 This weekend, my husband and I celebrate twelve years of marriage.
Twelve years of laughter, babies, prayers, disappointments, healing, forgiveness, inside jokes, hard conversations, and grace upon grace. And when I think about our marriage now, I don’t picture perfection. I picture a broken jar. Here’s why…
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 Failed? Failed!!!!
The nurse couldn't be serious. I’d never failed anything in my life and there I sat, in the doctor's office, being told I failed my first glucose test. My reward? I got to come back for another test. But this one was bigger and badder. I had to drink so much sugar and wait so many hours and get my finger pricked so many times. Failing is always the worst. Maybe, like me, you failed your first glucose test. Or possibly you’re dealing with another difficult test in life or motherhood. There are so many things in this season that seem to slap the “failure” label across our foreheads. But一 what if we’ve been mislabeling ourselves?  “I am not saying this because I am in need, for I have learned to be content whatever the circumstances.”
-Philippians 4:11, NIV “I have learned to be content in all things...” Hahaha! Just kidding. I have not learned this. I always want more out of life. Not in a materialistic way, but in a I-want-to-drink-in-life-from-a-fire-hose kind of way. I’m constantly wondering if the grass is greener on the other side, trying to plan what's next on the schedule for my kids, dreaming about the future, and striving to achieve. What I’m really asking is, can I have my cake, my family’s cake, some other cake samples, and eat it too? However, what Paul is sharing in Philippians 4 is the key to contentment that I think most of us are missing.  “It’s just not working out,” my dear friend's voice was full of overwhelm and exhaustion from the other end of the phone. Breastfeeding her newborn had become a struggle. The baby wasn’t latching well. Does she switch to pumping? Is a bottle bad?
The sea of social media and doctoral advice had her rocked and I teared up in sympathy. I’ve been there, lived there underwater with my first born. It felt like I was drowning in a season that should have been marked by motherhood bliss. So I told her…  I love gardening. For the beauty of the flowers and the fruit and vegetables that burst from the ground to nourish my family, sure. But mainly because it teaches me to not rush toward hope.
For example, my tomato seeds weren’t growing “fast enough” for me. So, instead of waiting it out, I popped back over to Lowe’s and grabbed a few plants that were already a five or six inches tall and flowering. As I was sticking a Cherokee Purple tomato plant into a raised bed, I moved aside the tiny seedling I was giving up on and felt convicted. I wasn’t harming a thing by doing this in my garden, but was I doing this anywhere in my life? Why do we all want to rush through growing seasons ?  This season has been hard.
I wish I could tie a neat bow on it and say, “Everything is okay because Jesus is risen.” And that is true. Deeply, eternally true. But if I’m honest, it doesn’t always feel that way. Right now, it just feels hard. Between the questions and the wondering and the waiting, Easter didn’t feel very celebratory this year. It felt quiet. A little heavy. Like I was standing in the middle of a story I don’t fully understand yet. And I’ve been thinking about the women and the disciples—the ones who were actually there when the resurrection happened. We often picture Easter morning as triumphant and clear, but I wonder if it felt that way to them in real time. Because from their perspective, everything had just fallen apart. They had walked with Jesus, believed in Him, trusted that He was the One who would fulfill every promise. And then, He died. Not metaphorically. Not spiritually. Physically, painfully, publicly—He died. Can you imagine…  My mom always had these big, Kirkland’s-looking curtains in our living room—the kind with soft embroidery and tassels, hanging perfectly in the windows like they belonged in a magazine.
That’s what I used to picture every time I read about the curtain tearing when Jesus died on the cross. But here’s the reality: ”At that moment the curtain of the temple was torn in two from top to bottom. The earth shook, the rocks split (Matthew 27:51, NIV).” The curtain in Gospel of Matthew 27:51 wasn’t decorative… and it definitely wasn’t light. It was massive—about 60 feet high, 30 feet wide, and four inches thick. It wasn’t something you could casually pull back. It was more like a wall—heavy, intentional, immovable. A barrier designed to guard something sacred…  I wore a sweatshirt yesterday that I hadn’t touched in over two years… and I almost yanked it off.
Why? Because I was afraid of it. I know that sounds dramatic, maybe even a little irrational—but it’s true. It was the sweatshirt I wore to the ER when my nervous system had become so wrecked that my body stopped sleeping. In October of 2024, I went through months without real rest. Even when my body collapsed into sleep, I would wake up panicking. My entire world felt upside down, and no matter what I did, I couldn’t steady it. I was stuck in fight or flight. Constantly sweating or shivering. Unable to sit still. Unable to eat. Everything felt out of my control—and it was terrifying. After another sleepless night and realizing I couldn’t even sit through my daughter’s piano recital, I hit a breaking point. I needed help. So I went to the ER. But what unsettled me most wasn’t just the exhaustion—it was the not knowing. I like to feel at least somewhat in control. And if my body was a car, it felt like someone else had taken the wheel. I didn’t know where I was headed. Desperate, I kept asking: What’s happening to me? Am I going to be okay? And here’s the hard part… The doctors didn’t have immediate answers. They only had next steps. I wanted relief. I wanted certainty. But instead, I was invited into something I didn’t want at all… Faith That Survives Grief: Surrender When Life Is Out Of Control | Guest Post By Hope Dover3/18/2026  I’ll never forget the look on the doctor’s face or how the air was sucked out of the room. For a moment, it felt like I forgot how to breathe. It was the moment my life changed forever, the moment that defined the me before and the me after grief entered my story.
Life-changing moments often happen quickly when we least expect them. Mine happened in a small exam room at the Maternal Fetal Medicine office when my husband and I were blindsided with three little words - “It’s not good.” As the doctor kept talking, we learned about all the fatal fetal anomalies that would prevent our first child from living outside my womb. That moment brought more questions than answers and many desperate prayers that didn’t get answered the way I wanted. As believers, it’s easy to fall into the mindset that if we pray hard enough, we can prevent heartbreak. Unfortunately, the outcome we pray for is not always the outcome God has planned. So what happens to our faith when grief enters our story and prayer doesn’t change the outcome?  God sits on a throne, not a loveseat.
It’s important that we remember that as we wrestle with who He truly is. Because He’s not fragile. He doesn’t see our questions and doubts and run away scared. He can handle the full weight of it all. Here’s how I know… Gage and I were sitting on the couch last night asking each other questions from a couples card game we bought each other for Christmas. One card asked: “What were the key turning points in your life that brought you to where you are today?” As I started reflecting on my faith — on Jesus as the promised Messiah, the fulfillment of prophecy, and the reality of the Holy Spirit truly residing in my heart — I realized something surprising. The turning point for my faith wasn’t baptism. It wasn’t a radical encounter with God at church camp. The turning point for my faith was doubt. In high school, I started wondering: Is this all real? I was struggling with depression and an eating disorder. I was picked on and often felt left out. And in the middle of all that pain, I found myself asking: God, if you’re really there… then why? Always the intellectual, I didn’t just have personal doubts. I had theological ones too.
My list of questions went on and on. And I didn’t keep them quiet. I threw every question I had at God, my youth pastor, and my dad. I read books about other religions and studied everything I could. And here’s what happened… |
