Faith Still Gives Us a Place to Look

I haven’t written in weeks. Not because I ran out of words. Because hope has been harder to find.

There is an unexplainable silence that takes over a person when the next doctor’s appointment doesn’t feel like an answer but just another date on the calendar. You begin to wonder if you’re crazy, even though what you’re living is undeniably real.

You look around and realize you have everything you could have prayed for. A husband who loves you. A daughter who lights up your world. A church family. Meaningful work. Faithful friends. Little pets that somehow make every day brighter.

And somehow…that makes the grief even heavier.

Not because you’re ungrateful. Quite the opposite.

You have everything you ever wanted, yet your body won’t let you fully enjoy it. You can’t show up the way you long to. You can’t give back the way your heart wants to. That kind of grief is difficult to explain because it isn’t rooted in loss of blessings; it’s rooted in the inability to participate in them.

Sometimes I find myself wondering, Is this it?

We are taught to believe that if something is wrong, there will be a test that finds it, a diagnosis that names it, and a doctor who knows what to do next. But sometimes the people and places we turn to for answers do not have an answer key. A test may reveal one piece of the story without explaining the whole of what you are living. A diagnosis may give something a name without offering a way forward. And sometimes there is no label that fully captures what has changed inside your body.

That uncertainty can be its own kind of suffering. You know what you feel. You know your body is no longer functioning the way it once did. But there is no single result you can point to that explains it all.

Then, almost without warning, you wake up one morning and feel like yourself again. You laugh. You write. You spend time with your daughter. You enjoy talking and laughing with your husband again; you connect with friends. You dance around the kitchen. For a few precious hours, life feels wonderfully ordinary.

Then the next day…it’s all gone again.

That is the part that tears me up.

Not just the physical struggle but not knowing why. 

I’ve been thinking a lot about the word hope. We use that word so casually. I hope tomorrow is better. I hope they find an answer. I hope this season ends soon.

But hope isn’t always a feeling.

Sometimes it is. Sometimes it feels alive and so real. Other times it feels completely out of reach.

That’s when hope becomes something different.

I don’t believe we can manufacture hope. If we could, none of us would ever lose it. We’d simply decide to feel hopeful again. But that hasn’t been my experience. 

I think that’s why Scripture points us to a hope that comes from outside ourselves. A hope rooted in Christ instead of circumstances. Because there are days when I have nothing inside of me to give. No inspiration. No certainty. No emotional reserve to pull from.

Love reminds me of this.

When you first fall in love, it feels effortless, and it feels so amazing. Everything comes naturally. But every lasting marriage eventually reaches moments when love becomes less about emotion and more about decision. You choose to stay. You choose to forgive. You choose to serve. You choose to love, even when the feeling isn’t present. 

Maybe hope works the same way. It isn’t pretending everything will be okay. 

On the days when my own hope feels gone, I want to keep looking to the One who never changes. Not because I feel strong enough, but because He is.

Sometimes the best family memories are the simplest ones…the ones that happen right in the middle of the living room and Coopy absolutely convinced that every activity should revolve around him. He supervises, you see as Dad plays a round.

We played Horrible Therapist which was exactly as ridiculous as it sounds.

In each round, one person becomes the designated therapist. The therapist reads the question card, and every other player submits the answer they think would fit best as the therapist’s response. Then the therapist looks at the question and all the possible answers, chooses the funniest or most fitting one, and whoever submitted that card wins the round.

The combinations become funnier and more concerning with every turn.

“What happened at Trader Joe’s?”

“I started vomiting and couldn’t stop.”

Perfectly normal family entertainment.

When we finish, Cooper must have full body contact.

Then on Monday, Tot and I continued our game marathon while watching Monsters, Inc. Just the two of us, laughing at the cards, watching the movie, and enjoying one of those ordinary afternoons that somehow feels extra special.

Coopy, however, was struggling with the lack of attention.

While Tot and I were busy playing, he carried his beloved banana toy over by the television, dramatically tossed it up there, and then stood whining until someone rescued it for him.

A completely manufactured emergency.

His plan worked, of course.

And when he wasn’t creating a crisis, he was sitting directly in front of the television, completely captivated by the movie.

We try to liven things up with Coops getting a bath. Sometimes that brings him down a notch.

Between the games, Dad, Tot, Coopy, and our sweet birdies, the house was full of all the little personalities that make it ours.

Oh, and just to add to our lively house, outdoors, we always have life. This finch has adopted the leaf outside our kitchen. It’s never a dull moment at the HAY home.

Some of my very favorite days.

TOT has two Love Days.

The first is May 23…the day I officially adopted her when she was six months old. Of course, she had already been mine from the very beginning. I was in the birthing room. I cut her cord. I held her from day one.

My heart had chosen her long before the paperwork caught up.

But May 23 is still sacred to me. It is the day the world officially recognized what my soul already knew:

She was my daughter.

Then came July 9.

After Doug and I were married, he officially adopted her too.

Seven years ago, a dream came through for him; the chance not merely to love her, care for her, and help raise her, but to become her dad in every legal and lasting sense of the word.

So July 9 became her second Love Day.

This year, Dad celebrated her with the most perfectly Tatum gift possible: a Target gift card.

Her home away from home.

The card said, “You are one of my favorite humans on this big blue and green ball.”

“Wow. Seven years ago a dream came through for me—to adopt you! I’m so glad to be your Dad!”

There are some words that hold far more than the PENCIL (I love that he writes in pencil so he doesn’t make a perm. mistake).

That morning, I had to go to Mayo Clinic. It was one of those harder days…the kind filled with appointments, uncertainty, and the weight of a body that has demanded so much attention. The Mayo bracelet around my wrist was not exactly how I imagined beginning Love Day.

And then there was Rio, bright yellow and full of personality, showing up like a tiny beam of sunshine. That little bird has a way of brightening everything without even trying.

Maybe that is what love does too.

It does not always remove the difficult parts of the day, but it reminds us that the hard is not the whole story.

July 9th is official, but the truth is, Dad chooses her every day.

Happy Love Day, Tot.

You are one of our very favorite humans on this big blue and green ball.

Apparently, we are in our Hello Kitty era.

It started with matching shirts, because sometimes motherhood requires coordinated outfits and absolutely ridiculous filters. Tot and I laughed trying on oversized glasses, cat-eye sunglasses, fuzzy ears, and whatever else the camera decided to place on our heads.

These are the moments I love….the completely unserious ones.

Then Tot discovered the newest craze: mystery blind boxes. You buy the package without knowing which little character is hiding inside and simply hope for the best.

Honestly, it feels like a lot of emotional pressure for one tiny box.

But her first surprise was a Hello Kitty HYOJO figure, and she was SOOO excited. Naturally, Hello Kitty needed to ride home safely in her own little car seat, buckled in like the important passenger she clearly was.

And then, because things apparently come in threes, we wandered into MINISO.

Oh, MINISO.

It was overstimulation and overpriced cuteness packed into one very brightly lit store. There were shelves upon shelves of things we absolutely did not need…but SHE suddenly felt strangely compelled to own.

Tot tried on the fluffiest glasses she could find and struck a pose, because of course she did.

Then she chose another mystery blind box.

We opened it.

Another Hello Kitty!

You would have thought we had won the lottery.

Hello Kitty really did come in threes.

And while the little toys were fun, my favorite part was simply being with my girl. Laughing. Being silly. Watching her excitement over something small and sweet.

There is so much joy tucked inside ordinary days when we slow down enough to notice it.

Especially when we are wearing matching Hello Kitty shirts.

Every afternoon, around the same time, he comes home

Most days, by the time Doug walks through that door, I’ve had a battle no one has seen. Maybe it’s been hours in bed with heating pads. Maybe it’s another day of trying to figure out a body that refuses to cooperate. Maybe I’ve spent the afternoon discouraged, wondering if tomorrow will look any different.

And then he listens. I mean really listens.

He’ll heat up my heating pad. He’ll offer to help with dinner when I can’t. He’ll sit while I try to explain another symptom that doesn’t make sense. Sometimes he offers ideas. Sometimes he just offers his presence.

Doug has done so much more for me than times I can count.

Recently, he is working a different job at Honeywell.

He’s brilliant. He’s an engineer’s engineer. The kind of person others seek out when the problem is too complicated or when no one else has the answer. He carries enormous responsibility, and somehow he still finds time to help the people around him.

Everyone at work really trusts him. I’m not sure people always realize how much he carries.

He is steadfast, faithful, patient, and dependable.

When my world feels unpredictable, he becomes one of the few predictable things.

I know there are many people who don’t have that.

So today, I’m choosing gratitude. Not because our circumstances are simple.

But because God gave me a husband who faithfully carries our family.

There are days that don’t look like much on paper, but to me, they are everything.

These are the days that end up meaning the most.

Tot and I went to see the Minion movie, and honestly, I think half the fun was just being together. The dark theater, the ridiculous little yellow guys, the silly faces, the shared laughs.

She still can’t wait to drive.

She got behind that arcade steering wheel like she was already headed somewhere important.

And I get it.

But I also want to freeze her right here.

Her eyes are just intoxicating to me.

I know every mama thinks this about her child, but there is something about Tot’s eyes.

And then there was Rio.

Our fun, vivacious little Rio. That bird has no idea how much personality can fit inside such a tiny body.

Then came the red, white, and blue.

Paint on the cheek. A patriotic popsicle. A little early excitement as we get ready for America’s 250th birthday.

This is what I love most.

SIMPLE

A movie screen full of Minions.
A silly arcade game.
A popsicle melting in her hand.
Rio being Rio.
Tot being Tot.

Because I know these years are moving. I know she is getting taller and older and closer to the day when she really will drive away in a real car, with real keys, toward a real life that God is unfolding for her.

And for that, I am just grateful.

What the struggle forms in us

My daughter once learned about a butterfly fighting its way out of a chrysalis. Like any tender-hearted child, she wanted to help it break free. She saw the struggle and wanted to make it stop. She wanted to open the way, free the butterfly, and rescue it from what looked like unnecessary difficulty. But the teacher explained that the struggle was not a mistake in the process. It was part of the process.

The butterfly needed to press and push and fight its way out because that very struggle was helping its wings develop. To release it too soon would not save it. It would weaken it. Isn’t that what we want to do with struggle?

We want to get out of it as quickly as possible. We want someone to fix it, explain it, remove it, or rescue us from it. 

Yes, sometimes, help is good and necessary. I am not talking about pretending pain does not hurt or refusing the support we need. But I am learning that not every struggle is proof that something has gone wrong. Sometimes the struggle is the place where strength is being formed.

The same is true for a tree. 

Wind may look like the enemy, but wind teaches the tree to root deeper. A tree that never faces resistance does not become stronger. It becomes fragile. But a tree with deep roots can withstand storms that would have once taken it down.

Maybe we are more like that than we want to admit. We were not designed to live unmoved by resistance. We were designed to grow through it.

Now, I don’t want to romanticize suffering like it’s something we should embrace and celebrate. Especially health struggles. I would not wish health struggles on anyone. Chronic illness can steal time, energy, confidence, plans, and pieces of the life you thought you would be living. It can feel less like a meaningful lesson and more like being grounded from your own life.

Many days, I don’t feel inspired by the struggle. Truly, I’m just exhausted and sad. 

But if I look back at pictures of myself from years ago, I see a girl who had no idea what it meant to suffer in this way. I do not judge her for that. I love her. She was doing the best she knew how to do. But I also see something now that was not there then.

I see deeper roots.

I see more compassion. More dependence on God. I see more of a heart for people who are carrying pain. I also see more gratitude for ordinary moments and awareness that strength is not always loud and fancy. No, usually strength is simply staying tender when life gives you every reason to become hardened. That is part of the struggle too. 

But here’s the thing that I have realized: The thing that feels like it is breaking us may also be the place where God is making us.

Struggle, whatever it looks like for you, will never fully disappear on this side of heaven.

The wind keeps coming. The roots keep growing. The chrysalis gives way, but only after the fight. Becoming is not instant, and growth is rarely painless.

The question is not whether we will struggle.

We will.

Jesus told us plainly, “In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world” (John 16:33).

So maybe the better question is this: What will the struggle form in us?

Will it make us bitter or brave? Hardened or tender? Fearful or rooted? Childlike in our dependence on God, or childish in our refusal to grow?

I am not saying everything that is hard is good. I do not believe God delights in our suffering. But I do believe God can use what He allows, and that with Him, even the hardest things can form something holy in us.

I believe God can bring good from every hard thing.

That, my friend, is my hope. It has to be.

The wind does not get the final word.
The cocoon is not the end of the story.
The struggle is not always where life is being taken from us.

Sometimes, somehow, by the grace of God, it is where the wings are being made.