I never imagined this chapter of life would look like this.
When my husband and I turned 65, like many others, we held
quiet dreams — simple, beautiful hopes for the days ahead. Time to travel, time
to enjoy the slower pace, time to breathe. But now, instead of planning those
dreams, I sit here navigating doctor's appointments, hospital stays, and the
heavy words that were never part of the plan: congestive heart failure.
The sudden reality that his heart — the strong heart that once held me through
so much — is now weak and in need of technology to help it do what it once did
without thought, still leaves me breathless.
The medical advancements are nothing short of remarkable —
pacemakers and heart shock devices placed under the skin offer real hope for
extended life. And yet, the disappointment lingers, tangled with the shock of
this diagnosis and the uncertain road ahead. The looming changes in income, the
loss of health insurance until I turn 65, and the need to adjust once again to
a new "normal" feel daunting, even as I trust the God who has never
once failed me.
I want to be clear: I do trust Him. I know God has a plan. I
know God never leaves His children hopeless. But He also never promised this
life would be easy. In fact, quite the opposite.
This isn’t my first encounter with heartbreak and loss. My
first marriage ended with illness, injury, and the quiet death of so many
dreams. I have walked the path of rearranged plans, downscaled homes, new
careers, and unexpected heartache before. And each time — each time —
God has met me there. We were never homeless. We were never without food. We
were never without love. His provision came through friends, through family,
through the kindness of strangers, and through His Word — a steady, unshakable
foundation beneath my feet.
And today is Good Friday, a day that echoes this same
tension between hope and heartbreak.
I keep thinking about those who stood at the foot of the
cross — the ones who loved Jesus most, watching helplessly as the one they
believed would change everything hung dying, suffering in agony. The Gospels
describe the moment with heartbreaking simplicity:
“And Jesus cried out again with a loud voice and yielded up
his spirit.”
Matthew 27:50 (ESV)
The sky darkened, the earth shook, and their world must have
felt as if it had ended.
“And when the sixth hour had come, there was darkness over
the whole land until the ninth hour.
And at the ninth hour Jesus cried with a loud voice, ‘Eloi, Eloi, lema
sabachthani?’ which means, ‘My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?’”
Mark 15:33-34 (ESV)
The ache of those watching must have been overwhelming,
their dreams crushed under the weight of the cross. And yet, the foundation of
God’s faithfulness, the same foundation that carries me, was theirs too — even
though they couldn’t yet see Sunday coming.
One verse I’ve been clinging to in these days is:
“For I consider that the sufferings of this present time are
not worth comparing with the glory that is to be revealed to us.”
Romans 8:18 (ESV)
And another that has long anchored me:
“Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of
death,
I will fear no evil,
for you are with me;
your rod and your staff,
they comfort me.”
Psalm 23:4 (ESV)
The same God who held me then is holding me now. The same
God who raised Christ from the grave is the God who breathes life into broken
dreams, even if that life looks different than we ever expected. Hope lives,
even in the waiting. Especially in the waiting.
So as I sit here with both gratitude for modern medicine and
the ache of uncertain days, I find comfort in knowing that my story, like the
story of Good Friday, is not finished. Resurrection always follows the cross.
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