The Fight to Tell the Story

The box fan stirred a scant breeze in the warm kitchen, and our sweaty glasses of iced tea made

soggy puddles on the newspaper we used to cover the kitchen table. Mom dumped another

mound of green beans into the middle of the kitchen table from an overfilled brown paper

grocery sack of freshly picked green beans. We’d picked them earlier that morning from our

garden. My sisters and I pulled a workable pile in front of us as we snapped off the ends and

tails; they plinked into the massive bowl as we broke them into pieces.

As we worked, we listened to Unshackled, Stories of Great Christians, or a sermon or two that

came to us on a fleeting signal on Christian radio. As I listened, the seed of a dream dropped

into the soil of my soul. Christian people spoke, sang, and wrote books for a living. Maybe I

could do the same, although it seemed far-fetched and outlandish.

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Fast forward to the early days of 2001. My preemie twins, Matthew and Luke, were home, and I

was their sole caregiver. My workload was exhausting, overwhelming, and never-ending. The

evil one seized the opportunity, preying on me in my weakened state. At every turn, he

pummeled me with the cudgel of insidious, cunning lies. Strong Bible-centered teaching was

pouring into my kitchen, once again, through the Christian radio station. I tuned in each day,

and that solid foundation of truth was all that kept me from sinking into despair. Jesus was

close, as the spiritual warfare described in Ephesians 6 raged at every turn. Ephesians 6: 10-20

In those days, my Jesus taught me to wield the sword of truth against the barrage of lies, and

how to walk in truth.

On my radio, I often heard fellow Christians relaying their harrowing stories. As our story

unfolded, I realized I had a similar one. If God willed it, I would have the opportunity to tell it. I

tucked that thought away, as dreams of a writing and speaking ministry were now buried

beneath the demands of caregiving—buried perhaps, but also planted, germinating, and taking

root.

Our story continued to unfold with more heartbreak and disappointment than I had imagined.

However, the truth pouring into my kitchen from the Christian radio station was a life-giving

stream that buoyed me up in the sea of hard and heavy circumstances. I also kept hearing those

stories of God’s faithfulness in seasons of long-term hardship and loss; our story was strikingly

similar to those I heard.

God had given me the dream of a writing and speaking ministry, and now He had given me a

story to tell. He would help me tell it when the time was right. However, now, were the

appointed days of the exhausting and menial work of caregiving; in these long days and short

nights, He was still writing His story. I must patiently work and wait for Him to complete His

story. When He was ready, He would hand me the pen.

Year after year, our hard story unfolded. Matthew grew, and changed, and his special needs

became more profound and debilitating. His seizures increased. Our stays in the hospital

became more frequent and lasted weeks, rather than days. Our medical team was running out

of options. Then came the dreaded day—the day I knew we were heading over the edge past

the point of no return. Matthew was going to his eternal home. On a frigid night in early

January, Matthew was released from this life and from the body that plagued him as his soul

flew away to Jesus.

The loss ripped my soul in two and left me crushed and bleeding out beneath the swirling fog of

heavy grief. My Jesus sent kind people into the fog who found me wounded and bleeding out,

bandaged the wounds of my soul, and listened as I told them my story again and again. As they

heard the story, they urged me to write it down—and somewhere between the fog of grief and

the healing salve of their kindness, He handed me the pen. I took it up and began the work.

When I ventured to speak of the task and mission He had placed within me, those around me

eyed me with skepticism and a mixture of quiet pity and embarrassed silence. Few people knew

that I nurtured the dream of writing and speaking, because I spoke of it to very few. It was too

tender and precious to risk the caustic scorn of ridicule. In silence, I worked to write out the

story while the details were still fresh in my mind.

Battles raged within me, as the evil one saw the power and potential in such a story. He

pummeled me with shame and ignited a firestorm of self-doubt that stymied me at every turn.

This story held holy power, and the evil one fought hard to stop me. He continued to

demoralize, demean, and discourage me with his cunning and brutal lies. However, I already

knew my enemy was not flesh and blood, but the spiritual forces of evil.

“For we do not wrestle against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities,

against the cosmic powers over this present darkness, against the spiritual forces of evil in the

heavenly places.” Ephesians 6:12

Moment by moment, I was leaning hard into Jesus’ strength and power as I strode forward in

the full armor of God. This story must be told, and in His strength, I would do it. In Jesus’ name,

I wielded the sword of truth He taught me to use in the early days of caregiving. Despite my

grief and soul wounds, I waged war and kept writing.

The task and mission were daunting, and the path forward unclear, so I prayed for a clear path

and kept writing. He presented me with a clear path, but it was not without seemingly

insurmountable obstacles. However, He had already taken me on a journey of heartache,

disappointment, and the loss of my son. He would help me over each hurdle. For this story to

be told, I must follow the path and scale the obstacles ahead.

All-out war broke out on those same battlefields of self-doubt, and the evil one ramped up his

assaults against my self-worth and shamed me with the same barrage of insidious lies. Those

around me continued to eye me with the same skepticism, nervous laughter, and sideways

glances. It was clear they would not believe until they saw the finished product. They knew me

as the special needs mom and paraprofessional, the scout mom, or the food lady at the church

youth group. However, God gave me a few who listened, believed, and saw the dream taking

shape even in rudimentary form. Those encouragers helped protect, water, and nurture that

fragile seedling of a dream, trying hard to grow.

With the help of those encouragers, it began to grow and flourish. The obstacles on

my path became less impossible and more doable. The seedling of a dream began to flourish

and unfurl its leaves as I continued to write. I was nearing the finish line; this beautiful story

would finally be told!

Here I stand today, stunned and incredulous with joy over what God has done. The story that

unfolded day after day in my kitchen and living room, in hospital rooms and Matthew’s

bedroom is the story He has brought to fruition in Thriving in the Barren Place. It is the dream

that began to stir within me as a farm girl snapping beans on a hot summer afternoon. It is the

same seed He nurtured as I listened to others tell their stories, but most importantly, it is the

story He tapped me to tell.

“But thanks be to God, who gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.” 1 Corinthians

15:57

Thriving in the Barren Place: How Trust in God Fueled My Journey Through Heartache and Loss

was released to the world on July 1, 2025!