I had started to go through some changes around the time our oldest daughter turned 12 years old. With our girls entering the world of sports and a 2nd year of travel softball, my obligations at the hospital and my every other weekend schedule were beginning to hinder my family life more than I anticipated. My husband was doing all the running with our oldest daughter, attending games and practices, and I was missing precious moments with my family and all the excitement that came with it. Watching them from the sidelines became increasingly difficult, as I longed to be part of the action too. So, I had been looking into going back to school to learn a new trade that would allow me to run my own business, giving me the flexibility to balance family and work life effectively. After a heartfelt family discussion and a private adult conversation between my husband and me, we came to the conclusion that pursuing this path would ultimately benefit our entire family. So off to school I went, feeling a mix of excitement and fear. I knew what this meant: long study hours, sleepless nights, and hard focus, especially considering my dyslexia. However, I was determined to give it my all, not just for myself but to better my family’s prospects. Thus, just shy of two years later, I proudly graduated from Massage school, receiving my license within days of graduation. The journey was long and grueling, but I studied diligently and pushed through those challenging study sessions, proving to myself that I could overcome obstacles. Within six months of graduating and receiving my license, tragedy struck; we had a death in the family. We lost my dad’s sister, who had been diagnosed with cancer just five months prior to her passing. My Aunt was not just family; she was my person and my best friend. We shared an unbreakable bond, built on love, laughter, and countless memories. The moment she departed this world shattered me, and I still grieve her loss today, feeling that void in my life. She just had a magic about her that brought joy to everyone around her, and we always laughed until we cried. I spent weekends with her growing up, having the best time playing games and being silly together, embracing every ounce of joy she emanated. I always felt I could be my true self in her presence, free from judgment. I am profoundly grateful to have been there the moment she passed, holding her hand tightly until the end, cherishing that final connection. My girls were very close with her too; they were just as heartbroken as I was, as she was the fun aunt who could always make everyone smile. There was never a dull moment when she was around. We would go shopping, take the girls to the park, or she would come over to my house just to play with the girls, take them on delightful walks, and order pizza. Her bond with my youngest daughter was particularly special; they explored countless hobbies together. They built a fairy garden filled with intricate decorations, including a variety of fairies, colored sand, and blooming flowers. I could see the joy in their eyes as they would sit for hours rearranging and adding new fairy villages, their imaginations running wild. She also had a six-foot table filled with homemade slime in her garage, a bright spot of creativity. I never let my girls have slime at home, so the cool aunt that she was made it possible at her house because that’s what made them ecstatically happy. My aunt never had any children of her own and was never married, which somehow made her connection with my daughters even more profound. She treated me as a daughter and my girls as her grandchildren, showering them with the love and affection that only an aunt could give. In a world where family means everything, she redefined what it meant to be connected.

I really felt like the grieving process had started all over again when my aunt had passed. About 3 years prior to that I had lost two of my grandparents within weeks of each other. My grandmother on my mom’s side was a hit in the gut; although we had been given time to prepare before her passing, it was still hard to accept. She had been diagnosed with a brain tumor, and in fact, they had found four tumors affecting her health dramatically. She was sent home on hospice care with just 2 months to live, and during that time, my mom and I took care of her together every day. I am truly blessed to have had those precious moments taking care of my grandma, as they taught me a great deal about family, love, and an inner strength I didn’t know I possessed. The day she passed was both heartbreaking and beautiful with the whole family surrounding her as she took her last breath. We all sat around her, my cousin sang church hymns filling the room with a sense of comfort knowing that Jesus was coming to my grandmas bedside with his hand stretched out for her as she slipped away. She was the glue that held our family together, the foundation we all relied on, and her absence left a significant void. She was an amazing woman filled with wisdom and strength, always offering the best advice, tempered with kindness. She was the one I always called when needing an old remedy or comforting words. I remember her quite well in her younger days, full of vibrancy and joy. She had long grey hair that she would whip into a bun in the mornings, preparing for the day ahead with grace. Her kindness and gentle ways always felt like a warm embrace in her presence, as if you were wrapped in a blanket of love. Even in her later years, her laughter would light up a room, reminding us all of the joys of life, no matter how small. The lessons she imparted, the stories she shared, and the warmth she exuded remain etched in my heart, forever shaping who I am today.

A few short weeks later, my grandfather on my dad’s side suddenly passed. We were not able to be with him in his last breaths, but I am positive that he too had Jesus at his bedside in his last moments, providing him with comfort and peace. He was 94 years “young” when the Lord called him home, and I can only picture him getting up out of that bed, embracing the eternal life he was promised. He was a very tall, slender man, resembling an old Cherokee Indian with his high cheekbones and flowing white hair that seemed to shimmer under the light. He too was a man of unwavering faith, who faced life with courage and strength. He adored his family and often told us just how precious his grandchildren were to him, expressing his love and pride with stories he would share during family gatherings. I remember spending the night at their house and hearing him yodel in the mornings while getting ready for work, a joyful sound that brought light and laughter to our home. This man was a hard worker, dedicating himself to his craft and retiring at the age of 80 from masonry work, his hands weathered yet skilled, a testament to his tireless devotion. He was a genius at laying concrete, and his hard work paid off, showcasing the magnificent fireplace that still stands firm in their home today, a symbol of warmth and family unity. He was a very healthy man, always experimenting with making carrot juice and focusing on his well-being, inspiring all of us to take charge of our health. All of my grandparents were believers in God with strong faiths, leaving behind mustard seeds of hope and foundations built for us to find one day. That’s the legacy I hope to leave for my children and their children when my day is called. I want them to hold onto hope and comfort, knowing that I was not fearful of my last day, but rather embraced it with love and gratitude, and knowing that they have something beautiful to look forward to when our time here on earth is done. It is my wish that they carry that legacy forward, sharing tales of their great-grandfather and the timeless values he instilled in us all.

Grieving the loss of loved ones is never easy and stays with us forever. It may fade away but sometimes we get hit with reminders of them once they are gone, unexpected moments that stir emotions deep within our hearts. It could be an object or a smell, or maybe even just pouring a glass of iced tea on a hot summer day that triggers a cascade of memories. My grandfather on my mother’s side had also been called home a couple of years after my aunt had passed, leaving a significant void in our lives. He was a good man, a pillar of strength, who left a lasting impression of his deep faith and unwavering devotion to God. I would like to think that all of my grandparents had a hand in my strong faith today; they were all believers in their own special ways. Their beliefs were different, shaped by their unique life experiences, but the one thing that was the same is they believed that Jesus was sent to save us all from sin and that’s the most important of all. Each of them instilled values of love, kindness, and resilience in our family, creating a firm foundation built to withstand any storm. This legacy of faith continues to inspire me to keep believing that Jesus has the key to freedom, guiding us through the trials of life with hope and comfort, reminding us that although they are no longer with us in person, their spirits and teachings perpetually guide us in our journey of faith.

After these trials of grief that stormed through our family one by one, I was not yet a believer in God, so I didn’t understand the comfort that I do today. The grief and death took a toll on my well-being and somehow began to drag me into a depression from which I just could not climb out. My days were filled with relentless thoughts about death. I couldn’t stop fearing my own death, and I couldn’t cease to ruminate on how tragic it would be to leave my girls behind. I would picture myself watching my own funeral, seeing my girls riddled with grief, a haunting image that played on a loop in my mind, growing darker with each replay. I started picturing them on their wedding days, feeling that gaping absence of their mother, and imagining how they would reflect on those precious moments, wishing I was there to share in their joy. The thought of missing their first children filled my heart with an unbearable ache. I was starting to experience moments of panic, visualizing how my death would unfold, terrified that I would be a mere spectator, standing outside my own body, witnessing people performing CPR on me, desperately trying to bring breath back into my lifeless body. Every time I would leave the house, a wave of dread washed over me, fearing that I would die, leaving my girls alone to face the world. Soon, my home and my bed became a sanctuary, a safe place from the chaos of my mind, where I never wanted to leave, clinging to the false security of my surroundings. Those small moments of panic soon escalated into full-blown panic attacks, overwhelming and debilitating, and this anxiety turned into an all-consuming desperation. I became fixated on trying to discern why my body was in sheer panic all the time, desperately seeking answers as if they would somehow diminish the terror I felt. I would Google an endless array of topics, and one search would lead me down a rabbit hole of concerns. I read into adrenal gland disorders, cortisol levels, high blood pressure, thyroid problems, and perimenopause, yet absolutely nothing seemed to connect the dots. Most days, I curled up in my home, consumed by worry, as one panic attack turned into another and another, each intensifying my sense of doom. Soon, I was having panic attacks merely at the thought of going to the grocery store or waiting in the pick-up line at the school to fetch my kids. I unknowingly created physical symptoms within my own body, experiencing nausea, dizziness, stomach issues, heart palpitations and the constant urge to run to the bathroom throughout the day. It was an endless cycle that never seemed to cease; for a few years, I had to endure my own self-destruction. My self-worth had dwindled significantly, and I found myself gaining a considerable amount of weight, turning to food as a source of comfort during my moments of solitude. My husband became my unwavering safe person, the only one who had borne witness to my panic attacks, understanding the depth of the fear that washed over me. It was a moment of sheer dread, an engulfing fear that felt as if it would consume me whole. The feeling of death haunted me relentlessly, adding layers of torment to my already fragile state. I was at my worst, spiraling, and it was starting to affect my career and social life. I became increasingly scared of hospitals and doctor’s offices, fearing they would deliver devastating news—that I had cancer or that I was experiencing a heart attack. I dreaded being alone with my girls, overwhelmed by the terrifying thought that they might have to witness my death at any given moment, and I was becoming increasingly afraid of my own thoughts and emotions. The anxiety that had taken root in my mind made me feel like a burden to my family, always paralyzed by fear, unable to engage in simple activities or go anywhere without the shadow of my dread looming over me. The challenge of navigating life was no longer just a struggle; it had become a war against my own mind and the relentless fears that haunted me.

The year that covid hit and closed down my business, I was a little thrown back, yet I found a surprising sense of comfort in the unexpected stillness that enveloped our lives. With a legitimate excuse not to leave the house, my initial panic started to calm down, slowly transforming into a resolve to make the best of what was a truly terrible situation. While my husband bravely worked as an essential worker, the girls and I turned our home into a space of creativity and joy; we painted bedrooms, baked yummy treats that filled the air with the smell of cookies and breads, we cooked soups and casseroles as well as coming up with our own recipes. Some of those recipes came out great and some not so much. Each day, we made a detailed plan for school work, ensuring that learning was still important. We cherished the fun we had playing games together and the cozy days spent inside watching movies, snuggled up with blankets as the world outside seemed too quiet for comfort. I consciously avoided the news channels and limited my social media engagement, fully aware that indulging in the constant stream of negativity would only heighten my anxiety. My girls worked diligently at their school assignments, while I took the opportunity to clean and organize various aspects of our home that had long been neglected, finding satisfaction in the process. Looking back, I view the shutdown as a hidden blessing in disguise, a precious chance to reconnect as a family and to nurture the bonds that often go overlooked in our busy lives. After the shutdown ended, I experienced a surge in my business; it exploded once again, with my calendar filled to the brim with appointments. That summer, my anxiety appeared to ease, and I noticed the physical symptoms gradually fading away, creating a sense of hope within me. However, on one seemingly normal day, I fell to the floor in my office, once again consumed by an overwhelming sense of dread! This panic attack felt different, lasting for about an hour, and it was unnervingly isolating as I dealt with it entirely alone. I chose to remain in my office until it passed, gripped by fear that driving home would lead to a car accident, a thought that spiraled my anxiety even further. Only when I felt the dread slowly lift and the letdown of panic began to wash over me did I gather my things, feeling a mix of relief and apprehension as I headed home. Little did I know, that day would mark the occasion of my last and final panic attack, an experience that reshaped my understanding and put into perspective what was causing all of this suffering.

When I arrived home, I was still sobbing and terrified that it would come back, the weight of my fear pressing heavily on my chest. So, I headed to my bed and tried to fall asleep, closing my eyes tightly as if that would somehow shield me from the thoughts that flooded my mind. I attempted to write in my journal, pouring out the chaos that swirled within me, but even that didn’t help ease my distressed soul. In desperation, I ended up going into our bathroom, turning on the shower, and walking straight into the ice-cold water to shock my body into submission. I had taken off my shoes but left every other piece of clothing on, including my socks, as if the water would wash away not only the physical remnants of my attire but also the emotional turmoil. I don’t even remember how long I stood there, letting the cold water wash over me, each drop feeling like a drop of clarity piercing through the fog in my mind. Once that fog had finally lifted, I realized I still had my clothes clinging to me, and I started to peel them off, setting them aside in a pile. I turned on the warm water and just stood there, reveling in the shift; the letdown of the panic had faded, but I still found myself bursting with unprocessed emotions that seemed to churn within me like a storm. I was exhausted from my mind and my body constantly fighting each other, a battle that left me drained. I fell to my knees in that shower and cried and cried, releasing all the anxiety, completely spent. I can’t exactly explain what happened next because I don’t remember why or how, but while I was on my knees in a moment of utter exhaustion, my arms lifted above my head instinctively, as if reaching for some divine comfort. At that moment, I remember clearly what I had said: “God, if you’re there and you’re real, I need help today, I need to be saved right here, right now.” A few seconds later, something shifted within me in a way I never anticipated—it felt like a wave of peace swarmed over me. The dread was gone, the self-made symptoms melted away, and I wasn’t nauseous anymore. It was all gone. My heart, which had been racing uncontrollably, found calmness. I stayed on my knees for a little longer, soaking in this newfound tranquility until the water started turning cold, a gentle reminder that I had used up all the hot water. But when I finally got up, stepped out, and dried myself off, I felt better—no, I felt freaking amazing! God healed me that day because I called out to Him, and He answered, perhaps also because He knew deep down that I was going to need Him later on in the next chapter of my life. I now realize what his plan was all along.

Every day after that day I noticed that I got up every morning with a newness about myself that enveloped me like a warmth running through me. I realized that I was thinking differently; my mind was calm and my body felt different, almost like I just woke up from a coma. It was almost like I didn’t have a worry left to worry about, as if a heavy burden had been lifted from my shoulders. I kept thinking, did God heal me, is he real? These questions echoed in my mind, prompting me to explore the depths of my soul. I really started to question what God was, where did he come from, and most importantly, is there really a God? It seems too real but yet silly to think of a man that no one has ever seen, a figure that lives in the “heavens” who possesses all the power to change someone’s life in such a profound way. My thoughts were going crazy about what had happened, curiosity running wild, igniting a thirst for understanding that I had never experienced before. So, I had started journaling more than usual, writing down my experiences in an attempt to capture these feelings and revelations. Each line revealed a new layer of thought, and one day, amidst my reflections and newfound clarity, I realized that I was praying to God, opening a dialogue that I never knew I needed.

Winter started to fly by in the blink of an eye, seemingly melting into spring without much notice. I was feeling great but still apprehensively waiting on my anxiety to show its ugliness again, lurking in the shadows of my mind. While I was feeling strong and capable, I decided to see my Nurse Practitioner, taking a step that felt both brave and necessary. I went in a little fearful still, but she made me feel comfortable and safe in her soft-spoken personality, her calm demeanor like a balm to my worries. She really took the time to listen to me and understand what I had been going through, asking thoughtful questions. With her professional opinion that I respect so much, she recommended a low dose of an antidepressant, suggesting that it could help balance the tumult in my mind. With her reassurance, I started it right away, feeling a glimmer of hope wash over me. A few weeks passed by, and I noticed that I wasn’t staying cooped up in my bedroom as much. I was sleeping less and feeling energized; I was starting to go to the grocery store again for quick trips, a task that once felt overwhelming. Simply sitting in the pickup line waiting for my kids was getting much easier, turning into a moment of contentment rather than anxiety. I felt a lot more life come back into me day by day, each small victory adding up to a more vibrant existence. Once spring came and went, summer hit, and travel ball season kicked off with enthusiasm. I was finally enjoying myself and watching my girls play the sport they loved so much, their laughter was music to my soul, lifting my spirits. At this point, my safe place was in my journaling, where I poured out my heart, recounting the day’s events and connecting with God in ways I didn’t even realize. Eventually, the wonder lingered heavily about God; to my knowledge, I was talking to an imaginary person that I knew nothing about, but still felt drawn to. So, I bought my first Bible, feeling slightly nervous yet excited about diving into the text. I started reading Genesis and finished the whole book in just a couple of days, each verse igniting a spark of curiosity within me. The more I read, the more peaceful my mind was, as my heart began to settle from its chaotic fluttering. Don’t ask me why, but after reading Genesis, I felt compelled to read the New Testament, beginning with Matthew, and that choice transformed my life in ways I never expected. My whole existence started to change; in fact, I worried less and prayed more, the spiritual connection blossoming with each chapter I consumed. I started to become thankful for the smallest things, like the warm sunshine on my face or the gentle rhythm of a rainy day tapping against the window. I began to get up early in the mornings, thriving in the stillness, just to sit and have coffee with Jesus, relishing those sacred moments. I would read for hours starting at 5 am, embracing the quiet solitude, craving the wisdom within the pages. Once I started, I couldn’t stop reading about the boundless love that Jesus poured out on his people, and it was astonishing how reading the Bible really set my day into perspective. It gave me the strength to get my day started and to push through hard days, allowing me to cultivate resilience. Once I set my focus on Jesus, all the worries and heaviness of the year before started lifting, and I finally felt like myself again, but yet wonderfully different, infused with an inner peace I had long sought.

The only people who really knew about starting my walk with God were my husband and kids. They all noticed a huge difference in me, particularly in the calmness of my demeanor that seemed to envelop our home. The gruffness of my tone had slipped away to nonexistence, replaced by a warmth that encouraged open communication and deeper connections. My patience with simple things grew abundantly; tasks that once frustrated me now felt light and manageable, and I was giving grace more than getting it, which brought a sense of peace to my daily interactions. I let go of things that would have ignited a fury within me, such as slow drivers or people who didn’t use turn signals, recognizing that these small annoyances were not worth the emotional energy I had previously invested. Instead, I found joy in the moment, smiling more often and becoming more understanding of other people’s feelings and circumstances. I was actually starting to feel empathy and sympathy, which were emotions I had lacked or blocked out for so long. There was a newfound awareness of the struggles and joys of those around me, and this connection encouraged compassion in my heart, paving the way for a richer and more fulfilling life. I cherished the moments spent with my family, realizing how my spiritual journey not only transformed me but also positively impacted our relationships, allowing us to grow closer than ever before.

It came time to approach my family about church. They had all seen such a huge difference it was making in my life, the way I was thinking and talking; they were all happy to join me on this transformation. So we started searching for the right church that fit our needs, exploring various communities that embraced our values. After visiting a few places, we did settle on a contemporary style church with a rather large congregation, which immediately felt welcoming and vibrant. The girls loved the worship music and the upbeat tempo that sparked their interest in what God could do for them. They would sway to the rhythm, and I could see how their spirits were lifting. They knew I got up early to read my Bible, and soon became interested in wanting to follow along in church with their own Bibles, asking me questions that revealed their curiosity. I bought them each their own Bible kit filled with pens, markers, and a little notepad to freely write notes as they felt necessary, encouraging them to engage actively with the teachings. It made my heart so happy to see all three of them with their Bibles out, taking notes and following along with the outline of the sermon. They were listening and truly believing in God, a faith blossoming within them that I had never anticipated. I had no idea it would have gone so easily; I was not brought up in a church or even talked about God in my childhood home, and neither had my girls, until now. The transformation we experienced was astonishing, as we found new rhythms and traditions to bond over; it felt as if we had discovered a new layer to our family life. As the year went on, we attended church regularly on Sundays and sometimes Saturdays instead, making it a cherished routine that we all looked forward to each week. I started joining a women’s group at church to learn more about spirituality, and biblical discussions, gaining insights that deepened my understanding. I was on fire for Jesus and just wanted more! This year started my foundation in faith and has grown abundantly from there, enriching our lives in ways I hadn’t imagined. I started to do more studying to find out that I needed more Bibles to satisfy my thirst for knowledge and understanding. I currently have seven Bibles now to refer to, each with its own unique translations and insights that serve different purposes in my study. My Bibles sit proudly in the same hutch that my grandfather’s Bibles sat in, a beautiful piece of furniture made with his own hands, each scratch and imperfection holding a story of its own. I will forever cherish that hutch and wish so much that he was here today, so we could talk more about Jesus together, sharing our thoughts and connecting through our faith. He would have been a fantastic teacher, guiding us with wisdom and love, and his presence would have made our spiritual journey even richer. I often imagine the conversations we would have had, and it fuels my passion to instill that same love for scripture in my daughters.

As I entered into the following year, I had already read the Bible from front to back, absorbing its teachings like a sponge eagerly soaking up water. So I was more than ready to start again! This time, I followed a study book that not only engaged my studies even more but also encouraged me to dive deeper into the meanings of the scripture, revealing insights I had never noticed before. Each day, Jesus filled my cup to overflowing, and with each encounter, I found myself understanding more and more about His love, grace. Looking back, I can see how God was preparing me for what was ahead, laying a foundation of faith and resilience that would support me in challenging times. I started waking up every morning around the same times—3 am, 3:15 am, and sometimes even 3:30 am—and the remarkable thing was that I was wide awake each time, feeling a surge of energy as if I had gotten enough sleep to stay awake for the next three days.

Every time I woke with an urgency to pray, I had no idea what I was supposed to pray about, but each time I woke up, I felt something was off, as if something was lurking in the corner and staring me down. The eerie feeling unsettled me, but I turned on the lamp sitting on the side table next to the couch and opened my journal to start praying over my home. God was telling me something; he was giving me great discernment to pray for the evilness that was lurking in that corner, watching my every move with a hidden intent. So I listened, allowing the weight of my thoughts to transform into heartfelt prayers as I moved through each room of my home, repeating scripture quietly to fill the space with truth and light. I went to each of my girls’ rooms, their doorways serving as sacred thresholds, and laid my hand on each of their doors, whispering prayers for their protection and reading scripture to shield them from harm. As I prayed, I envisioned each room becoming a sanctuary, a place where love and safety reigned supreme, pushing back against any shadows that sought to disrupt our peace. I could feel a shift in the atmosphere, a gradual lifting of the heaviness that had settled in my heart, and I knew that my prayers were not just words but a powerful force against the darkness. I believe today those prayers covered my girls from the evilness that was walking through our home waiting to strike. Months later we found ourselves shaken in disbelief….