held // a testimony.

I recently read a book that so beautifully and simply put words to what I've been wrestling through internally over the past 11 months. In her insightful book (that, also, reads like a thoughtful memoir) called Grief Is Love, Marisa Lee writes, “Grief will present feelings you cannot immediately comprehend. It makes it nearly impossible to convey them to someone else.”

And that is the reason I've done what I have done for the past 11 months: held our story and the pain it has caused closely, only inviting a trusted few into it with me. I still haven't made sense of most of it, but I'm not really trying to either; at least not at this point, anyway. What I am experiencing, however, is peace. Unexplainable, heaven-breathed peace. Even as the storm continues to grow and rage and mock, I am finding a friend in grief. And peace is the bridge between us. 

Grief and I have not always been friends, to be honest. I didn't trust it; or rather, I didn't trust myself with it. So, moving on without really moving forward became a theme when I was just a small child. It wasn't until several years ago that I was brave enough to sincerely face many of the heartbreaks I have known, and I feel very grateful that I am learning to sit with and honor my emotions today. I've decided that I was scared I would get stuck in the reality of certain circumstances, so I didn't stay long enough for that to happen; but now that I have grown in this area, I wholeheartedly agree with another quote from the author of Grief Is Love: “Giving space to difficult emotions enables them to move through us, not overwhelm us.”

I still have a long way to go, but grief and I are friends today. I don't always like what it does to me, but I love the freedom it ushers, how it honors the things I have loved and lost. And as I gradually make peace with my story (and how it is interconnected to so many others' stories), I have more compassion towards and patience for all of the world. Talking about things that happened to me has never been difficult, but I habitually made light of it in every conversation. It was as if I was saying, "Yep, all that happened to me. Yep, it was so horrible and hard. But it didn't affect me; I am good!"

Was I really good? Not as good as I thought. But I was grateful they thought I was.

Before I share a glimpse into what the past year has looked like for my family and me, I thought it was necessary to share all of that to paint a picture of how thankful I am that God goes before us and prepares us in advance for what we face. I have believed that truth in theory for as long as I can remember, but I now believe with much greater conviction since having witnessed Him do it again and again and again (especially since I became a mother).

I know many will read these words below simply because they are curious. Honestly, that is why I have held them close for so long: I didn't feel like the world was worthy of the sacred nature of them. Also, because I was too raw not to be hurt by those who read but don't engage. Even as I shared glimpses of how my heart was breaking, it was surprising that thousands of people would read my writings (specifically on social media) but only about ten of them would say anything to me in response. Although I wasn't sharing for responses, it floored me that people could read of such heaviness and then continue scrolling and swiping as if all was well. Even when I shared my news of stepping down from my role as Worship Director, I was so surprised that thousands of people read my words here...and so few engaged with me with intention afterwards.

I think that's the nature of sharing things on the internet, in general, but it's not something I'm sure we should be proud of. If and when someone shares a piece of their hearts or minds with us, we are foolish to act as if they haven't. Others' responses to me (or lack thereof) convicted and inspired me to do a better job of honoring people and holding their stories with care.

I am still learning to be uncomfortable for the sake of empathy; maybe you are, too. I am choosing this path, because I don't think there is anything better than someone coming to sit beside you when you feel overwhelmed by reality. Many have done that for us in secret this year, and we have genuinely been sustained by their kindness.

So, what did 2022 look like for us? 

At a glance: more unexpected suffering than we'd ever wish on anyone, tears that fell like rain, and Hope that held us through it all. Here is a tiny glimpse into the most recent unfoldings of our story. I'll start at the beginning...

In late March, TJ got a headache he couldn't shake that eventually caused him to lose sight in his left eye. New (concerning) symptoms began to appear consistently, as well, and over the next few months he had (a lot of) appointments with his primary doctor, ophthalmologist, and eventually a neurologist. After countless tests and lab work, two MRIs, and a spinal tap, an official diagnosis was given at the end of July.

My strong, athletic, gentle, all-around-incredible TJ has Multiple Sclerosis (MS).

We were completely caught off guard by this, and we cried more than we smiled for months and months. I don't think I've ever been more afraid than I was in those months that followed, and I still face daily assaults from fear that seek to paralyze me and steal my hope and joy. I was never ashamed or embarrassed that this became part of our story; but I did wrestle with the long-suffering this pivot would require of him especially, but our family, as well. We have been through so much hard in our life together, but this felt different than anything else we'd faced. Since his initial diagnosis, he has suffered a lot and changed in many ways; he is still the same man I've loved since I was 13, but life both ended and began again for him and me and our family in a flash.

Oh, how we cried.

Oh, how we held onto each other through sobs.

Oh, how we have been so afraid of this new trajectory we didn't choose.

Oh, how all the petty, unimportant things were shed so quickly.

In the midst of all this change and suffering for him/us, I walked through a few trials of my own that only intensified our grief: a skin cancer scare in April, an answer to why my body has been hurting for so long, and a 2-night stay in the hospital because of an infection in my intestine. We were very grateful to receive a clean biopsy from a scary spot on my arm that looked harmless on the surface, especially since family history is not on my side. Sadly, however, I was humbled and crushed by an osteoarthritis diagnosis in my lower back and right hip a little over a month later. After 18 months of consistent pain, I was relieved for an answer to my trouble...and yet devastated by the reality of how hurt my body really was. In a moment, my favorite way to exercise was no longer mine to have, and traumatic flashbacks from where it likely stemmed from flooded my mind. Living each day with pain from arthritis and whatever is causing pain in my lower abdomen (which is still a mystery) has been debilitating at times.

On top of all of that, I had felt a stirring, an invitation from Holy Spirit to release my role as Worship Director and step into something new as the year went on. I shared this with leadership in August, and began the slow transition of me handing over something so precious to me. Plenty of people didn't (and still don't) understand why that was so hard for me, and that's okay. I had spent six years (much more if you count all the years prior) loving and leading a people to a place I would not lead them through, and that was heartbreaking. Even when you know you are doing what you need to and peace abounds, your heart will still ache to give back something you loved, something you poured your entire soul into. Mine did tremendously, at least.

Emotionally, we are worn.

Physically, we are, too.

Mentally, we are stronger today than we have been in recent months, but it ebbs and flows almost daily.

The road ahead of us is long, and I am grateful I don't have to walk it alone.

We had finally started to smile more than cry by the middle of fall, which felt miraculous. We felt light for the first time in months, so relieved to be making peace with the new path we were on. Then, only weeks later, the most heartbreaking reality of all knocked us back down:

In late autumn, both of TJ's parents received cancer diagnoses within weeks of each other.

There are no words that could adequately describe how we feel living in this reality that doesn't feel real at all. Shock, denial, a river of tears, screaming out into the night. More than anything else, an intense sorrow. Our silent sobs have turned into ground-shaking wails, and there is no end of them in sight.

This isn't the first time Angie has gotten this horrible news, and she has already fought so hard since being declared cancer free in 2016. We learned of her diagnosis first, and our hearts were cracked wide open. Fear began its assaults anew.

As we were wrapping our minds around her having to fight through this again, Troy began having concerning symptoms that were worsening rapidly. It was several weeks before we knew for sure, but it felt like we were blindsided by a punch when it was confirmed. Six weeks later, we still feel like we are being punched over and over and over again.

It feels so unfair that all of this happened in the same year. Within nine months time, our world was turned upside down more times than we could have ever imagined. Heavy hearts can become harder or softer as time and sorrow wear on them, and we are fighting to stay soft even now. Even as I cry “Enough, God!” each time a new wave hits, I believe that pruning is more about what is grown than what is lost.

So much was taken from us last year, but even more was given. Friends bought us groceries, brought us food, gave us cards stuffed with love and cash, sent us flowers, sent random Venmo gifts with notes like “do what you need to do with this,” showed up on our doorstep with baskets full of thoughtful items that match the season and our needs. Our community stepped into our storm with us willingly. They cried with us, encouraged us, and sacrificed for us.

Right now, I confess that it feels like last year was one of loss. Physically, emotionally, mentally, financially. This year already feels that way, too.

But my spirit keeps quietly whispering that with a little bit of time, when we’re not so raw and weary, we’ll see it more clearly: abundance was ours all along.

Why? Because we spent it with people we love and who love us back. Because all of the pruning made room for more of what really matters. And because all of the tears we've cried have cleansed us in ways we didn't know we needed cleansing.

The trajectory that our lives are on right now looks to be full of more pain and tears and unthinkable loss. Honestly, I am not naive enough to believe otherwise based on what we are up against. But I believe it is, also, filled with people who will meet us where we are and with a compassionate God who welcomes our weary and offers us rest in return. If we have to face these dark days, I'm so thankful that don't have to be our own savior through it all, too.

We are sad.

We are scared.

But we are held.

Hallelujah, we are held.

“Broken apart by suffering, I now hold space to soak in all of life as places where God is seeking me with joy.”

-KJ Ramsey