Week 7 turned out to be one of the hardest weeks yet.
After getting the boot, everything felt heavier — literally and emotionally. My body was adjusting to bearing more weight, but my spirit was also feeling the weight of life. It was a full week with parent-teacher conferences that went late into the night, plus the balance of trying to walk again, and then two funerals and visitations to attend while wearing my pastoral hat.
If I’m honest, I really wanted to be at those visitations. Just over a year ago, I earned my chaplaincy certificate and was filled with excitement for what God would do with it. I’m still waiting — waiting for the right season, the right timing, the right open door. But in the meantime, He keeps reminding me that being present for people, even when I’m still healing myself, matters.
By Wednesday night, I hit my breaking point. I had been at school since early morning and worked until 8 p.m., but I was given permission to leave for a bit to attend a visitation. Between that one and the funeral I’d gone to the day before, I felt emotionally drained — like my heart had soaked up everyone’s grief, but I hadn’t given myself permission to release my own.
The Bible says, “Mourn with those who mourn,” and I tried to do that faithfully. But I had been “sitting shiva” for everyone else while quietly stuffing my own pain.
That night, when I got home close to 9 p.m., I went to take off my boot — my feet were swollen, my toes looked like little sausages, and the tight sock felt like it was glued on. The pain of pulling it off made me want to scream. Instead, I whispered to myself, “Get it together so no one hears you crying.”
I did it. No one knew.
I went to the bathroom, head down, still hiding my emotions. I’m not even sure why. Maybe because as a mom, teacher, pastor’s wife — I’m used to being the strong one. But the truth is, I was hurting.
Then my husband came in, sat beside me, and simply asked, “Are you okay?”
And my go-to response came out: “I will be.”
Those three words are my emotional armor — the ones I use when I don’t want to unravel. But that night, I couldn’t hold it in anymore. The tears came. The ugly cry. The kind that comes from somewhere deep and sacred.
Everyone in the house quietly gave me space — my husband stayed, holding me as I cried, and it was enough. I didn’t have the words to explain it, and maybe that was the point. It wasn’t about finding the right words; it was about finally letting go.
I think of Hannah in 1 Samuel 1, weeping bitterly in the temple because her heart was broken and her dreams felt delayed. The Bible says,
“Hannah was praying in her heart, and her lips were moving but her voice was not heard... ‘I have been pouring out my soul before the Lord.’” — 1 Samuel 1:13,15
That’s exactly what that night felt like — pouring out my soul before the Lord.
Healing is holy, but it’s also messy. It’s full of moments when we say, “I’m fine,” but we’re not. It’s swollen feet, sleepless eyes, and whispered prayers when no one sees. And yet — even there — God meets us.
The next morning, I woke up with puffy eyes and zero motivation, but I texted a couple of people asking for prayer. Because healing also means learning to reach out — not to hide behind “I will be,” but to say, “I need help today.”
And He met me again in the quiet, reminding me:
“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” — Psalm 34:18
“When you pass through the waters, I will be with you... when you walk through the fire, you shall not be burned.” — Isaiah 43:2
This journey isn’t over — but I’m learning that sometimes the deepest healing happens when we finally stop trying to hold it all together and just let the tears fall.
Lord, thank You for meeting me in the places where words fall short. Thank You for holding me when I’m too weary to stand and for reminding me that tears aren’t weakness — they’re worship. Help me release what I’ve been holding in, trust You with what I can’t control, and rest knowing that You are still writing beauty from this broken place. For every heart reading this that feels heavy — wrap them in Your peace today. Amen.
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