Living the Dash

I’m going to be a little vulnerable and honest with you.

Over the past few nights, sleep hasn’t come easily. I toss and turn, roll from one side to the other, and somewhere around 2:30 in the morning, my mind takes over. People often comment about how strong a person I am, but the truth is… I’m really not. I’m tender. I’m emotional. I cry over things most people probably don’t even notice.

The other day, I was in Tractor Supply Co., and here comes a lady with her dog, the dog hopping along with a bandaged paw. I couldn’t take it, so there I stood, in the checkout line with tear-filled eyes. One day, a couple of weeks ago, I was browsing one of my favorite thrift stores, and I saw a woman with a scrub top that had the nursing home name printed on it. GriefShare didn’t prepare me for having a crying outburst right smack in the middle of Goodwill. And when I lie awake at night, the tears come fast and heavy, followed by long, honest talks with God about my Momma and the fairness… or unfairness… of life.

When Mom had her stroke, everything changed.
For her. For us.

She couldn’t even turn over on her own anymore. This woman, who was strong in love, strong in wisdom, strong in prayer, and honey that woman was a complete rockstar in a kitchen, was suddenly now trapped in a body that no longer worked the way it should. The stroke broke her body down. Literally. Her skin, her strength, her independence, one by one, they began to fail her.

As a Christian, I struggled deeply with this.

People say things like, “You are the strongest woman I know,” to me often. And maybe on the outside, that looks true. But what they don’t see are the 2:30 a.m. breakdowns in bed. They don’t hear the tear-filled (and sometimes rather loud) conversations I’ve had with God in the parking lots of hospitals and nursing homes. They don’t know about the late-night trips to the cemetery because sometimes… I just need my Momma. (Especially right here at our first Christmas season since she passed)

Sometimes my faith felt broken.
Sometimes it still does.

And that’s when I have to remind myself of a few hard truths… truths that we all face sooner or later:

Being a Christian doesn’t mean you’re exempt from pain or suffering. There’s no spiritual loophole that makes strokes (or cancer, or anything really) kinder to “good people.” There’s no magic Christian clause that protects the faithful from bodily suffering.

Jesus Himself wept at Lazarus’ tomb, even knowing that resurrection was coming. He didn’t say, “It’s fine, heaven fixes things like this.” He cried. Because love grieves loss, even when hope exists.

I’ve also had people ask me, “How could God allow suffering like that?” If I’m being honest, I’ve asked God this myself a time or two. But here’s what I’ve come to understand: God doesn’t cause suffering or use it to teach lessons or prove faith. We live in a broken world with broken bodies, and illness is part of that brokenness – not a moral verdict, not a spiritual failure, and definitely not a divine punishment.

God’s role in suffering is not author, but companion.

Jesus didn’t heal every sick person in Israel.
He didn’t stop every death.
But He wept. He touched. He stayed. And He redeemed.

I reckon this is what I’m learning, slowly and sometimes painfully: being strong doesn’t mean you don’t fall apart. It means you keep loving anyway. It means you keep praying, even when the prayers sound more like sobs than sermons.

I don’t pretend to understand all the whys. But I do believe God was with my Momma when her body failed her. I believe He’s with me on these nights where I feel like my heart is shattered into pieces. And I believe He’s with all of us who are just trying to walk this road with faith, tenderness, and a whole lot of heart.

And here’s the part I hold onto on the nights when missing her feels unbearable:
My Momma loved Jesus. Deeply. Steadfastly. And because of that, I carry a hope that stretches beyond this life. A hope that one day I’ll see her again, whole and healed. No broken body. No suffering. No goodbyes. Just her.

That hope doesn’t erase the pain here, but it does give it a horizon.

So if today finds you missing someone, questioning God, or feeling weaker than you’d like to admit… pull up a chair. You’re not alone here.

Some loves don’t end.
They just change where they live.

And one day, by grace, we’ll be together again.