The Last Goodbye

by Rhonda, October 05, 2025

The time had come.

We had prayed and hoped for a last-minute change, but it didn’t come. I have been walking alongside two families from Ukraine, helping them settle into life here in the United States for the past few years. For one of them, their permission to stay was expiring. And now, it was no longer possible for them to remain.

So, before the departure and the heartbreak of separation, we decided to gather for a proper send-off, a final American meal at a local steakhouse. It felt like the right thing to do. If they were going to step into an uncertain future, they should at least leave with a memory of friendship, laughter, and a good meal. Yet beneath the clinking of glasses and the soft hum of conversation around us, there was no escaping the heaviness. Parents were going one direction, their adult son another. Not just goodbye, but goodbye and separation, scattered into different countries, different futures.

The room was dimly lit, the kind of warm glow that usually feels romantic or celebratory, but that night it carried a quiet ache. The flicker of candles danced across their faces as they leaned over plates of steak and potatoes. And then, in that small pocket of time, their words surprised me.

They said they were grateful.

Not bitter, not angry, not resentful. Grateful. They promised they would never speak ill of America, because here, they had experienced kindness. Yes, they were sad to leave, but their gratitude spilled out in waves. Again and again, they thanked me, not just for paperwork and rides and help with the details of life, but for standing with them, for seeing them. Their words pressed into me like a weight I wasn’t sure how to carry.

And then came the words I least expected: “We saw Christ through you, and it has made us rethink everything.”

I froze for a moment. It was a staggering compliment, especially because they were not Christians. I was humbled. The thought pressed on my heart: if they knew even a fraction of the goodness of Christ, they would never dare compare me to Him. And yet, somehow, in His mercy, God allowed me to be a glimpse of His love in their story. A shadow. A reflection. A flicker of His light in a dark, uncertain season.

Since returning from Guatemala, my emotions have been a whirlwind, already stretched thin with goodbyes, change, and the weight of transition. And that night, as I drove home and later prayed over this family, I found myself echoing the very same prayer a driver in Guatemala had once prayed over me. He had prayed with confidence over my pilot, over my journey, over God’s hand guiding the details I could not see. And there I was, whispering those same words over them, that God’s hand would be upon their journey, that His protection would cover their pilot and their flight, that He would lead them into the unknown with a care deeper than any of us could imagine.

God weaves threads between stories in ways we often don’t recognize until later. What was once spoken over me in a moment of sadness and sorrow became the prayer I now carried for someone else. And maybe that is how His love works, passed on, multiplied, echoing from one story into another.

Paul's Goodbye

The harbor described in Act 20 at Miletus was restless that morning. The cries of sailors echoed against the stone wharves, ropes groaned as they were pulled taut, and the smell of brine and tar hung thick in the air. A ship swayed gently against the dock, waiting for its passengers, waiting for Paul.

He had sent word to the elders of Ephesus to meet him there, too pressed by time to travel back to their city, yet too bound by love to leave without one last farewell. They came quickly, their sandals stirring the dust, their faces carrying the weight of men who knew this would be the final meeting with their beloved shepherd.

Paul stood among them, weathered by years of travel, persecution, and unrelenting devotion. His eyes were steady, but his heart heavy. He began to speak, his voice carrying over the clamor of the port, anchoring every soul to his words.

“You yourselves know,” he began, his hand lifting as if to point back over the years, “how I lived among you the whole time from the first day I set foot in Asia, serving the Lord with all humility and with tears and with trials that happened to me through the plots of the Jews.”

A murmur ran through the group. They remembered. They had seen his tears, heard his prayers, watched him endure. Paul’s gaze swept across them, and his voice deepened.

“I did not shrink from declaring to you anything that was profitable, and teaching you in public and from house to house, testifying both to Jews and to Greeks of repentance toward God and of faith in our Lord Jesus Christ.”

He paused, the breeze tugging at the edges of his cloak. “And now, behold, I am going to Jerusalem, constrained by the Spirit, not knowing what will happen to me there, except that the Holy Spirit testifies to me in every city that imprisonment and afflictions await me.”

The elders shifted uneasily, grief pressing against their chests. Paul’s eyes shone with a fire that no chain could quench. “But I do not account my life of any value nor as precious to myself,” he declared, “if only I may finish my course and the ministry that I received from the Lord Jesus, to testify to the gospel of the grace of God.”

A silence fell. The men looked at one another, their throats tight.

“And now,” Paul continued, his voice softening, “I know that none of you among whom I have gone about proclaiming the kingdom will see my face again.”

At those words, the sorrow broke. The elders lowered their heads, some weeping openly, others pressing fists to their mouths to stifle sobs. The air itself seemed to grow heavy, thick with grief.

But Paul pressed on. His words, though tender, carried the urgency of a final charge. “Pay careful attention to yourselves and to all the flock, in which the Holy Spirit has made you overseers, to care for the church of God, which He obtained with His own blood. I know that after my departure fierce wolves will come in among you, not sparing the flock. And from among your own selves will arise men speaking twisted things, to draw away the disciples after them.”

He let the warning sink in, then lifted their eyes to hope. “And now I commend you to God and to the word of His grace, which is able to build you up and to give you the inheritance among all those who are sanctified.”

The men nodded, tears still spilling but hearts steadied by his faith. Paul reminded them of his own example: “In all things I have shown you that by working hard in this way we must help the weak and remember the words of the Lord Jesus, how He Himself said, ‘It is more blessed to give than to receive.’”

When he had finished speaking, Paul sank to his knees there on the stone. The elders fell beside him, surrounding him in a circle of prayer. Their arms wrapped around him, their tears staining his shoulders, their voices breaking as they pleaded with God to keep him safe.

Luke records it simply, but the moment was anything but simple: “There was much weeping on the part of all. They embraced Paul and kissed him, being sorrowful most of all because of the word he had spoken, that they would not see his face again.”

At last, the ship’s captain called out, the sails straining against the wind. The elders walked with Paul to the water’s edge, their hands lingering on his arms until the last possible moment. And then, with one final embrace, they let go.

The ropes were loosed. The ship pushed off. And Paul was carried away, his figure growing smaller against the horizon, while the elders stood rooted on the shore, hearts heavy, yet strengthened by the charge he had given, and the grace of the God who would never leave them.

The Farewell

We were done eating and the time had come to say our goodbyes. The plates were cleared, the flicker of candlelight dimmed, and the hum of conversation from other tables blurred into the background as if the whole restaurant had shrunk down to just us. Looking back now, I’m surprised we didn’t take a single picture. But even now, I know why, we were standing inside a moment that didn’t belong on a camera roll. To lift a phone would have felt shallow, almost like interrupting something sacred with a flash and a click.

So we stepped outside into the night air. The restaurant lights glowed against the darkness, their reflection shimmering on wet pavement left behind from an earlier rain. For a while we just stood there, not ready for the night to end.

The hugs came slowly, one by one. Long embraces, the kind where you can feel the weight of unspoken words pressed into your shoulders. They thanked us again, again and again, as if somehow saying it enough times might carry the gratitude that words alone could never fully hold. Their English stumbled here and there, but it didn’t matter. Gratitude doesn’t need perfect grammar. It speaks its own language.

We spoke of hope. Maybe someday they could return to America. Maybe, if not, we could find our way to them, wherever they were scattered, in whatever country they might find their home. The words were filled with possibility, but the heaviness in our voices betrayed how uncertain it all felt.

Finally, the last hugs. One more squeeze, one more whispered “thank you,” one more attempt to stretch the moment out. But then came the hardest part, the slow, reluctant walk toward our cars. Every step felt heavier than it should, like dragging our feet against a current we didn’t want to face.

My kids and I slipped into our vehicle. For a long time no one spoke. The only sounds were the hum of the engine, the click of the turn signal, the quiet shuffle of tires against the road. I glanced at my kids’ faces in the dim light and saw what I felt, sadness, weariness, the ache of trying to process something bigger than ourselves. Words seemed too small, so we didn’t try. We just rode in silence, carrying the weight of goodbye together.

Since that night, we’ve heard from them. They reached their destination safely. A few pictures came through, smiling faces, a glimpse of new surroundings, and with them another wave of thanks. Their words reminded me again that even oceans and borders can’t erase the kindness exchanged in a short stretch of time.

And here’s the truth that steadies me: I don’t know the rest of their story. I don’t know if they’ll ever return to America, or if our paths will ever cross again. But I do know this, God allowed me the privilege of standing in their story for a season. To walk beside them for a little while, to offer help, to offer friendship, to offer prayer.

And isn’t that the mystery and beauty of life in Christ? That sometimes He doesn’t call us to stay forever, but simply to show up for a moment, to be present in someone’s chapter, and then to entrust them into His care.

So while the goodbye was hard, I rest in hope. Hope that God is still writing for them a story of goodness, provision, and grace. Hope that His hand will continue to lead them, even when mine no longer can. And gratitude, deep, quiet gratitude, that I was given the chance to see Christ’s love shine through the cracks of my imperfect self, and that, for a time, our lives were woven together.

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The Tears

by Rhonda, September 30, 2025



The day had come, the one we had all been quietly dreading. It was time to go home. By this point, we were back in Guatemala City, our suitcases neatly packed, every excursion checked off the list, and our flight looming just hours away.

My heart ached in a way I hadn’t expected. How do you explain the mix of emotions when God meets you in a new way, in a new place, and then you have to leave it all behind? Guatemala had been more than a vacation. It was where I felt both deeply at rest and more fully myself than I had in a long time. To return to the hustle, the busyness, the need to impress and perform, it felt like stepping out of a sanctuary and back into the storm. My heart was torn between two countries.

I’ll be the first to admit, I spent most of the morning in tears. That’s not typically my default. Anger has always been my go-to emotion (sad, but true). But that day? I couldn’t stop. Not pretty, movie-scene tears either, more like blotchy-face, puffy-eyes, “someone hand this woman a box of Kleenex” tears. My kids were in the hotel room with me, throwing each other looks like, what do we do, nothing is working?

When our Guatemalan friend arrived to drive us to the airport, I tried to explain how sad I was to leave. He listened kindly and then told us something: he had prayed for us, weeks before we ever arrived. He confessed that he’d been nervous about picking us up, but the minute we met, it felt like family. And with that, the tears began to form again.

Here’s the funny thing, I had just gotten myself together. Eyes dried, dignity somewhat restored. And then, right there in the middle of Guatemala City traffic, he began to pray. Over me. Over my children. Over our flight. Even over the pilot who would carry us home, and specifically for wisdom in the pilot's decisions. And just like that, click. The sprinklers turned back on. My kids didn’t even react this time, they just shrugged like, welp, round three. Honestly, I couldn’t decide if it was more touching or embarrassing, so I laughed through my tears and called it both.

Then, he asked if we’d like to stop at a local craft market before heading to the airport. Of course, we said yes. Anything to delay the goodbye. We wandered through the stalls, buying our last souvenirs, holding on to every color and every sound. And I’ll admit, it felt good to be distracted by woven textiles and wooden carvings instead of my soggy tissues.

At the airport, we took photos together. We hugged. We said our goodbyes. Somehow, I pulled it together long enough to get through TSA and Customs, though I’m fairly certain my passport picture looked more composed than the real-life version standing in line that day.

What I realized later is that my tears weren’t just about leaving Guatemala. They were about something far deeper. They were about the presence of my Savior in those mountains, in those villages, in that time away from the noise of life. Saying goodbye to Guatemala felt a little like saying goodbye to those moments, and I wasn’t ready.

The Grief

They sat stunned. The flicker of lamplight on the walls was strangely dim after hearing His words. The disciples had grown used to Jesus being with them, eating with them, laughing with them, walking dusty roads side by side. His presence was their safety net, their anchor. And now He was saying, “I am going away.”

What they didn’t know was how close they were to the darkest night of their lives. Within hours, soldiers would come with torches. Judas would betray Him with a kiss. Peter would deny Him three times before the rooster crowed. The One who had walked on water, who had multiplied loaves and fish, who had spoken life to dead men, He would be arrested, beaten, mocked, and nailed to a cross. The disciples couldn’t see it yet. But Jesus knew. And because He loved them, He began preparing them.

Up until now, He hadn’t told them all of this. Why? Because He was with them. They didn’t need to know what was ahead when they could simply turn to Him with their questions, their fears, their doubts. But now, the hour had come. His physical presence would soon be taken, and they needed to understand that His absence wasn’t the end of the story.

The Bible doesn’t record the disciples openly weeping in that room, but I don't think its a leap of the imagination to say there were a few tears shed. Jesus Himself acknowledged the weight of their sorrow. He looked at them and said, “Because I have said these things, you are filled with grief.” (John 16:6). Their faces were marked with anguish. Their hearts were heavy, maybe even their eyes watering with unshed tears.

They weren’t stoic, unfeeling men. These were fishermen, tax collectors, ordinary people who had staked everything on Jesus. And when He spoke of leaving, they weren’t just losing a teacher, they were losing the Friend who had calmed their storms, the Shepherd who knew them by name.

Scripture doesn’t tell us outright, but I can imagine Peter clenching his jaw, blinking hard to fight the sting in his eyes. I can picture John, the one known for leaning against Jesus’ chest, feeling his heart fracture at the thought of separation. Maybe Thomas, the questioner, whispered, “But how can this be?” while Matthew buried his face in his hands.

Jesus saw all of it. He didn’t scold them for being emotional. He didn’t say, “Toughen up.” Instead, He gave them a promise:

“You will grieve, but your grief will turn to joy.” (John 16:20)

He knew their sorrow was real. He knew their tears were valid. And yet He also knew that on the other side of their heartbreak was resurrection joy, Spirit-filled power, and the kind of presence that would never leave them, not even for a moment.

To help them understand, Jesus gave the disciples an image they could never forget. 

“A woman giving birth to a child has pain because her time has come; but when her baby is born she forgets the anguish because of her joy that a child is born into the world.” (John 16:21)

What a picture. Anyone who has stood near a delivery room, or been in one, knows the truth of those words. The hours of labor, the cries of pain, the sweat, the exhaustion, all of it feels unbearable in the moment. But the instant that newborn takes a first breath, joy floods in. Tears of pain turn into tears of wonder. The anguish is not erased, but it is swallowed up by something greater.

That was the hope Jesus gave His friends. Their grief would be sharp and immediate, like contractions that couldn’t be ignored. They would watch their Lord dragged away in chains. They would hear the hammer of nails against wood. They would hide in fear, wondering if they were next.

But on the other side of that anguish was a joy no Roman soldier, no cross, no stone-sealed tomb could ever take away. Resurrection joy.

So He told them:

“Now is your time of grief, but I will see you again and you will rejoice, and no one will take away your joy.” (John 16:22)

The promise wasn’t that grief would disappear, it was that joy would come and stay. Their sorrow would be temporary, but their joy eternal.

The Flight Home

I sat on the plane, waiting for takeoff. Once again, I had regained my dignity. I had myself under control, and everything seemed fine. Well, mostly fine. My heart was still heavy, but at least the waterworks weren’t on full display anymore.

We sat on the runway longer than usual, and then the pilot’s voice crackled over the speaker. In a Texas drawl, he said, “There’s a storm moving in, and I have a decision to make. I’ve got to tell you, I’m just not inclined to fly into this. We’re going to wait another 30 minutes for it to move.”

Considering our driver had prayed specifically over the pilot’s decisions, I felt the tears welling up again. It was like God was whispering, See? I’m still here.

Beside me sat a woman, probably in her 80s. She was hunched over, and it was clear she didn’t speak English. So I pulled out my phone, opened my translator app, and typed a quick explanation of what the pilot had said. She read it, placed her wrinkled hands over mine, looked into my eyes, and said, “Gracias.” Then, right there in her seat, she folded those same hands, bowed her head, and began to pray.

Well, that was it. Cue the sprinklers. Waterworks: back on.  I refused to look at her, with her sweet hands and her crown of gray hair bowed in prayer.  Refused.  But it didn't matter.

I cried on and off for the entire three-and-a-half-hour flight home. I turned toward the window most of the time, hoping my seatmate wouldn’t notice my blotchy face, but there was nothing I could do. Tears came in waves, and I had to just let them.

And the truth is, they didn’t stop when we landed.  Or the next day.  Or the day after that. Sure, I held it together for work, putting on the composed face everyone expected. But each evening when I came home, the tears would start again.  This went on for three full days.  

Ever since, I’ve caught myself thinking about Guatemala almost daily. When can I go back? How soon can I return? Because that trip wasn’t just a vacation. It was a glimpse of God’s nearness in a way I hadn’t experienced before.

I loved that trip. I saw God in that trip. And I fell more in love with Jesus because of that trip.

My tears weren’t weakness, they were worship. They were the overflow of a heart that had tasted God’s goodness and wasn’t ready to let go.  And maybe that’s why the tears kept coming. Because once you’ve encountered the presence of God in such a real way, tears are the only natural response.

The trip ended, yes, but I have a feeling the story God began in me there is still unfolding.  

At least I hope so.

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The Silent Mountain

by Rhonda, September 24, 2025


After savoring our time in Antigua and at the breathtaking Lake Atitlán, we returned for what felt like the grand finale of the trip: climbing Pacaya. Well, perhaps climbing is a generous word. We had planned to hike originally, but between the heavy rains of the season and, if I’m honest, our lack of real training, we decided to pay a little extra to ride horses up the volcano instead. That turned out to be a wise decision, even though I felt a little disappointed to not experience the victory of a hard-earned climb. 

In the rainy season, showers come daily, and I couldn’t help but wonder how soaked we might get before the day was over.  Horses would be faster and perhaps help avoid a thorough soaking.  Still, I was excited to see Pacaya up close, maybe even roast a marshmallow over its steaming rocks.

Our shuttle picked us up at the hotel and carried us through winding roads until we arrived at the park gates. Inside, the museum walls told Pacaya’s dramatic story. Our guide pointed to photos of the volcano before and after various eruptions, each image showing how the mountain reshaped itself over time. The thought struck me, I’d never been this close to a volcano before, let alone climbed one.  This wasn't just a tourist attraction, it was a powerful force of nature.

We mounted the horses and began our trek up the mountain. The air was cool and damp, and plants seemed to spring up from every direction. “The ash enriches the soil,” our guide explained, gesturing at the avocado and peach trees we passed. He spoke about how locals for generations have used these plants as medicine, often choosing nature’s remedies over visiting a doctor.

As we ascended, the trees thinned and the views opened. In a clearing ahead, Pacaya’s peak came into sight at last. No glowing lava greeted us that day, but we could clearly see the remnants of past flows, dark trails of rock etched into the mountain’s slopes. Our guide explained how their coloring revealed their age: the darker the stone, the newer the eruption. Smoke curled faintly from the summit, and from time to time, steam escaped up through the rocks beneath our feet. The ground itself felt cool, until you slid your hand between the stones and found the heat that still pulsed just beneath the surface.

By this point, we had dismounted the horses. The lush greenery that had surrounded us on the way up was gone, replaced by a stark, barren landscape. Nothing filled the horizon now except for the volcano itself and wide fields of hardened lava. It felt otherworldly, like stepping onto the surface of another planet. The rocks were jagged, sharp, and uneven beneath our feet, a challenge to navigate with every step.

Because we had come in the off-season, and during the rains, the mountain was utterly silent. No crowds. No chatter. Just us, our guides, the horses resting nearby, and a few stray dogs that had joined the climb, padding quietly at our heels. The silence pressed in on me as I looked up at the smoking giant towering above. A single thought rose to the surface of my heart: Lord, how powerful You are.

I had expected Pacaya to be fascinating, but standing in its shadow was more than that, it was sobering. Watching the volcano smolder, knowing it held the power to wipe us off the surface of the earth at any moment, filled me with awe and an eerie sense of smallness. The scene reminded me of photographs of other planets, or even of what the world might look like after a nuclear disaster, lifeless, quiet, desolate. And yet, here we were, breathing in its stillness.

We lingered, taking turns snapping photos in front of the peak. With no other tourists around, our guide gave us as much time as we wanted. The solitude made the experience feel sacred, like we had been given the gift of the entire mountain to ourselves. After a while, we wandered out into the lava fields. I picked up rocks, turning them over in my hands, marveling at how creation itself can look so raw and untamed.

It was then that our guide broke the silence with a smile: “You know, it is tradition to roast a marshmallow here. Anyone interested?”

We didn’t hesitate. “Of course!” we laughed, voices echoing into the emptiness. Marshmallow-roasting had been my goal all along. Our guide shifted a few rocks aside, pulled a bag from his pack, and handed us sticks. In no time, we were roasting marshmallows over the hidden heat rising up through the earth itself. The dogs sat close by, eyes fixed on the sugary treats, and the guide tossed them a few.

It was cold at that altitude, a chill breeze sweeping across the mountain, yet steam vented steadily from the ground at our feet. That contradiction, heat and cold, silence and power, etched itself into my memory. As I stood there, marshmallow in hand, I couldn’t help but reflect: we love God, we seek His peace, but how often do we forget to truly revere His power? Standing on Pacaya was a sharp reminder.

The marshmallow, by the way, was delicious, flavored with the sentimentality of the moment. We explored, snapped dozens more photos, and finally mounted the horses for the descent.

Pacaya had surprised me. I had expected it to be fun, maybe even a little adventurous. But I hadn’t expected to be so deeply moved by the sheer, humbling power of nature. Being alone on that silent mountain made it feel like we were the only people on earth, and I realized it was the kind of experience that could never be repeated in the same way again. It was eerie, it was breathtaking, and it exceeded all of my expectations.

Smoke on the Mountain

Moses stood at the foot of the mountain, his sandals pressing into the trembling earth, the air thick with anticipation. Behind him, the people were hushed, their fear palpable, thousands of hearts beating fast in unison.

Just weeks earlier, this same people had walked through the Red Sea on dry ground. They had seen God strike Egypt with plagues, break Pharaoh’s pride, and set them free after four hundred years of slavery. They had watched their enemy swallowed up by the returning waves, their freedom sealed by God’s own hand. Since then, the wilderness had been their home, manna their daily bread, water drawn from rocks their only drink. And now, after all those wonders, they had been led here, to the base of Mount Sinai. God had told Moses to bring the people to this very place, where He would reveal Himself and establish a covenant with them. They were about to meet the God who had carried them out of Egypt, and that thought alone was enough to make them tremble.

And then it happened.

Flashes of lightning split the sky. Thunder rolled like the voice of God Himself. A thick cloud descended, wrapping the mountain in darkness, until Sinai itself seemed to vanish in smoke. Fire fell from heaven, and the mountain shook violently, quaking under the weight of His presence. The smoke billowed upward like the smoke of a furnace, and the sound of a trumpet blast grew louder and louder until it filled the air with a deafening roar. Creation itself bowed before its Maker.

The people trembled, their knees weak with fear. And Moses, frail, human Moses, was called higher, into the cloud, into the fire, into the very presence of God. The blast of the trumpet did not fade; it grew louder, until the people cried out for mercy: “You speak to us, and we will listen,” they begged Moses, “but do not have God speak to us or we will die” (Exodus 20:19).

And still Moses climbed. Each step into the thick darkness was a step into the unseeable mystery of God’s presence. Smoke wrapped around him, fire lit the ground beneath his feet, and yet he went where no other man could go, because God Himself had called his name.

On that mountain, heaven touched earth. On that mountain, God revealed His holiness in smoke and fire, thunder and trembling ground. But the spectacle was not the point. The covenant was. The Lord had brought His people here for more than awe, He brought them here for relationship. And at Sinai, that relationship was defined. Out of the fire and the cloud, God gave Moses the Ten Commandments, words that would shape His people, mark them as His own, and guide them in how to live before Him and with one another.

The God who shook the mountain was also the God who spoke into the silence, giving His law as a gift. A covenant sealed not by fear alone, but by love, the kind of love that desires His people to walk in His ways and reflect His character to the world.

A Smoking Mountain of My Own

I stood on Pacaya, looking at the barren lava fields stretching in every direction and smoke curling upward from the peak, and considered the parallels to Sinai.  Thousands of years may separate the two mountains, but in that moment, I understood the smallest piece of what Israel must have felt.  Small, vulnerable, and awestruck in the presence of a power far beyond themselves.

Pacaya didn’t thunder or blaze with fire the way Sinai did, but it didn’t have to. The silence itself was powerful. The knowledge that fire still burned beneath our feet was enough to remind me that creation is not tame. The mountain steamed quietly, alive with a strength that could never be controlled. And standing there, I realized the same God who shook Sinai is the God who formed this volcano, the God who holds the power of life and death, and the God who still bends low to meet with His people.

I think we all need our Pacaya moments.

Life is busy. The world is noisy. Fear rises on every side, and division, hate, and sorrow seem to dominate the headlines. In the swirl of it all, it can feel as though God has gone small, as if His voice is drowned out by the chaos. But nothing could be further from the truth.

We need moments that remind us that God is anything but small. We need to feel, even just for a moment, the weight of a power beyond our understanding, beyond our control, beyond our strength. There is something strangely reassuring about feeling small and vulnerable in the presence of that kind of greatness. Because it reminds us that the God who holds that power, the God who shakes mountains, commands fire, and forms worlds with His word, is the same God who holds us.

And that same God loves us.

That realization changes everything. In the blur of our days, in the busyness of schedules, in the heaviness of a hurting world, we can remember: the God who descended in fire on Mount Sinai, the God who still smokes through the rocks of Pacaya, is the God who has it all in His hands. Nothing is out of His control. Not the nations. Not the storms. 

Not even the details of my small, ordinary life.

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The Hand

by Rhonda, September 18, 2025

I awoke the next morning with excitement. I couldn’t wait to get up and have a cup of Guatemalan coffee in Guatemala, sitting on the rooftop in Guatemala, looking at a volcano in Guatemala. Does it get any better than this? Multiple bucket list items all happening at once, and it was as great as I anticipated: watching the sunrise over the volcanoes, drinking my amazing cup of coffee.

Originally, I had thought this would be the day for a coffee farm tour. But God had other plans. That morning, my friend from work sent me a message: “Go to Hobbitenango. Don’t miss it.” I had seen photos online, whimsical houses built into the hillsides, oversized swings that launch you out over sweeping mountain views, and a place that looked like it had stepped straight out of Tolkien’s imagination. Still, I wasn’t sure how we would get there. It looked complicated and, if I’m honest, a little intimidating.

But we decided to try. After a few wrong turns (including an Uber driver dropping us at the wrong spot in Antigua), my son pulled out Google Maps, confidently navigated the maze of cobblestone streets, and got us to the shuttle stop. I had pictured a van or maybe a small bus. Instead, “the shuttle” turned out to be the back of a pickup truck, with boards nailed across for seats. If it rained, they’d throw a tarp over the top (and when it rained on the way back, they did indeed). My daughter, celebrating her birthday, laughed so hard as we bounced and bumped up the steep mountain road. It was probably unsafe and definitely illegal in the U.S., but in that moment, it was pure joy.

And the climb was worth every jolt. Hobbitenango is breathtaking. Perched high in the mountains above Antigua, it’s designed to mimic the Shire from The Lord of the Rings. The name itself is a playful mix: “Hobbit” plus “-enango,” a suffix from local Mayan place names. Built by dreamers who wanted to create a retreat where people could feel transported to another world, it has hobbit-hole houses carved into the hillsides, rustic wooden signs, and fantasy-themed details everywhere you look. But what struck me most wasn’t just the theme, it was the views. Rolling mountains draped in mist, volcanoes breaking through clouds, and green valleys stretching endlessly below. It felt like stepping out of this world into something enchanted.

We wandered, explored, and laughed together. My son took a ride on the massive rope swing, soaring over the valley below. We found what may have been the best milkshakes of our lives. We even paused to scratch the ears of the friendly stray dogs who made their home there. But the highlight, the thing that will forever be etched in my memory, was the hand.

It’s a giant sculpture of a hand jutting out over the mountainside, open and steady, as if inviting you to step into it. One by one, we climbed out onto the palm, stood still, and let the moment sink in. Behind us stretched a panorama so grand it almost felt unreal. To stand there, suspended between earth and sky, felt like standing inside a prayer.

When we came back down from the mountain, I texted a few photos to my friend. She responded instantly: “Oh! You found the Hand of God. I’m so glad you got to sit in it.” I hadn’t realized that’s what it was called until she said it.  I opened my journal and flipped to the notes I had written before the trip. There it was in my own handwriting: “Do not fear, you are in God's hands."

In the Hand of God

Isaiah was one of the major prophets of the Old Testament. He lived in Jerusalem during a time of tremendous upheaval, around the 8th century B.C. The people of Judah, God’s chosen nation, had drifted far from Him. They worshiped idols, made alliances with foreign nations instead of trusting God, and lived with injustice toward the poor and vulnerable. Isaiah’s calling was not easy, he was sent to deliver both warnings of judgment and words of hope.

In the first part of his book, Isaiah speaks of God’s holiness and the coming judgment that would fall on Judah for their rebellion. He even prophesied about the Babylonian exile, when God’s people would be torn from their homeland, carried away as captives, and surrounded by a culture hostile to their faith. That looming exile was a frightening prospect: the loss of land, identity, and security.

And yet, in the middle of all these warnings, Isaiah also spoke words of breathtaking comfort. He reminded the people that even in exile, even when it felt like God was far away, He had not abandoned them. Over and over, Isaiah painted pictures of God’s strength and tenderness, urging His people not to fear.

One of the most powerful promises is found in Isaiah 41. God tells His people:

“So do not fear, for I am with you;
do not be dismayed, for I am your God.
I will strengthen you and help you;
I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.” (Isaiah 41:10)

And a few verses later:

“For I am the Lord your God
who takes hold of your right hand
and says to you, Do not fear;
I will help you.” (Isaiah 41:13)

These two verses say so much in just a few lines. God’s speech through Isaiah isn’t harsh or distant, it’s tender, like a father stooping low to reassure His child. “Do not fear,” He says. Are you weak? “I will strengthen you.” Do you feel alone? “I will help you.” Are you stumbling, wondering if you can keep walking? “I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.” 

Imagine hearing those words as an Israelite staring down the reality of exile. You were about to lose everything familiar, your home, your temple, your land. But Isaiah’s words reminded you that you could never lose God’s presence. Even in the darkest places, even when the ground beneath you seemed to disappear, His hand would hold you steady.

That’s why, centuries later, those promises still land with such power. They weren’t just for Judah facing Babylon. They’re for us too, when life shifts, when the future feels uncertain, when we’re standing on the edge of something new and intimidating.

And standing in the Hand of God in Guatemala, I felt that truth in a fresh way. The physical sculpture was fun and whimsical, yes, but the reminder it carried was eternal: no matter how steep the climb, no matter how shaky the footing, I am held in the righteous hand of God.

Held in His Hand

Maybe you’re climbing your own mountain right now, not in Guatemala, but in life. Maybe the road feels bumpy and uncertain, like riding in the back of a pickup truck with nothing but wooden boards to hold you up. Every twist and turn jolts you, and you wonder if you’ll make it to the top. Or maybe you’re standing in a place that feels overwhelming, looking out at the future the way I looked out from that hand on the mountainside, beautiful, yes, but also wide and unknown.

The promise of Isaiah is this: you don’t have to find the strength on your own. God doesn’t say, “Try harder. Be braver. Figure it out yourself.” Instead, He says, “I will strengthen you. I will help you. I will uphold you.” Every fear we whisper in the dark, He already answers. Every trembling step, He already steadies. He doesn’t just tell us not to be afraid; He gives us Himself as the reason we can release our fear.

That’s what I carried home from Hobbitenango that day. Yes, the laughter of my kids on a mountainside, the milkshakes, the rope swings, and the photographs in the clouds. But more than that, I carried home the reminder that God’s hand is not carved from wood or stone. It is not a tourist attraction or a fleeting experience. His hand is living, eternal, and it holds me every single day.

It holds me when I’m on a mountaintop, and it holds me when I’m trudging through a valley. It holds me when I’m laughing, when I’m grieving, when I’m unsure of what comes next. His hand doesn’t let go. And, friend, it holds you too.

After we finished taking our photos in the Hand of God, my son headed over to ride the giant rope swing. As I stood waiting for him to finish, something caught my eye. In the mud near where I was standing, a little silver glimmer shone through. I bent down to pick it up, and there in my hand was a small silver cross.

It had been raining on and off that day, and because of the weather, the crowds at Hobbitenango were thin. I couldn’t help but think: out of all the places I could have stood, why here? Out of all the things I could have seen, why this? It felt like a quiet reminder that God is always present. He never leaves us. He never forsakes us.

I tucked the cross into my pocket, not as a lucky charm, but as a marker. Just as the Israelites once set up stones of remembrance to mark where God had shown His power, I wanted this cross to be a reminder that the same God who upheld His people through Isaiah’s time, the same God who promised to strengthen and help, is the same God who was with me on a rainy mountainside in Guatemala.

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The Volcano View

by Rhonda, September 11, 2025

The plane dipped through the clouds and touched down in Guatemala City, and I felt that familiar mixture of nerves and excitement that comes when a dream is about to unfold. I had planned this trip meticulously, down to the smallest detail, yet as the wheels hit the tarmac, I still asked myself the same question: What in the world am I doing here?

When I told people I was heading to Guatemala, I usually got the same response: Why? Is it a missions trip?  No, this wasn’t a missions trip. Guatemala had simply caught my attention through the countless YouTube travel videos I binge-watch late at night. The country looked beautiful, raw, alive, and I wanted to experience it.

Of course, there were dozens of things I hoped to see, but I had one big goal in mind: Pacaya. A volcano where the heat from the earth is so intense you can roast a marshmallow right on the rocks. That simple, quirky image lodged itself on my bucket list and wouldn’t let go. Roast a marshmallow on Pacaya. Whatever else happened, I wasn’t leaving without doing that.

But as much as I dreamed about the volcano, my heart swelled most when I glanced at my kids. My faithful sojourners. They’ve joined me on so many of life’s crazy adventures, the ones who once pulled out a Bible and read to me when my husband walked out the door. Here they were, excited, wide-eyed, ready not only to roast marshmallows but to explore something bigger: a new country, a different rhythm of life, people with stories unlike our own.

Two weeks before we left, God gave me a gift I didn’t expect. I reconnected with a coworker I had never known well until one conversation turned into another. I learned she was from Guatemala. When I told her I’d be visiting her home country, her face lit up. Within hours she sent me a long list of things to see and then asked the question I hadn’t figured out yet: How are you getting around?

I admitted I didn’t really know, probably Uber, maybe taxis. She paused. “Rhonda, let me call you back.” A few hours later, she had arranged transportation through her family friends. It was a gesture of kindness that would prove to be more valuable than I could have imagined.

So, after a trip through customs, we stepped out of the airport into the Guatemalan sun, and I heard a voice call out, “Rhonda!” Faithful indeed. Her family friend had waited over an hour for us, and just like that, our journey began.

We piled into his car, and to the kids’ delight, the backseat was full of snacks!  Chips, candies, all in flavors we’d never tried. My two food-loving adventurers tore into them while I adjusted my translating earphones. One went to me, one to our driver. As long as the cellphone signal held, we could talk freely, with words flowing in real time between English and Spanish.

Out the window, Guatemala rushed at me.  Motorcycles weaved through brutal traffic, palm trees swaying under a soft sky, women with babies strapped to their chests, street vendors walking between cars selling food to weary travelers. Everything moved to a different hum, a rhythm I couldn’t yet understand but wanted desperately to learn.

“Brother,” our driver finally said to my son after his fifth question about traffic laws and why everyone was driving so crazy, “you are in Latin America.” We all smiled.

But then, oh, the mountains. And the volcanoes. Rising out of the horizon like old storytellers, patient and powerful. More than thirty volcanoes in this country, our driver explained, three of them active. Pacaya was the one for beginners, the one I had my heart set on.

I scribbled in my journal that morning before boarding the flight: Do not fear. You are in God’s hands. In the past, trips like this had always included a husband, a protector, a buffer. Not this time. This time, I was the protector of my children. It felt different, heavier, but also strangely empowering.

And so, with prayers in my heart, snacks in the backseat, and mountains calling from the horizon, we drove toward our first stop: Antigua.

 The Pillar of God

Imagine standing in the desert with thousands of others, fresh out of Egypt’s grip. The air still smells of salt from the Red Sea, where the waters had only recently collapsed over Pharaoh’s army. Your feet are blistered from hurried travel, your heart is pounding with freedom, and suddenly, you see it.

A vast column rises before you, not like smoke from a fire or mist from the sea, but something otherworldly. By day, it stretches upward like a mighty cloud, shimmering against the sky, shading you from the harsh desert sun. By night, it burns with a glow so bright that the sand around your tent flickers orange and gold. It isn’t just light, it’s Presence. The very nearness of God wrapped in cloud and flame, moving ahead of you step by step.

The Israelites had two possible roads before them. The short way, hugging the coastline, could have brought them to Canaan in just a few days. The long way wound through barren wilderness, rocky, dry, and unforgiving. If it were up to human wisdom, the choice would have been obvious: take the short road, get there quickly. But God’s wisdom saw deeper. Along the coastal road lay the Philistines, fierce enemies Israel was not prepared to fight. God knew their weakness, and in mercy, He chose the longer way.

The wilderness became their testing ground. It peeled away any illusion of self-sufficiency and pressed them to rely completely on God. Just as the Egyptians had been swallowed by the sea, now God’s own children would be shaped in the desert. He measures every trial according to His people’s strength.  His path may not be the shortest, but it is always the surest, the one that prepares us for what lies ahead.

Still, He never left them to wander blindly. That towering pillar became their constant reassurance. It told them when to march and when to rest. When it rose, they followed. When it stayed, they camped. No debate, no confusion, no guesswork. At night, families lay down to sleep under a sky lit by the glow of divine fire. In the morning, they woke to the same faithful cloud, waiting to move. It was impossible to deny: they were being led.

The pillar pointed to a greater truth, that Christ Himself was with His people. The same Jesus who declares, “I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness but will have the light of life” (John 8:12) was there in the wilderness, guiding, sheltering, protecting. And He is still with us today.

When I think about the Israelites, I try to picture the awe, the trembling joy of knowing God Himself was leading them, step by step.  I can’t help but wonder how it felt to walk into an unknown wilderness yet see proof of His presence with every move of the pillar.

Arrival in Antigua

That image was on my heart as our plane landed in Guatemala. I didn’t know what the next ten days would hold. The language was unfamiliar, the customs unknown, and the road ahead uncertain. But just as He went before His people in the desert, I believed He would go before us, too, guiding each step, each encounter, and even each detour, in His perfect way.

As we drove toward Antigua, I pressed my forehead against the window and tried to take it all in, the sights, the sounds, the smells, the feeling of being somewhere completely new. It was intimidating, yes, but it was also exhilarating. My senses came alive. The air carried hints of smoke, spices, and flowers all at once. Vendors walked between cars selling roasted corn, fruit, and bread. Motorcycles buzzed by with two, sometimes three passengers balanced together. Life moved quickly, and yet I found myself wanting to slow it down so I could absorb every detail.

I peppered our driver with questions, and through the gift of the translating earphones, he answered patiently, one by one. What did people eat here? How did school work? How dangerous was it to ride a motorcycle with a baby strapped to your chest? He chuckled at my curiosity, but he never tired of answering. By the time we arrived in Antigua, I already felt as if I had glimpsed pieces of Guatemalan life that no travel video could ever have shown me.

Our lodging was a pretty little place I had stumbled upon online and rented for a few days of our stay. The pictures had promised charm, but stepping through the doorway was better than I imagined. A small fountain bubbled softly in the courtyard, surrounded by flowering plants that seemed to spring from every crack and corner. Stone pathways wound between bright walls, and a staircase led us to the rooftop terrace.

That rooftop quickly became my favorite place. From there, the view stretched out over tiled roofs and winding cobblestone streets, reaching toward the silhouettes of volcanoes in the distance. At sunrise, the mist curled around their peaks in quiet majesty. At sunset, the sky blazed with color behind their outlines, a reminder that God paints new masterpieces every single day.

I loved everything about Antigua, the cobblestone paths that made me slow down with each careful step, the unfamiliar but mouthwatering smells wafting from open windows and street stalls, the bursts of flowers spilling color over stone walls. But none of it compared to the stillness of sitting on that rooftop and simply looking at the volcanoes.

Isn’t it amazing what happens when we pause long enough to see God’s creation without the weight of everyday stress pressing down on us? Out there, I wasn’t thinking about work emails or grocery lists or the endless cycle of to-do’s. I was just present, breathing in the beauty of a land that was new to me but ancient in His design. It felt like worship, just to sit and look at what He had made.

I spent a significant amount of time gazing at volcanoes rising like silent sentinels over the city, I felt the same truth that had carried the Israelites through the wilderness: we are never alone on the journey. God goes before us. He lights the way. Sometimes, all we need to do is pause long enough to notice the beauty He’s placed before our eyes and rest in the assurance that we are exactly where He wants us to be.

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The Pouring

by Rhonda, September 05, 2025


Our day had finally come. Months of planning, list-making, and watching YouTube travel videos had all led to this moment. At 4:00 a.m., we stumbled out of bed, groggy but buzzing with excitement. By 6:00, we would be boarding our flight to Guatemala. Tired? Absolutely. But more than that, we were ready.

Suitcases zipped, passports double-checked, we waited for the Uber I had scheduled the night before. I wasn’t about to gamble on finding a ride at that hour. Right on time, the notification came: “Your driver has arrived.”

Out front sat a minivan. A bit of nostalgia for me, my parents had carted the three of us kids around in one just like it. Inside, we met our driver, a kind woman with a warm smile and Christian music playing softly through the speakers. Immediately, I felt a spark of joy. What a perfect sign for the start of this trip. Lord, You are here already.

As we made our way to the airport, she shared her story. She was a single mother of five boys.  Two already graduated, three still in high school. Her sons were athletes, busy with football and practices, and she worked nights so she could be there for them during the day. Every night, seven nights a week, she drove that van to keep her family afloat. By morning, when most of us were starting our day, she was finishing hers. While her boys were at school, she would sleep just enough to wake up in time to cook dinner and cheer them on at their games.

Listening to her faith-filled words, hearing her softly sing along to the worship music, I felt both humbled and convicted. Here we were embarking on a wonderful trip, while she was simply fighting for daily strength and provision. And yet she radiated gratitude.

I know what it is to walk the road of single motherhood, to lean on the Lord when the weight feels impossible. Some of us single moms carry a kind of hidden superpower, the strength God gives when we’ve come to the end of ourselves. And I could see it in her. The Lord was holding her up, giving her the ability to press through nights of exhaustion and still raise her boys with faith and love.

Before we reached the airport, I left her a generous tip and lifted a prayer. I prayed God would strengthen her, carry her through, and see those boys through high school. That He would “move the immovable, do the impossible,” just as the song on the radio said.

Her legacy will be powerful.  Her sons will one day tell their children about their mother who worked through the night so they could live like ordinary teenagers, even when life was far from ordinary. Someday, they will take care of her. But for now, she leans on her God. And He will not let her fall.

As I wheeled my suitcase into the terminal, I thought: Lord, if this is how You’ve chosen to begin the journey, I can’t wait to see what else You will show us in Guatemala.

The Widow’s Oil

Centuries ago, in a small Israelite village, there lived a woman whose world had collapsed around her. She was a widow. Her husband was gone too soon, leaving her alone to carry the weight of survival. But it wasn’t just grief she carried. Her husband had left behind debts, and in those days creditors didn’t just take your possessions; they could take your children as payment.

Two sons. Her boys. Her whole world. And now the knock of a creditor at her door threatened to rip them away.

Can you imagine the heaviness in her chest as she lay awake at night, listening to her sons breathe in their sleep, wondering how long she had left with them? Every clink of pottery in the neighbor’s house, every footstep on the dirt road, must have set her heart pounding: Will today be the day they come for my children?

In her desperation, she ran to the prophet Elisha. Her voice cracked as she poured out her grief:
“My husband, your servant, is dead. And you know he revered the Lord. But now his creditor is coming to take my two boys as his slaves.”

Elisha looked at her and asked a question that must have felt almost cruel in the moment:
“What do you have in your house?”

She wanted to say “Nothing.” Because that was how it felt. Empty cupboards. Empty purse. Empty hope. But then she remembered one small thing, a jar. Her voice was soft, almost embarrassed:
“Your servant has nothing there at all… except a small jar of olive oil.”

Just a little flask. Insignificant. Hardly worth mentioning.

But God saw potential in the little. He always does.

Through Elisha, God gave some unusual instructions:
“Go around and ask all your neighbors for empty jars. Don’t ask for just a few. Then go inside and shut the door behind you and your sons. Pour oil into all the jars, and as each is filled, put it to one side.”

That last part must have caught in her ears: Don’t ask for just a few.

God wasn’t planning to scrape her by. He wasn’t going to hand her just enough to survive the day. His plan was bigger, richer, more extravagant than she could imagine. Her faith would be measured not by what she lacked, but by how many jars she dared to collect. The more vessels she gathered, the more space there would be for Him to pour His abundance.

I imagine her sons racing through the village, knocking on doors, breathless as they begged: “Do you have a jar we can borrow? A bowl? A pitcher?” Some neighbors likely shook their heads, whispering in pity. Others handed over jars with furrowed brows, thinking this was madness. But the boys kept gathering, arms full, until their little home was crowded with clay vessels of every shape and size.

Then came the moment of truth.

She lifted her tiny flask, that one “insignificant” jar, and tipped it over the first vessel. Golden oil trickled, then poured, then filled. She moved to the next jar, and it filled. Then another. And another.

Her hands trembled at first, but steadied as she realized what was happening. The oil did not stop. The room, once echoing with emptiness, now gleamed with jar after jar filled to the brim. Her sons’ eyes were wide with awe as they slid one vessel after another beneath the stream, until the house itself smelled of rich olive oil, shining in the lamplight.

And this wasn’t just any substance. Olive oil was one of the most valuable commodities in their world.  It was used for food, medicine, light in their lamps, even for worship. It was costly to press, precious to trade, and a true marker of wealth and security. God wasn’t multiplying something cheap and ordinary. He was giving her the very thing that could erase her debt, sustain her household, and even be sold for future provision.

At last, breathless and overwhelmed, she whispered, “Bring me another one.”

But her son shook his head. “There are no jars left.”

And in that moment, the oil stopped flowing. Not a drop too soon, not a drop too late. Every single jar they had gathered, and not one less, was filled.

Elisha’s words sealed the miracle:
“Go, sell the oil and pay your debts. You and your sons can live on what is left.”

Do you see it? God didn’t just erase her debt. He gave her enough to live on. Her moment of desperation became His moment of extravagance. What looked like the end of her story was only the beginning of His provision.

Modern-Day Oil Jars

As I listened to the woman in the minivan tell her story, I couldn’t help but think of that widow so many centuries ago. Different time, different culture, but the same desperate cry: “Lord, how do I make it? How do I provide for my children with so little in my hands?”

Her minivan was her jar of oil. Night after night she poured herself out, trusting that somehow there would be enough. And just as surely as God filled the widow’s jars, I believe He is filling hers.

But I realized something else on that quiet drive to the airport: her story was also my story.

I’ve known what it feels like to lose everything. I lost my husband. I lost my job. I lost the identity I thought defined me. Piece by piece, the life I thought I had built came crashing down, until all I had left was a desperate prayer: “God, help me keep a roof over my kids’ heads. Help me give them some stability.”

And in that lowest season, God placed a jar of oil in my hands. It didn’t look like much at the time, a job at a startup company. It was quick, it was flexible, and I thought it was just a temporary way to survive. But it was exactly what I needed. I could keep our home. I couldn't be there for my son as I'd hoped, as he recovered from surgery at home.  I'd have to lean on family, but I could make it through.

Then COVID hit, and the world turned upside down. For many people, it was a season of loss. But for me, working from home became a lifeline. It allowed me to care for my son, pay my bills, and survive when I wasn’t sure survival was possible.

And here’s the miracle: that “temporary” job, that little jar of oil, turned into abundance. Five years later, the company has grown. My role has grown. And from that provision, God has allowed us not only to survive but to thrive. Today we’re able to do things I never dreamed of in those dark days, like take a trip to Guatemala.

No one can convince me that God doesn’t care about the single moms, the widows, the women who feel like they’re standing at the edge of their rope. I used to believe my divorce meant I had disappointed Him, that somehow I was less worthy of His care. But it was in that very season of brokenness that He showed up. Not with just enough to scrape by, but with more than enough.

Our God loves His daughters. He has always loved them. The widow in ancient Israel, the weary Uber driver in her minivan, and the single mom sitting at her kitchen table wondering how to pay the bills. He sees us in our moments of desperation, when we feel like we have nothing left but a little jar of oil, and He steps in with a miracle. Not just enough to scrape by, but abundance. Not just survival, but provision that overflows into hope and future. That is the heart of our God, to take our emptiest places and turn them into testimonies of His extravagant love.


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The Other Side

by Rhonda, August 28, 2025


The doctor walked in, looked over to my son, and said the words I’d been holding my breath to hear: “His scan looks good. He looks good.” And just like that, we could exhale for another year.

It sounds so simple, but that moment carried the weight of two decades. The scan itself is always emotional, scary, exhausting, and nerve-wracking. But this visit brought more than just the usual nerves. It was my son’s last appointment at the Children’s hospital. He’s twenty-one now, and we are moving into a new chapter with an adult hospital. Saying goodbye to the doctors and nurses who have walked with us through so much felt like closing a book I wasn’t ready to put back on the shelf.

When I shook the hand of the surgeon one last time, the one who, with the precision of a millimeter, saved my son’s sight, I was overcome again. If his scalpel had slipped just slightly left or right, my son would never have driven a car, never have seen the world as he does now. Yet here we are, blessed with the miracle of sight, and with a boy who has grown into a man navigating the city with independence and freedom.

But the room was also complicated. My ex-husband was there. That added its own quiet storm. Sitting together felt like slipping into an old photograph, familiar but faded, not whole anymore. It was awkward, polite, strangely hollow. There was no sign from him of nostalgia for the past, no flicker of hope for change. Just formality, while I found myself caught in the tug of memory and what-ifs. It’s the kind of space where there’s no winning.  Had he been unkind, it would have hurt; had he been too kind, it would have hurt in a different way.

By the end, all three of us—my daughter, my son, and I—were wrung out. We told my ex-husband goodbye, drove home and collapsed into my tiny apartment, carrying the fatigue of too many emotions layered on top of one another.

Yet in the quiet after the storm, there was gratitude. Gratitude that rose above the awkwardness, above the fear, above the exhaustion. Gratitude for a Savior who carried us through yet another year of good results. Gratitude that my son’s life is still unfolding in front of me.

I can live without a lot of things in this world. But not him. Losing him would undo me. So tonight, my prayer is simple: Thank You, Lord. Thank You so much for one more year.

Looking forward to this week feels lighter. We walked out of the hospital with good news, and now we get to turn our eyes toward what’s ahead. For months, we’ve been meticulously planning an international trip, something I’ll share more details about in an upcoming post. We’ve watched countless YouTube videos, ordered translation earphones, and started packing. Sometimes, the dreaming and the planning is almost as fun as the trip itself. The anticipation builds its own kind of joy, a reminder that hope is alive and waiting.

And now, the day is coming. I am so, so thankful that we can step onto this journey without carrying the crushing weight of a bad diagnosis. Instead, we carry gratitude, expectation, and excitement.

I’m looking forward to time with my kids, just us, away from the noise of everyday life. I’m looking forward to time away from work, to the chance to breathe in a new rhythm. To be somewhere different. To explore something new. To meet people whose stories are different from ours. To learn a new culture. To immerse myself in a world that isn’t mine but will leave its mark on me.

Travel has a way of keeping us alive. It shakes us out of our routines, stretches our minds, and reminds us how big and yet how small this world really is.

We’ve made it through another year.  The storms of this week have calmed. And now, we get to live.

Be Still

The disciples knew storms, too, and perhaps all too well.  The Bible tells of a particular story in Mark where the disciples learned the true power of their Savior.  Theirs was not just a storm of emotion, it was a storm of wind and water, sudden and fierce.

Earlier that day, Jesus had been teaching crowds along the shore of the Sea of Galilee. The press of people was so great that He had climbed into a boat and taught from there, His voice carrying over the waves. As evening fell, He turned to His disciples and said simply: “Let us go over to the other side.” They didn’t know what awaited them, but they obeyed. They pushed away from the shore, leaving the crowd behind, trusting His word that they were going across.

At first, the night was calm. The sea stretched wide and dark under the moonlight, the gentle rocking of the boat almost lulling. Some of the disciples, seasoned fishermen, handled the sails with practiced ease. Others leaned back, tired from the long day.

Then it came. The wind rose without warning. Gusts whipped across the water, churning up waves that crashed against the wooden frame. The boat lurched violently. Rain pelted down in sheets. The once-placid sea became a monster, roaring and tossing them like a toy. Water rushed in over the sides, cold and heavy, pooling at their feet.

Fear surged through them. These were men who had spent their lives on this lake, men who had weathered storms before, but this one was different. This one was deadly. The sea was winning.

And through it all, in the stern of the boat, was Jesus. Asleep. His head on a cushion. His body at rest. The thunder cracked, the waves slammed, and still He slept.

It wasn’t that He didn’t care. It was that He already knew what they did not, that the storm would not have the final say. This night was not meant to destroy them, but to reveal Him. To show His power, and to stretch their faith.

Their voices rose, panicked, desperate. “Teacher! Don’t you care if we drown?” In that cry, their weakness was revealed, but so was their faith. Sometimes, when our hearts are as restless as the troubled sea, when our passions are unruly and our fears loud, all we have left is prayer. And prayer, even when it feels weak, reaches the ear of God.

Jesus rose. And in a voice that carried authority the storm could not resist, He spoke: “Quiet! Be still!”

Immediately, the wind stopped. The waves smoothed. The sea became like glass, as though bowing in reverence to its Creator. The silence that followed was almost overwhelming, the kind of silence that presses in after chaos, when fear drains away and awe takes its place.

Then Jesus turned to His disciples. His words were gentle, yet piercing: “Why are you so afraid? Do you still have no faith?” He was showing them what we often forget, that the antidote to fear is faith. Deep, abiding faith does not cower before the storm.

But we are human, and in this world, faith and fear take their turns in us. One moment we believe, the next moment we tremble. Yet, even in our faltering, Jesus is patient. He calms storms we cannot control. He teaches us that while fear may roar, it will not win. Faith will have the final word.

The disciples sat in the hushed stillness, soaked and trembling, their eyes wide with wonder. “Who is this? Even the wind and the waves obey him!”

They had set out across the water simply because He said, “Let us go.” They had not known what would come in between. But that night on the Sea of Galilee, they discovered that if Jesus says you’re going to the other side, no storm in the middle can stop you from getting there.

The Other Side

This week felt like our own storm. The waiting, the scan, the weight of emotions, the awkwardness of being together-but-not-together as a family.  All of it left us weary and worn. In the moment, it felt like the waves were winning. I prayed. I wrestled. I feared.

And yet, just like on the Sea of Galilee, Jesus was there. He was never absent. He allowed the storm so we could once again witness His power. Then, when the doctor walked in with good news, when I shook the hand of the surgeon who once saved my son’s sight, I could hear it in my spirit: “Peace, be still.”

That’s the way storms work. They reveal our weakness, but they also reveal our faith. The disciples’ faith felt small, but their prayers were strong enough to wake the One who calms the sea. And ours? Our faith may falter, but our prayers are heard.

And isn’t it true that we’re almost always in the middle of some storm? My journals are full of me begging God to help me through. I’ve written some version of those words more times than I can count: “Lord, don’t You care if I drown?” And time after time, He has answered. It’s not that He always took me out of the storm; I still had to walk through the rain, still had to feel the waves.  But over and over, He calmed the seas along the way. Sometimes the storms were small, sometimes they were overwhelming. But every time, when Jesus was in my boat, I made it to the other side.

Maybe you’re there now. Maybe your storm feels endless. Hear this: if Jesus is in your boat, you will not sink. You will get through. The storm will not have the final word. Faith will. Because the One who commands the winds and the waves has promised to see you safely across.

This week, our storm gave way to peace. We exhaled, exhausted but grateful. And now, we get to live in that stillness for a little while. We get to dream, to plan, to look ahead with hope instead of fear. We get to walk forward, trusting that the same God who calms the seas will carry us wherever He leads, all the way to the other side.

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The Eternal Win

by Rhonda, August 22, 2025

It’s been five years since his last relapse, but every time I step into the hospital room, it feels like no time has passed at all. The bright white lights hum overhead, antiseptic smells linger in the air, and memories flood back. I’m transported to those waiting room days when he was only a child, sitting for hours while surgeons worked. This is my son’s annual scan, a day circled on the calendar that steals my sleep for an entire week.

He, of course, is not worried at all. He shrugs it off, tells me I shouldn’t stress, and probably he’s right. But how do you not worry when you’ve watched your child endure the unthinkable? The first time he was only seven. The second time, at fifteen, was worse than the first.  The was surgery longer, the recovery harder, the pain deeper. I tried to be strong, to care for him well, but even now I sometimes feel I didn’t do enough. 

The other night, while rinsing dishes at the sink, he turned to me casually and said, “You know, Mom, it ends up fine for me either way. If there’s no cancer, I stay here. If there is cancer, I get to see Jesus.”

You can imagine I didn’t love that statement. But it came from a place deep within him. He doesn’t think of himself as someone with great faith, but those around him know differently. Faith has been carved into him through valleys most never walk. When you’ve seen God bring you through the darkness, when you’ve felt His hand steady you in the fire, something shifts. Fear loosens its grip. Hope takes root.

My son lives it out, even if he doesn’t realize it. He cracks jokes about his own death, jokes his mother wishes he wouldn’t make, but they don’t come from denial. They come from peace. He said the only nerves he feels in the MRI machine come not from the scan itself, but from knowing his sister and I are wound tight with worry. His calm is genuine. His faith is unshakable.

Watching him reminds me of Paul’s words: “For to me, to live is Christ and to die is gain” (Philippians 1:21). My son has grasped that truth in a way most adults never do. He’s not fearless because the future is certain, he’s fearless because his Savior is certain.

I guess that’s what happens when you’ve walked through the hardest valleys and found God waiting on the other side. You begin to see life differently. The fear that used to overwhelm doesn’t hold the same power anymore. You know the Shepherd who carried you before will carry you again.

I still lose sleep. I still feel my heart race when we walk into the hospital. But I also see the quiet strength in my son, the faith that suffering has etched into him. And I realize: this is what we all long for. A faith that knows, really knows, that no matter what the scan says, God is here. 

And that’s enough.

To Live Is Christ

The cell was dark and damp, the air heavy with the smell of mildew and rust. Chains clinked softly as Paul shifted on the rough stone floor, his wrists raw from iron shackles. A Roman guard leaned against the doorway, his spear tapping idly against the ground, watching with indifference. In the corner, the faithful Timothy sat close to the flickering glow of an oil lamp, parchment spread before him, stylus ready. He waited, as he had so many times before, to record the words of his beloved mentor.  Words born not from despair, but from a heart on fire with hope.

By every human measure, Paul’s circumstances should have been unbearable. Imprisoned, awaiting trial before Caesar, his life hung in the balance. Each day could bring a message of freedom, or a summons to execution. The uncertainty was crushing, yet Paul’s spirit was unshaken. His thoughts turned toward the Philippians, those dear believers who had prayed for him, supported him, and shared in his mission. He longed for them to stand firm in Christ, to know joy, even if he never saw them again.

So he began to dictate words that would puzzle the world but strengthen the church: “For to me, to live is Christ, and to die is gain.”

To the carnal, worldly man, death is the ultimate loss. It strips him of everything he loves: his wealth, his reputation, his comforts, his power. All that he clings to slips through his fingers, leaving him empty-handed. But Paul knew better. For the believer, death is not loss but gain. It is the end of weakness, of frailty, of the endless battle against sin and sorrow. Death delivers the Christian from temptation, sickness, and grief, and ushers him into the presence of Christ forever.

This is why Paul’s struggle was not between dread and hope, but between two good and holy longings. If he lived, his life would remain fruitful for Christ.  He would give himself to more teaching, more encouragement, more churches built strong in the gospel. If he died, he would enter immediately into the joy of his Lord, free at last from chains both physical and spiritual. He wasn’t choosing between two evils, but between two immeasurable blessings: living to serve Christ or departing to be with Christ.

There was no comparison in Paul’s mind between this world and the next. The world was laced with sin, sorrow, and death. Heaven was pure gain: freedom, rest, and the eternal presence of Jesus. Yet his love for the Philippians, and for all the churches, compelled him to remain if God willed it. He was torn, not because he feared death, but because he loved life when it was poured out for others in Christ’s name.

Picture the scene: the apostle in chains, Timothy leaning close to catch every word, and joy radiating from Paul’s face despite the gloom of his cell. No bitterness, no despair—only confidence. Only peace. Only Christ.

Paul lifted his head, the chains shifting as he drew a deeper breath. His voice was steady, almost gentle, yet filled with conviction as he spoke: “For to me, to live is Christ and to die is gain.”

Timothy’s stylus hovered in the air for a heartbeat. He looked up, meeting Paul’s eyes, and the weight of the words settled over him. He had followed this man through storms and mobs, through hunger and danger, but never had the truth of Paul’s faith burned brighter. Timothy nodded slowly, his young face marked by awe, then bent again to inscribe the words with care, knowing they would carry life to the church for generations yet unborn.

From the doorway, the guard shifted. He wasn’t a believer. He had no share in these promises. Yet something in Paul’s tone made him turn his head. Death, to every Roman soldier, was an enemy to be feared or inflicted. But here was a prisoner, speaking of death not as defeat but as victory. The guard’s brow furrowed, his grip tightening on his spear, unable to understand how chains could not break a man’s spirit.

Paul’s eyes shone with something more radiant than the lamplight. He leaned toward Timothy, the chains clinking softly. “If I live,” he said, “then I live for Christ. Every breath, every step, every word, it is all His. But if I die, then I go to Him. Tell them, Timothy. Tell them there is no loss for the one who belongs to Christ.”

Timothy’s hand moved quickly now, heart pounding as he captured the apostle’s words. He could feel their weight, not just for Philippi but for himself, for the churches, for all who would one day read them. Paul’s voice, though marked by years and suffering, carried no tremor of fear. Instead, it rose in quiet triumph, the sound of a man who had already won because his life was hidden in Christ.

And in that dim prison cell, with iron and stone pressing close, heaven felt very near.

Lessons for All of Us

Paul’s words echo through the centuries, and they find new life in my son’s voice. Two very different settings, a Roman cell and a modern hospital, but the same unshakable truth: life in Christ, death with Christ. Either way, the believer cannot lose.

And that truth changes everything about how we live right now. If to live is Christ and to die is gain, then fear no longer has the power to chain us. We don’t have to cling tightly to this world, to our circumstances, or to our fragile sense of control. We can live with open hands, knowing that the best is yet to come.

That also means we can finally release the crushing need for perfection. Somewhere along the way, we started believing that if we just planned well enough, prayed hard enough, worked tirelessly enough, then life would line up exactly the way we want. But perfection here on earth doesn’t exist. Our lives will never be flawless. Not every detail will go according to plan. We won’t always have the answers, the timing, or the control. And that’s okay, because control was never ours to begin with.

When Paul said to live is Christ, he didn’t mean a polished life free of weakness. He meant a surrendered life, one where even suffering, even chains, even uncertainty became places for Christ’s glory to shine. And when he said to die is gain, he declared that all the things we grasp for so tightly here, security, success, even survival, fade in comparison to what waits for us in eternity.

So we can live differently. We can take the step of faith we’ve been putting off. We can stop demanding perfect outcomes before we move forward. We can love without fear of rejection, serve without fear of failure, and rest without fear of losing control. Because for the child of God, there is no ultimate loss. In Christ, we have already won.

So live free. Love deeply. Serve joyfully. 

Because the best is yet to come.

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