed that we must begin another; though graduation looms within months, we couldn’t handle the possibility of not studying another text together. Candace drove us to Lifeway to select a new book, however, we couldn’t imagine what would happen once we arrived.

Sitting on the floor in the bookstore with inquisitive spirits and incessant laughter while searching for our subsequent book, a middle-aged woman approached us:

“You have no idea how much encouragement it brings me to see you two young ladies sitting on the floor of the Women’s section laughing and looking at all the different books,” Julia graciously stated. Candace and I thanked her and introduced ourselves to meet our new friend and with tears welling in her eyes she commended us for simply being our silly selves. Once we parted ways, Candace and I browsed the bookstore, but, after we decided upon a text, we returned to our original section and Julia found us once more.

She thanked us again, but this time she released the tears to recede as she described the hardships she’s enduring. We were able to pray with her and perceive the weight being lifted from her mind as her demeanor melted from a deep sorrow into a gentle joy. Julia informed us that God provided exactly what she needed, and thanked us for inspiring her. This courageously vulnerable woman thanked us, simply for sitting on the floor of a bookstore: instantly, we were humbled.

We parted again but met her at the checkout but said our final goodbyes by happily waving to our new friend as she walked out the door. Candace and I brimmed with gratitude about our encounter with Julia—she was so vulnerable and so encouraging even while enduring such pain. Moments after Julia left, we reached the front of the line and the clerk handed us gift cards that Julia left for us; awe overtook Candace and I as we processed the clerk’s gesture—what a sweet woman to leave a gift to two strangers.

We beamed with joy on the car ride home. That’s the Church—that’s the body of Christ—we uplift one another when sorrow submerges us and we exhort one another when we perceive the Holy Spirit’s work in one’s life. This was one of the most beautiful moments I have experienced in quite some time. I was so blessed to meet Julia, and I know Candace was too. She began addressing us with kind encouragement, and she completed the conversation with a gracious gift.

Candace and I reflected on God’s faithfulness, occupied with awe and humility. Joy invaded our hearts and strength replenished our minds—this is why we pray and study God’s word—these moments are why we faithfully serve Christ and commend one another to do likewise: because Jesus changes lives. From the moment one surrenders their life to Christ, He does not stop radically impacting them and gently beckoning them into His presence. We saw that in Julia’s life and we felt that in our own lives; we serve such a faithful God who constantly reminds us of His steadfast love.

Exposed