 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…
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 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…  March is finally here and, in South Carolina, that means we start to feel the shifting of seasons.
It’s not spring yet… but almost. Winter isn’t over yet… but almost. March is a month of transition — where the weather flips up and down, flowers begin to emerge but remain tight in their buds, and the world slowly wakes up from winter’s rest without fully coming alive. Many of us know this transition space well. We’re living in a March of the soul. We’ve prayed the prayers but haven’t received an answer. We’ve submitted the job application but are still waiting for a response. We’ve received a diagnosis and are awaiting treatment and healing to begin. We’ve been mothering in quiet, unseen places, longing for even a small acknowledgment. Like seeds ready to sprout from soon-to-be spring soil, we are waiting — hidden and hopeful for the season to come. But we’re stuck between the now and the not-yet. For a short year of our lives, we lived in Colorado. Winter there stretched on endlessly. Looking out over the snow-covered ground, it seemed logical to believe the land was barren. What could possibly grow under all that snow after months of freezing temperatures? Turns out… a lot. All it took was one short month for that snow to give way to some of the most lush late-spring forests and gardens I had ever seen. In the in-betweens of life, it’s easy to make the same assumption about God because everything feels barren. Is He even there? Does God answer prayers? Is He punishing me? Why does God feel silent?  If I’m Honest…
I’ve always felt insecure when it comes to relationships. Dating. Friendships. Even marriage. For as long as I can remember, I’ve carried this quiet fear that a beautiful connection—once found—could evaporate into conflict at any moment. Here’s why. In high school, I learned firsthand—like so many girls do—that a friend can quickly become a frenemy. Girls I had known since early childhood began to gossip about me and bully me. At first, I confronted the lies head-on. I tried to explain. I tried to defend myself. Eventually, I was exhausted—and I gave up. High school became miserable. I avoided the lunchroom whenever I could, opting instead to eat quietly in whatever teacher’s classroom would let me hide out. While people cried at senior graduation, I threw confetti. I couldn’t wait to leave. Only to enter college terrified to make new friends. I didn’t know how to trust anymore. I ended up dating a guy who emotionally and spiritually abused me for a year. At nineteen, the stress of relational failure—combined with my relentless drive to succeed in both regular and honors classes—finally broke my body. Shingles erupted across the entire right side of my face, leaving nerve damage down my neck and nearly blinding my right eye. I’m sorry for the heaviness of that story. But I want you to see the full picture—because by the time I entered my twenties, relationships had left both personal and physical scars. Already prone to anxiety, I approached deep connection with intense apprehension. I made friends, but kept most people at arm’s length. I dated, but usually ended things after a few months. I didn’t know how to guarantee I wouldn’t be betrayed again, and it felt safer to love lightly than to go all in. So I didn’t. I’m sure I hurt people along the way too. I wasn’t a great girlfriend—I was distant and flighty. I was a good friend and spiritual confidant, but I rarely asked for the favor returned. It was fine for others to need me, but I wouldn’t allow myself to need anyone else. Does this sound familiar? Have you ever felt abandoned, lonely, or just downright broken when it comes to relationships?  During my time in ministry, I was a part of a night dedicated to talking about relationships. At the Q & A portion of the evening, I got this question that I ended up thinking about a lot. When I first read it, it seemed like the answer was obvious, but the more I thought about it and how I was going to answer, the deeper the answer seemed to become.
This was the question….
Let’s Be Honest
Relationships will inevitably disappoint us. People will let us down. And—we will let people down. Why? Because every relationship is made up of imperfect people loving imperfectly. I’m cutting to the chase because disappointment in relationships isn’t always a bad thing. In fact, Scripture shows us that disappointment can exist even alongside deep faith. To be fair, there were many people who had a relationship with Jesus—and were disappointed in Him. Think about this…
So You Want to Be in Love Like the Movies?
Windows rolled down, my hair billowing around my face, the college version of myself had the Avett Brothers cranked almost all the way up and was singing at the top of her lungs: “So you want to be in love like the movies But in the movies they’re not in love at all And with a twinkle in their eyes They’re just saying their lines So we can’t be in love like the movies.”* As a self-declared non-romantic, these lyrics always felt like a duh statement to me. Of course real love doesn’t look like the movies. There’s no perfect soundtrack swelling behind an ordinary morning coffee when we accidentally reach for the same mug as a handsome stranger. We don’t lock eyes, smile, walk away, and then discover our phone number magically written on a to-go cup. We don’t fall in love on the first date and go on to live a flawless life with a picture-perfect family. It’s just not real—and I’ve always known that. We all know that. People fight. They carry flaws, baggage, and wounds. They hold reservations and secrets, doubts and expectations. And still… don’t we all secretly want to be in love like the movies? Behind our realism lives a quiet longing for the meet-cute moment. We want to be unexpectedly swept off our feet by someone who gives us security and worth. Someone who chooses us out of a crowd. Someone who loves us as we are, never makes us question their loyalty, and somehow makes us feel—well—whole. This is the tension we live in: the longing to be fully and perfectly loved feels like fantasy—something reserved for rom-coms and fairy tales. And yet, we yearn for it anyway. So what do we do with our desire to be loved--and to be in love? |
