This is the second part of the podcast—Manna-festations—with Penni Cooke as host and Mary Whittaker, who is caregiver to her husband Dwight, as another guest. We continued to talk about the challenges of caregiving and the loneliness caregivers experience.

Psalm 73:23 “Yet I am always with you; you hold me by my right hand.”

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The Loneliness No One Talks About

Caregivers are lonely in ways most people never notice. The world sees the person who needs the care — the illness, the decline, the appointments, the crisis moments. But they often don’t see you. They don’t see the quiet ache of being the one who holds everything together. They don’t see the weight you carry in silence.

Mary noted that people are often there for the moments of crisis—the hospitalization, the surgery, the death—but do not see the millions of micromoments that make uip the life of a caregiver.

Losing the Person You Love While They’re Still Here

One of the deepest forms of loneliness comes from the loss of companionship with the person you love. Illness changes them. Slowly at first, and then all at once. You lose conversations, shared routines, inside jokes, the easy companionship that once filled your home. You lose the person who used to carry life with you.

For me, that loss came gradually as Ron’s condition worsened. I kept showing up — for him, for our children, for our life — but inside, I knew I was losing my partner piece by piece.

Mary’s experience was a bit different. Dwight was disabled when they married, but as his disease progressed, she found herself making many adjustments, even needing to leave her position as a media specialist to care for him.

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Carrying the Future Alone

I also knew the future would rest on my shoulders, so I pressed forward with graduate work, earning both an MEd and an EdD. I did it because I had to. I did it because I knew our family would depend on me.

But even in all that achievement, loneliness followed me like a shadow.

A Book I Never Planned to Write

I didn’t want to write a Bible study. I wanted to write novels — stories that let me escape into imagination. But in 2024, Flourish Writers offered a course called Light the Way, and my friend Jan convinced me to join her. “We’ll help each other,” she said. And so I signed up, not knowing that the book I resisted writing would become the book I needed to write.

Much of it came from the journals I kept during those caregiving years — pages filled with prayers, exhaustion, hope, and grief. I’ve come to believe it is important, even sacred, to tell your story. When we speak honestly about our journey, we help others find their way through theirs.

Mary points to Hagar (Genesis 21) as an example to caregivers. Forgotten and abandoned, Hagar ran to the desert to die and found God who knew her and called her by name.

Why I Write for Caregivers Now

That is why I write for caregivers now. I want you to know that you are Seen, Loved, and Carried — one step at a time. Even in the loneliness. Even in the long nights. Even when you feel invisible.

Caregiving is lonely. But you are not forgotten. You are not unseen. And you are not walking this road by yourself.

One step at a time, you are being carried.

If you would like to purchase the book, or gift it for a friend, you can click the link here.

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Caregivers walk in tender places. The dialogue Mary, Penni, and I shared was both honest and hopeful, a recognition of the challenges of caregiving as well as the blessings.

If you’d like to listen, the episode is here:

What We Talked About

Penni is a host who shares warmth and honesty with her viewers. and she offered both Mary and me a space to talk about many things caregivers experience:

• The quiet courage we carry, often unnoticed, often unspoken.

• The ache and beauty of writing from lived experiences of grief, loss, and lasting love.

• The God call behind the writing of You Are Not Alone and the new journey toward Finding Father: A Journey of Faith on the Autism Spectrum

• The way God meets us in the messy, painful, and unspoken ways of caregiving — not only in the surgery unit, but in the moments where we’re simply trying to keep going.

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A Moment That Stayed With Me

There was a point in our conversation when Penni said, “In chapter ten, you mentioned a time that you were, “treading on unknown ground’. Can you tell us about that time?”

And I was catapulted back to that dark day when Ron’s incision had split open while I was in a graduate school class, and two of my children needed to handle the crisis without me.

I left the class as soon as my daughter called my cell phone, praying all the way to the hospital not only for my husband but for my children who had to shoulder much of their father’s illness.

“They’re alone,” I told God.

That event, when I felt totally at sea, was one of the many times God reminded us that He was still present.

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Why This Episode Matters

If you are:

• a caregiver

• someone carrying a quiet grief

• a writer trying to tell the truth

• or simply a person longing for encouragement

I think this conversation will meet you right where you are.

Penni’s ministry is tender and Spirit-led, and I’m grateful she welcomed my story into her space.

A Blessing for You Today

As you watch, try to sense the nearness of God.
Know that His kindness is in the many pauses in the life of a caregiver.

Trust that He is with you through every step of the journey.

You are seen. You are loved. You are carried―one step at a time.

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This piece was drafted by me and gently refined with the help of an AI editor. The story, reflections, and blessings are fully my own.

You can support my ministry for caregivers—and help feed my son—by clicking the link below. Any amount is appreciated!

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A Whisper of Encouragement

For one moment, take a deep breath. No one needs you now. Breathe in the truth: God will meet you not only in the strong places of your caregiving, but in the tender ones where you feel too tired and weak to continue. The ground may feel unfamiliar beneath your feet, but God is still with you.

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What’s Coming on Thursday

Two weeks ago, I was asked by Penni Cooke of Mannafestations to join her in a podcast about my book, You Are Not Alone: Rest and Refuge for Spousal Caregivers.

Mary Whittaker, a friend who had served on my launch team and who was also a spousal caregiver, joined us as we talked with honesty about the scared weight we all carried as caregivers to our husbands.

Penni asked me about a statement from Chapter Ten of my book;

And it took me back to that moment, years ago when caregiving was new, and I needed to allow God to walk with me.

A Brief Scripture Lesson

Psalm 91:13 says, “You will tread on the lion and the cobra; you will trample the young lion and the serpent underfoot.”

This verse was a reminder to me that even when the path we are walking is tricky and unknown, God is still with us. Lions and cobras are both dangerous predators, but the verbs “tread” and “trample” remind us that we can overcome these enemies. God equips us with a strength we did not know we had.

Caregiving is unknown territory. We cannot prepare for it. But we can trust that God walks beside us.

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God’s Whisper

Where can you hear God’s whisper today?

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A Song for Your Journey

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Today I’m sharing a conversation that has stayed with me for years. Donna Woolam invited me onto her Living My Best Life series to talk about long‑term caregiving—what it looked like day to day, how it shaped my faith, and the quiet courage it takes to keep showing up when life becomes heavier than you ever expected.

This interview was recorded during a tender season, soon after Ron’s death. I was still teaching full-time, trying to find my way as a widow, and helping Allen on his own grief journey.

• The reality of long-term caregiving—the routines, the exhaustion, and the sacredness woven through ordinary days.

• Survival tips that carried me—small practices that helped me breathe, rest, and stay grounded.

• Anticipatory grief—how it begins long before loss, and how it reshapes the heart.

• Ron’s death—the moment everything changed, and the slow, faithful work of healing that followed.

• The early beginnings of Allen’s story—why I knew his grief needed to be written, even before I knew how.

Substack pulled a few short clips from the interview, and I’ve included them here as well. They capture the heart of the conversation—honest, tender, and rooted in the belief that caregivers are never as alone as they feel.

I hope you’ll take a few minutes to watch. If you’re walking through caregiving, grief, or the long road of rebuilding after loss, may this conversation offer companionship and a little breath of hope. And if someone you love is carrying a heavy story, feel free to share this with them.

Thank you for being here. Your presence in this community matters more than you know.

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Sometimes we need to return to something we thought we already understood — a conversation, a memory, a moment that once held weight — and listen again. Not because we missed something the first time, but because God wasn’t finished speaking.

This week, I revisited an interview from years ago. I remembered the questions, the setting, the tenderness of that season. But as I listened again, a single line rose differently. Softer. Truer. Almost as if it had been waiting for me to come back so it could meet me where I am now.

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God often speaks this way — not in the loud, dramatic moments, but in the quiet ones we return to. The ones we revisit with new eyes, new ache, new hope. The ones that whisper.

Scripture tells us that God’s voice is not always found in the wind or the fire or the earthquake, but in something far gentler:

“And after the fire came a gentle whisper.”
— 1 Kings 19:12 (NIV)

Elijah didn’t hear God in the noise.
He heard Him when he listened again.

Maybe that’s true for us, too.

Maybe the whisper comes the second time.
Or the tenth.
Or years later, when our hearts are finally quiet enough to receive it.

Where might God be inviting you to listen again — to a moment, a memory, a conversation, a scripture you thought you already knew?

Where have you heard God’s whisper this week?

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You will go out in joy and be led forth in peace;
the mountains and hills will burst into song before you,
and all the trees of the field will clap their hands.
Isaiah 55:12

It began with the trees of the field.

My son, Allen—who lives on the high‑functioning end of the autism spectrum and grapples with a world that is too loud, too bright, and too overwhelming—came in from the Plaza down the street a week after my husband died and said:

“The trees are whispering Dad’s name.”

“That’s nice,” I said.
“God made the trees, and Dad is now with God.”

He gave me a curious look.

“Not yet.”

I tried reason.

“But you know Dad died. You know he went to Heaven and God gave him a new body.”

Allen nods.

“I know. But I also know that Dad fooled death before. Maybe he can do it again. Remember?”

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I remember.

The night of the car accident, the surgeon who put the pieces of Ron back together again said to me:

“Your husband is a strong man. Only a strong man could survive that.”

Time and time again in the last nineteen years—
surgery after surgery—
Ron defied the odds.

Until on July 13th, he didn’t.

I stood there after Allen spoke, letting his words settle like dust motes in a sunbeam.

The trees are whispering Dad’s name.

Grief has its own language,
and sometimes it chooses the trees.

For nineteen years, Ron lived on borrowed time—
stitched together, braced together, prayed over,
held together by sheer will and the mercy of God.

Allen saw every surgery, every recovery,
every moment when death came close enough to touch
and then stepped back again.

So when he says the trees are whispering,
he is reaching for the only framework he has ever known:

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Dad survives.
Dad returns.
Dad defies the odds.

But this time, Dad didn’t.

And that is where Finding Father began—
not with the moment Ron died,
but with the moment Allen realized
death had finally kept its promise.

I wrote this book because grief is not a single event;
it is a long apprenticeship.

It teaches slowly.
It circles back.
It asks the same questions in new ways.

It shows up in the Plaza,
in the whisper of trees,
in the quiet of a son trying to make sense
of a world that suddenly feels less safe.

For Allen, it was an eight‑month journey.

I wrote it because Allen needed a story that could hold him.
And because I did too.

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I wrote it because the God who promises
that we will go out in joy
and be led forth in peace
does not pretend that sorrow isn’t real.

He simply insists that sorrow isn’t final.

I wrote it because Ron’s life—
and his death—
deserve to be witnessed.

And because the trees of the field are still clapping,
even now,
even here,
even in the ache.

Grief takes many forms.
Allen’s is just one.

Some grief whispers through trees.
Some grief sits quietly in the passenger seat.
Some grief shows up in a grocery aisle,
or in a song you weren’t expecting,
or in the way a certain light falls across the kitchen table.

My hope is that when you read Finding Father,
you will find your own grief gently mirrored,
tenderly held,
and never rushed.

That you will feel accompanied, not instructed.
That you will sense the steady presence of a God
who does not turn away from sorrow
but walks us through it.

Finding Father releases October 1.
I pray it meets you with the same quiet mercy
that met us—
under the whispering trees of the field.

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As we come to the end of these twelve weeks together, I find myself returning to the same quiet truth that has carried me through every chapter of You Are Not Alone: God has been here. In the long nights, in the waiting rooms, in the whispered prayers, in the small mercies that arrived just when we needed them — He has been here.

You have walked with me through each chapter, each memory, each promise. You have shown up with tenderness, courage, and a willingness to sit with the hard things. And so before we close this season, I want to speak a blessing over you — the caregivers, the grievers, the weary ones, the ones who keep loving in the dark.

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May you know, deep in your bones, that the God who sheltered you yesterday is the same God who goes before you tomorrow.

May the peace that steadied you in one chapter rise to meet you in the next.

May you feel the nearness of the One who gathers every tear, every sigh, every unseen act of love.

May you remember that rest is not a reward — it is a right. And you are allowed to receive it.

May hope come to you in small, surprising ways — a kindness, a quiet moment, a breath you didn’t know you needed.

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And when the road feels long — as it sometimes will — may you hear again the promise that has held us all these weeks:

“I will be with you in trouble. I will deliver you and honor you.”
Psalm 91:15

Thank you for walking this journey with me. Thank you for carrying these stories, for sharing your own, for lifting this book into the hands of those who need it. You have been a gift.

I’ll be back soon with the link to the Mannsensations podcast episode — I can’t wait to share it with you.

Until then, may the God who keeps watch over you bless you and keep you.
May His shelter be your rest, His wings your refuge, His presence your peace.

Go gently, dear ones.
You are not alone.

— Linda

And a quick update on how the book is performing!

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We’ve reached Week 12—the final week of our journey through Psalm 91. Thank you for walking with me through each promise, each reflection, and each tender memory. This chapter brings us to the end of my first year of caregiving, though not the end of the story. Not even close.

Psalm 91 closes with a promise that is less about the number of days and more about the quality of God’s presence within them:

This is a verse about God’s sustaining protection—His sheltering wings, His steady companionship, His quiet mercies that carry us through seasons we never imagined we’d walk.

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From My Journal

January 11, 2001 — The Grocery Store Line

I remember standing behind a woman buying a king‑size Hershey bar and a Good Housekeeping magazine. She looked tired—drawn, pale, worn thin by winter. She looked a lot like me.

I had just come from the hospital. Ron was recovering from yet another surgery. I had papers to grade, chapters to read, responsibilities stacked high. A Hershey bar wouldn’t last through all that.

As I paid for my groceries, I whispered to myself: Don’t focus on the temporary. Focus on the eternal.

That day, Ron’s eyes had sparkled again. He laughed. He teased. His spirit was healing, even as his body struggled. And I realized: God’s rewards in a healed spirit are eternal.

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March 3, 2001 — The Long Corridor

It began here, in this hospital hallway. I had walked it so many times I could have traced it blindfolded. That day, our whole family walked it together—slowly, quietly, each of us carrying a year’s worth of memories.

We visited every unit that had cared for Ron. We delivered flowers. We hugged nurses. We passed familiar faces—fellow travelers whose names I never learned but whose stories I had prayed over in waiting rooms with foam cups of lukewarm coffee.

And then, finally, we reached the lobby. The same burgundy and green furniture. The same beige rugs. Different seasonal decorations marked the passage of time.

Ron was coming home. Not for a weekend. Not for a trial run. To stay.

We had reached the end of this part of the journey. We had all been changed by it. And though I knew caregiving would continue—its shadow long, its effects lingering—I could rejoice in this moment.

God had sheltered us. God had carried us. God had listened to every cry. And now, God was satisfying us with the quiet peace of His promises kept.

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Resting in God’s Protection

Psalm 91 doesn’t promise a life free from hardship. It promises a God who stays close through it.

This week’s chapter is a reminder that:

• God’s protection is often revealed in hindsight.

• Healing can be slow, but it is still healing.

• The corridors we walk—literal or emotional—shape us in ways we don’t see until much later.

• God’s salvation is not only eternal; it is present, daily, sustaining.

As we close this 12‑week journey, I’m grateful for every step you’ve walked with me. Your presence has been a shelter of its own.

Next week, I’ll share a closing benediction and a small gift as a thank‑you for your faithfulness.

With gratitude and peace, Linda

Can you share with me a brief summary of a time God walked with you through a difficult season?

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Psalm 91:15

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Some seasons of life feel like one wave after another. You barely catch your breath before the next trouble rises. Jesus never hid this reality from His disciples. He told them plainly:

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

Trouble is real. But so is the One who overcomes it.

During Ron’s long illness, I often felt like Job — weary, bewildered, and bracing for the next blow. Just as one infection cleared, another crisis would surface. I needed moments of rest in the truth that God delighted in Ron and in me. Not because life was easy, but because His heart was inclined toward us.

Psalm 18 says it this way:

“He brought me out into a spacious place; he rescued me because he delighted in me.”

The Hebrew word for delight here is hepes — “to incline, to bend toward.”
Like a grandparent bending down to a beloved child, God bends toward us.

Think of something you delight in — a grandchild’s laugh, a quiet morning, a small kindness. Then imagine God’s delight multiplied beyond measure, bending toward you in your trouble.

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His delight doesn’t remove hardship, but it does remove the lie that we are alone in it.

Paul reminds us that God works in all things — even the painful ones — for good. And that the comfort we receive becomes comfort we can offer others (2 Corinthians 1:4). Our trials become seeds of compassion.

To rest in God’s protection is to trust Him when answers are slow.
To choose prayer over panic.
To breathe peace instead of worry.

A Moment for Reflection

Where do you most need to feel God bending toward you today?

What would it look like to rest — even briefly — in His delight?

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A Breath Prayer for Week 11

Breath In: You hear me when I call.
Breath Out: You bend toward me with love.

May this truth steady you in every unanswered place.

A Great Big Thank You

My book baby has been out in the world for two weeks now and is now available on Amazon in both paperback and Kindle formats. You can also order it from Walmart and Thriftbooks. And some early reviews are positive! Thank you for supporting me on this journey and for helping other caregivers find help in Psalm 91.

You Are Not Alone: Rest and Refuge for Spousal Caregivers

If you know someone who needs encouragement, please consider sharing this book with them.

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Psalm 91:14

There are moments in life when God’s rescue is unmistakable — a miracle, a breakthrough, a sudden shift. But more often, His rescue looks quieter. It looks like a strength that holds when everything feels fragile. It looks like peace that steadies trembling hands. It looks like courage rising in the hearts of those who have watched you walk through fire.

This week, I’m sharing a moment from my journal — a moment when God’s rescue didn’t look dramatic, but it looked like love.

From You Are Not Alone: Linda’s Journey

October 7, 2000 — 11:00 a.m.

Ron and I were celebrating our twenty‑fifth wedding anniversary — a day that felt out of reach only weeks earlier. Ron had been in the hospital again. I was weary from caregiving. We were all stretched thin.

Then, 14-year-old Allen stood in front of the church, microphone trembling in his hand, and said:

“What I’ve learned from my parents is the meaning of the word courage… You don’t have to understand everything — you just have to trust God’s love and have courage.”

He didn’t know the full weight of the last eight months — the tears in parking lots, the silent prayers beside Ron’s bed, the moments I wasn’t sure we’d make it. But he had seen enough to know that God had carried us.

Bonnie and Dennis echoed the same truth. They hadn’t been handed ease or luxury. But they had been given something better: the courage to trust God when life doesn’t make sense.

The trials of our marriage — miscarriages, job loss, illness, financial strain, death — were not things I would have chosen. But God’s steady hands carried us through every valley. And what we gained was greater than anything we lost.

Strength that doesn’t collapse. Faith that looks up. Perseverance born in fire.

These are treasures no thief can steal

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A Breath Prayer for Week 10

Breath In: You rescue me with love. Breath Out: Give me courage for the journey.

A Gentle Invitation

Where have you seen God’s rescue — not in miracles, but in courage, strength, or quiet provision?

If you feel led, share in the comments. Your story may be the encouragement someone else needs today.

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Now that my book is out in the world, I am eager to share it with other caregivers or anyone needing support. If you know someone who falls into that category, please consider sharing the link below to purchase You Are Not Alone: Rest and Refuge for Spousal Caregivers.

You Are Not Alone: Rest and Refuge for Spousal Caregivers

Auto Strop Safety Razor

My father didn’t leave behind journals or long letters or boxes of photographs.
What he left were objects — small, ordinary things that somehow became sacred simply because they survived him.

We call them Dad’s keepsakes, though none of them were meant to be keepsakes at all. They were just the things he carried, the things he touched, the things he didn’t throw away. And now, decades later, they have become the quiet storytellers of who he was.

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There’s the still cat bank, a ceramic cat that doesn’t wave or beckon, just sits with that steady, watchful presence.
There’s the soap baby, that tiny molded figure from another era, fragile and sweet and almost humorous in its innocence.
There’s the sleighbell, a single bell that jingles with the sound of childhood Christmases and the feeling of being small and safe while Dad was still strong.

And then there are the oddities — the puzzle with the softened edges, the banjo tuner without a banjo, the little fragments of a boyhood we never fully knew.

But the newest addition to the collection is the one that stopped me:
Dad’s razor

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A vintage AutoStrop safety razor, heavy in the hand, the kind that required patience and a steady touch. The metal is worn smooth where his fingers held it. The box still carries the old promise printed inside the lid:

A guarantee. Imagine that.

I like to think this razor was the one his father gave him when he turned seventeen — the moment a boy becomes a young man. A rite of passage disguised as a practical gift. Something to tuck into a drawer, then into a duffel bag, then into the Army in 1951 when the world was wide and uncertain and he was trying to find his place in it.

I imagine him shaving in cold barracks, the metal handle warming in his hand, the familiar weight of home in a world that was anything but familiar.
A razor like that wasn’t disposable.
It wasn’t meant to be replaced.
It was meant to last.

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And then I look at my son’s razors — the plastic cartridges, the disposable blades, the things you use once and toss away without a thought. Nothing is meant to last now. Nothing is guaranteed.

Allen’s journey into manhood has been so different from my father’s.
No father handing him a razor.
No quiet ceremony of “you’re ready now.”
No steady presence teaching him how to shave, how to grow up, how to step into adulthood.

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His father grew ill too early.
The guarantees dissolved.
The rituals never happened.

And so Allen’s manhood has been shaped not by inheritance but by improvisation.
Not by certainty but by loss.
Not by a razor handed down but by the absence of one.

Which is why Dad’s razor matters so much to me now.
It’s not just a grooming tool.
It’s a relic of a world where things were built to last, where fathers stayed, where promises were printed inside box lids and meant to be believed.

It’s a reminder of what my father carried into adulthood — and what my son had to learn to carry without a guide.

These keepsakes, gathered in a small box, are not valuable in any monetary sense.
But they are priceless in the way only ordinary sacred things can be.

They tell the story of a man who lived, a boy who grew up, a father who loved, and a grandson who is still finding his way.

And maybe — just maybe — they tell a little of my story too.

For my youngest child, I have been both mother and father. I have had to learn how to parent an adult with special needs while I was caring for a chronically ill husband.

But like my dad’s old Auto Strop razor, the love of a family should be guaranteed.

Built to last.

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There are moments in caregiving when you are so tired, so stretched, so worn down that even your prayers feel thin. Psalm 91 tells us that in those moments, God sends His angels — not always with wings or radiance, but with presence, comfort, and a kind of knowing that feels heaven‑sent.

Sometimes angels look like strength.
Sometimes they look like peace.
And sometimes… they look like a hospital volunteer in a pink smock.

This week, I’m sharing a moment from my journal — a moment when I believe God sent an angel to sit beside me in a fourth‑floor waiting room

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From You Are Not Alone: Linda’s Journey

August 27, 2000 — 10:00 a.m.

Ron was in surgery again — what should have been a simple hernia repair had become complicated by infections and scarring. I sat alone in the fourth‑floor waiting room, flipping through a book, rummaging in my knitting bag, trying to distract myself from the fear rising in my chest.

What I really needed wasn’t distraction.
I needed calm.
I needed peace — the kind Jesus promised, “not as the world gives.”

So I closed my eyes and prayed.

A small voice interrupted my silence.
“Excuse me… I hate to interrupt you.”

I opened my eyes to see a tiny gray‑haired woman in a pink hospital volunteer smock. She held out a foam cup with a tea bag hanging from the side.

“I noticed you’ve been here a while,” she said softly. “I thought maybe you could use a little something.”

She pulled sugar packets and creamer from her pocket, apologizing that she didn’t know how I liked my tea.

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I smiled at this little angel God had sent.
“But I do drink tea,” I told her. “And it’s just what I need.”

“Bless you,” she said.

I set the cup down to add cream and sugar. When I looked up to thank her again, she was gone.

Ron’s surgery lasted another two hours.
I never saw her again.

I don’t know for certain, but I like to think she was an angel — sent to comfort me in a moment of need.

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When God Sends Help in Disguise

Psalm 91:11–12 promises that God commands His angels to guard us in all our ways.
Not just the holy places.
Not just the peaceful places.
But the hospital waiting rooms.
The lonely hours.
The moments when our strength is gone.

Angels do not always announce themselves.
Sometimes they simply appear, offer comfort, and vanish as quietly as they came.

And sometimes the angel is a person — a friend, a stranger, a volunteer — who carries God’s tenderness into our story.

If you’ve ever felt comfort arrive at the exact moment you needed it, you may have met an angel too.

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A Breath Prayer for Week 8

Breath In: You guard me in all my ways.
Breath Out: I welcome Your angels of comfort.

A Gentle Invitation

Take a moment to remember:
When has someone — human or heavenly — shown up right when you needed comfort or protection?

If you feel led, share your story in the comments.
Your moment of being held may be the encouragement someone else needs today.

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May I ask a favor? You Are Not Alone: Rest and Refuge for Spousal Caregivers will be released on May 26. It is now available for preorder. Please consider buying it for yourself or someone who needs its promises.

There are seasons when life feels scattered — when you’re living out of a tote bag, moving between responsibilities, and carrying more than your heart can hold. Psalm 91 speaks into those seasons with a gentle invitation:

“If you make the Most High your dwelling… no harm will overtake you.”

Dwelling is not about geography. It’s about where your heart rests.

This week, I’m sharing a moment from my journal when I was carrying more than I knew how to hold — and God reminded me where home truly is.

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From You Are Not Alone: Linda’s Journey

May 12, 2000 — 3:00 p.m.

“I write all these burdens down and put them in Denis’s backpack… Maybe I can find a small space for calm.”

“No matter how loudly the machines in the hospital beep or how heavy the burdens feel, I can dwell with God.”

“I do not dwell in the hospital or the waiting room. I dwell with God.

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”

When Burdens Are Too Heavy to Carry Alone

Caregiving has a way of making us feel like we’re living everywhere and nowhere at once. But God’s dwelling place is not fragile. It is not temporary. It is not dependent on our strength.

His presence travels with us — into hospital rooms, late‑night worries, and the places where we feel most depleted.

Dwelling with God means:

• We are never carrying our burdens alone.

• We are never far from His protection.

• We are never without a place to rest.

Even when the burdens creep back in — and they do — we can return again and again to the One who invites us to make our home in Him

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A Breath Prayer for Week 7

Breath In: You are my dwelling place. Breath Out: I rest my burdens in Your care.

A Gentle Invitation

Where have you been dwelling today — in fear, exhaustion, or God’s presence? Where do you long to dwell?

Share in the comments if you feel led. Your words may be a refuge for someone else.

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Would you like to help me launch my book about caring for an ill spouse into the world? Just share this post or graphic on your own social media, or email to someone you think would benefit from the promises of Psalm 91.

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Psalm 91:7–8 speaks into those moments — and the ones that follow:

This isn’t a promise that nothing hard will ever touch us.
It’s a promise that even when life tilts suddenly, we remain inside God’s protective care.

This week, I’m sharing a journal entry from a night when hope rose… and then collapsed. And yet, even there, God’s protection was quietly at work.

From You Are Not Alone: Linda’s Journey

May 8, 2000 — 9:00 p.m.

It is 9:00 p.m. when I thank Allen’s caseworker, Cris, exuberantly for her time and leave the middle school. In the last months, Cris has often sent home a personal note, assuring me of her prayers for our family. I tell her I will pray for her and her new baby. She says she’ll pray about Ron’s discharge from the hospital tomorrow.

I cross the parking lot to my car, looking up at the night stars and marveling at the distant planets. God’s work is displayed in brilliant detail before my weary eyes. I breathe deeply, thanking God that Ron’s lungs are clear and that he will be home with his family soon. “We made it,” I say aloud.

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But when I arrive home, there is a message in my daughter’s careful handwriting on the pad by the phone. Call Dr. Huffman at the hospital. Very important. Joanne’s beeper number follows.

Very important is underlined twice.

I let myself slide down to the floor as my heart sinks. Before I even call Joanne, I know Ron will not be coming home tomorrow.

When Protection Doesn’t Look Like Victory

This is the part of Psalm 91 we don’t always talk about.

Protection doesn’t always look like a miracle.
Sometimes it looks like a delay.
Sometimes it looks like a disappointment that keeps us from a deeper danger.
Sometimes it looks like God catching what we cannot see.

That night, sitting on the floor with the phone still in my hand, I realized something I had never understood before:

Even when the news is not what we hoped for.
Even when the timing feels cruel.
Even when the floor drops out from under us.

We are still inside His circle of care.

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A Moment for You

Take a moment to sit quietly with this truth:
When you stay beside God, you are always protected — even when life feels uncertain.

If you’d like to reflect more deeply, here are the same questions I ask readers in the book:

1. What is one part of your caregiving or personal life where you most need to feel God’s protective care today?

2. What benefits do you feel you gain by living inside God’s circle of care?

You’re welcome to share your reflections in the comments. Your honesty may be the encouragement someone else needs.

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Closing Prayer

Dear God, thank You for surrounding me with Your care, even when the path shifts and the news is not what I hoped for. Help me rest in the assurance that nothing touches my life outside Your loving protection. Keep me close to You, steady my heart, and remind me that I am always held inside Your circle of care. Amen.

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Writing the journey was healing. Sharing it feels like something else entirely — like opening a door and inviting others to walk through. I’ve always believed there are many ways to mourn, and that God meets us in every one of them. But believing that and offering it publicly are two different things

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As I sat with that contract, I found myself thinking about the early church in Acts 2:42–47. Luke tells us the believers “devoted themselves to the apostles’ teaching and to fellowship, to the breaking of bread and to prayer.” They shared meals, shared prayers, shared resources, and shared their lives so fully that Scripture says, “they had everything in common.”

Everything.

Not because they were the same.
Not because their griefs or joys matched.
But because they trusted that what God had given one person could strengthen another.

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Their “everything” wasn’t just bread and coins. It was stories. Wounds. Wonders. The unpolished pieces of their lives. They didn’t hide them. They brought them to the table, believing God could use even the tender parts

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That’s what I thought about as I held those papers. My story — our story — is part of my “everything.” Something God entrusted to me not to keep, but to offer.

Most of us aren’t selling our possessions or living in communal houses. But Acts 2 isn’t really about economics. It’s about connection. Devotion. Shared life. It’s about showing up with what we have — our stories, our gifts, our griefs, our joys — and trusting that God can use them to encourage someone else.

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For me, that looks like offering the journey Allen and I walked after Ron died. It looks like trusting that the pages of Finding Father might become bread for someone who is hungry for hope. It looks like believing that no one has to walk their grief alone.

A gentle invitation

If you’re reading this, you’re already part of this little Substack community — this circle of people who show up with honesty and humor and faith. So I want to invite you to consider what part of your journey God might be nudging you to share. It doesn’t have to be dramatic. It doesn’t have to be polished. It might be a small moment of grace, a prayer that carried you, a lesson learned the hard way, or a story you’ve never said out loud.

Your offering — however simple it may seem — could be the encouragement someone else needs today

Leave a comment

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A closing prayer

Lord,
Thank You for the gift of shared life.
Thank You for the stories, the sorrows, and the small offerings You weave together to strengthen Your people. Teach us to open our hands the way the early believers did — with trust, with courage, and with love. Use what each of us carries, even the tender and unfinished parts, to bring comfort and hope to someone who needs it.
Amen.

Psalm 91:5–6

There are seasons when night feels heavier than day.
When the quiet is too quiet.
When the bed feels too big.
When the ache of absence stretches across the hours like a long shadow.

Psalm 91 tells us,
“You will not fear the terrors of the night…”
But fear doesn’t disappear just because we wish it away.
Sometimes it must be lived through, breathed through, carried through — one night at a time.

This week, I’m sharing a piece from my journal during one of the darkest seasons of my life. It’s tender. It’s raw. And it’s a reminder that God meets us even in the places where we feel most alone

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From You Are Not Alone: Linda’s Journey

April 24, 2000 — 10:00 p.m.

I sleep on Ron’s side of the bed most nights. It sags slightly from the weight of his absence, and I curl myself into the hollow, seeking the familiar. Mine has been a slow trek across the expanse of my queen-sized mattress.

I began, in those first horrible nights after the accident, on my accustomed side of the bed, the latest words from Dr. Huffman, my husband’s surgeon, replaying in my mind. Another surgery. An unknown infection. A return to the ICU. The silence in my room was heavy. No sounds of sonorous breathing punctuated the night; no heavy leg flung over mine pressed me into the mattress; no warm presence wrestled with the sheets or pulled the blanket from my shoulders.

My nights were quiet. Empty. Fearful.

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Slowly, across many nights, I inched my way into the bed’s middle, drawn toward the far side by a pillow still holding the faint fragrance of Ron’s aftershave.

The middle was awful. I felt like the spine of a book with two wide blank pages on either side of me, solitary in a great expanse of unfilled space where once there had hardly been enough room for two. I continued my progression toward the other side, crawling across the cold sheets, seeking comfort and warmth.

I sleep on Ron’s side now, inhaling his lingering male scent, wrapping my own arms around my waist, and waiting out the long hours until morning. There are nights I sleep soundly, dreaming of Ron, then awaken suddenly, startled to find myself facing the room from a different angle.

My life has changed. My point of view has changed. God is calming my fears, one at a time, and teaching me to release them into his care.

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When the Night Changes Us

Night seasons have a way of reshaping us.
They stretch us.
They soften us.
They teach us to listen for God in the quiet places we never wanted to enter.

I didn’t learn courage in the daylight.
I learned it in the dark — inching across a mattress that felt too wide, too cold, too empty.
I learned it in the silence where fear tried to take up all the space.
I learned it in the slow, steady truth that God was not asking me to be fearless…
only to trust that He was with me in the fear.

Psalm 91 doesn’t promise a life without night.
It promises a God who keeps vigil with us until morning.

And sometimes, that is enough

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A Breath Prayer for Your Night Season

Breath In: You are with me in the dark.
Breath Out: I release my fear into Your care.

Let this be your prayer tonight, and every night you feel the weight of the quiet.

A Gentle Invitation

If you’re walking through a night season — grief, caregiving, uncertainty, loneliness — I’d love to hear from you in the comments.
Your story may be the light someone else needs.

You are not alone in the night.
Not then.
Not now.
Not ever

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There is a reason Psalm 91 begins with danger.
Not imagined danger.
Not exaggerated danger.
Real danger.

“Surely He will save you from the fowler’s snare
and from the deadly pestilence.”
— Psalm 91:3

Before the psalm speaks of feathers and wings, it speaks of traps and sickness. Before comfort, it names the things that threaten us.

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🌿 What is a “fowler’s snare”?

In ancient times, a fowler was a bird‑catcher. He set traps on the ground—simple, silent, nearly invisible. A snare didn’t chase its prey. It waited. Hidden. Still. Ready to spring shut the moment a bird stepped into it.

A snare was designed to catch what wasn’t paying attention.

And isn’t that how some dangers come into our lives?
Quietly.
Unexpectedly.
Without warning.

Not every threat announces itself. Some slip in like a shadow across the path. Quite often, an infection crept into Ron’s body just when it seemed he was getting better. It was always unexpected, and always a reason for concern.

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🌙 Why pestilence mattered—especially at night

The psalmist also names “deadly pestilence”—diseases that swept through communities with no cure, no warning, no way to predict who would be next. In Old Testament times, nights were especially feared. Darkness meant vulnerability. No lamps. No guards. No way to see danger approaching.

But God’s protection was not limited to daylight hours.
His care was not a daytime promise.
It was a 24/7 covering, a round‑the‑clock shelter.

The God of Psalm 91 does not sleep.
He does not step away.
He does not lose track of where we are.

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🩺 My own snares and pestilence

For me, the snares and pestilence were not theoretical.
They were infections that ravaged Ron’s body—organs that shut down, fevers that spiked, nights when the monitors beeped faster than my heart could keep up.

But the physical dangers weren’t the only ones.

There were the mental snares too:
the strain of making decisions without my husband,
the weight of trying to be strong for everyone,
the quiet fear that I was not enough.

And I wasn’t.
But God was.

I prayed: “God, I am not strong enough to do this. I need Your strength.”

That prayer became a lifeline

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📖 From my journal

For a caregiver, remaining safe in God’s care does not always mean finding physical protection or escape from hardship. The longer Ron’s hospitalization lasted, the more I needed to lean on God for a deep, inner assurance. Eventually, I realized that God’s care of me was very specific to each situation I faced.

It helped me to know that God saw me wherever I was, whether at home or in Ron’s hospital room, a waiting room, a cafeteria, or a classroom. I was not alone in this exhausting journey. Though my world had spun out of control, God was still holding my heart and mind in His hands, helping me understand that while my husband’s care was very important to me, it was even more important to God.

🛡️ The God who sees the snare before we do

Psalm 91 doesn’t promise that we will never face danger.
It promises that God sees what we cannot.

He sees the snare before our foot reaches it.
He sees the pestilence before it touches our home.
He sees the fear before it forms words in our mouths.

And He covers us—not only with protection, but with presence.

Sometimes God keeps us from the snare.
Sometimes He walks us through it.
But He never leaves us alone in it.

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🌬️ Breath Prayer

Inhale: You see the snare, Lord.
Exhale: Keep me safe in Your care

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🌼 A Gentle Note to Share

If someone you love is walking through a season of fear, illness, or uncertainty, feel free to pass this reflection along. God’s care is not distant. It is near. And it is enough.

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Would you like to help me launch my book about caring for an ill spouse into the world? Just share this post or graphic on your own social media, or email to someone you think would benefit from the promises of Psalm 91.

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At the breakfast buffet of a Lancaster hotel, I watched a young boy at the next table begin to stim — grunting softly, flapping his hands, his body trying to regulate what his surroundings refused to offer. His mother looked around nervously, unsure of the room’s tolerance. I smiled and nodded my encouragement. I recognized the signs. This child had been away from the familiar for too long.

He was a fish out of water.

And so was my adult son.

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Allen sat beside me, unshaven, uncombed, wearing yesterday’s clothes. We had spent four days touring the Lancaster countryside, riding in Amish buggies and visiting my old college campus. But he was ready to return to the world that made sense to him — his giant robot project with its strange metal parts, his sword collection, and the orange cat who curls into his arms every night. For those on the autism spectrum, even the gentlest getaway can feel like a sensory gauntlet. Home is oxygen. Predictability is water.

Watching that boy, watching my son, I felt the familiar ache of recognition — the one that rises when you see another mother living a version of your story.

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Which brings me to Speechless, the new memoir by my friend and fellow writer, Kathleen Knapp.

Kathy’s son, Ben, is non‑verbal. My son is verbal. Their needs, their challenges, their ways of moving through the world are different. But the heart of a mother — the fierce, faithful, unrelenting heart — beats the same.

In her memoir, Kathy writes of the moment everything changed:

And later, as the weight of diagnosis settles in:

“Our perfect world started to crumble.”

Those lines stopped me. Not because our stories are identical, but because they echo the universal truth of caregiving: the moment when life tilts, and you realize you will go the length — whatever the length is — for your child.

Kathy’s journey is shaped by medical crises, hospital corridors, and the quiet courage of learning to understand a child who cannot speak. Mine has been shaped by sensory overload, rigid routines, and the delicate art of preparing my son for the world without overwhelming him. Different paths, same devotion.

Throughout Allen’s childhood, our vacations were always to the same beach house, in the same week of summer, with the same predictable rhythm. Only in recent years have we ventured further — airplanes, trains, new beaches — each trip requiring careful preparation, visual schedules, comfort items, and the promise of root beer. Even then, he is a fish who can only stay out of water for so long.

When Kathy writes about the “evolution of grief,” she names something many caregivers know but rarely articulate: that loving a child with unique needs is both a joy and a continual letting‑go. A letting‑go of expectations. A letting‑go of timelines. A letting‑go of the life you imagined before you knew the one you were called to live.

And yet — what grows in that space is holy.

Kathy’s memoir is not simply about autism or medical crisis. It is about transformation. About faith that deepens in the dark. About a mother who learns to listen to a child without words. About a boy whose life speaks volumes.

As Allen and I loaded our bags into the car after our Lancaster trip, he said, “This is a pretty place. I’m glad we came, and I wouldn’t mind coming back. But I’m glad to be going home.”

Because eventually, the fish needs to return to the water.

And as mothers — whether our children speak or do not speak, whether they flap their hands or build giant robots — we learn to swim beside them. We learn their currents. We learn their depths. We learn, as Kathy shows so beautifully, that love is its own language.

Speechless is a testament to that love. And reading it reminded me that none of us swim alone.

You can purchase Speechless at this link.

Speechless

Do you know a “fish out of water”? How do you help them make sense of the world?

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“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” — Psalm 34:18

It was just a small change. One word. Present to past.
Is to was.

Just two letters shifting places — something any editor would quickly do. Simple.

But for me, it wasn’t simple at all. I stared at the sentence on my computer screen, tears streaming down my face.

My husband’s favorite Bible verse is John 3:16

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My husband’s grave marker.

The truth still lived in my heart. Despite the words carved into a flat grave marker, Ron’s love of Scripture — of this Scripture — was still an echo in my life. He had underlined it in his Bible:

For God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him shall not perish but have everlasting life.

And next to it, written in a shaky hand a few days after the car accident that changed our lives, were these words:

I’m a whosoever.

I flipped back through the other changes proofreaders had noted in the soon‑to‑be‑published manuscript. None of them weighed on me the way this one did.

But why? Why, six years later, did this one small word wreck me?

I bowed my head and talked to God.

And in the quiet, His whispers slowed my tears:

• Because Ron’s death did not erase him from your life.

• Because the faith he had still shapes you.

• Because every day is still a negotiation between what you know to be true and what you wish still was.

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Grief lives in the present tense.

When someone we love dies, the world expects our language to shift immediately:

• He was…

• He used to…

• His favorite verse was…

But hearts don’t move that fast.
The grammar of grief collides with the grammar of the page.

And grief always wins.

I took a deep breath. And made the change.

Not because I had moved past the moment, but because writing demands honesty and clarity. My book about spousal caregiving and grief had the potential to help others who had walked the painful path I’d been on for almost two decades.

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As my widow‑friend Jan told me, I had chosen the harder path. I could have hidden the journals of those difficult days in a desk drawer. I could have let others caring for ill loved ones cope by themselves. I didn’t have to toss them a lifeline that made me bleed again and again.

But I did.

Because I am still shaped by the love of my husband, his faith in God, his steadfast courage as he neared the end.

And because even now — in ways grammar cannot fully capture — he remains beside me.
Not in the verb tense the world demands, but in the ongoing sentence of my life.

Some loves never move entirely into the past.
Some stories refuse to end with a period.
Some bonds remain present‑tense, even when the body is gone.

Grief teaches us to live with holy run‑ons, sacred fragments, and unfinished clauses — trusting that God Himself will complete the sentence.

A Prayer

Lord, You who hold every word and every tear,
teach my heart how to speak in this new grammar of grief.
Help me honor the love that shaped me without being crushed by the loss that changed me.
Hold the places where my sentences falter, where my verbs tremble,
where my memories live in a tense my mind cannot reconcile.
Thank You for staying close to the brokenhearted
and for writing mercy into every line of my story.
Amen.

A Reflection for Your Heart

Where in your life right now are you living between tenses —
between what was, what is, and what you wish still could be?

Write a few lines, even if they come out as fragments.
God understands every unfinished sentence.

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