Making Room For Hope

08/26/2026

On the darkest days,
hold on to God.
Hold on to His Word.

And when you don't feel strong enough
to hold on very tightly,
remember that He is holding on to you.

This may sound strange,
but there have been times
I've slept with my Bible under my pillow.

For a long time now,
I have slept with it under the covers,
sometimes in front of me,
sometimes behind me.

Close enough to touch.

Close enough that in the darkness
my hand can reach for it
before my mind has even found the words to pray.

I carry Scripture in my purse.

I've even gone into surgery
with a small piece of Scripture
tucked inside the covering
they placed over my head.

Just a few words
going with me into a room
where the people I loved could not follow.

But God could.

God's Word is not inside me
like poetry I can recite
or a melody I can sing.

It is those things,
but for me,
it has become something more.

His Word lines my whole body.

It has been beneath my head
when I needed rest,
beside my heart
when I needed comfort,
inside my purse
when I walked out the door,
and carried against my body
when I was afraid.

Sometimes I think
I've been wrapping myself in His Word
for years.

A little Scripture here.
A promise there.
A verse held tightly
when I couldn't hold anything else together.

I lost my sense of safety,
at least the way I once understood safety,
a long time ago.

I've walked away from relationships
feeling as though I had been left
long before I finally left.

Sometimes that last step was mine.

Not because I stopped loving.

Sometimes love remained
long after I knew I could no longer stay.

I would still help.
Still care.
Still hope something might change.

And when staying became unhealthy,
I learned, slowly,
to love from farther away.

There are many things
I've had to leave behind in my lifetime.

People.
Places.
Relationships.
Dreams.
Pieces of home.
Versions of life
I thought I would get to keep.

And I miss them.

I think there will always be
a tenderness in me
for some of what I had to leave behind.

But there is one thing
no ending has been able to take from me.

One inheritance
no person can withhold,
no relationship can carry away,
no closed door can leave on the other side.

My faith in God.

It is the greatest inheritance of my life.

Because when nobody can be found,
when there are no arms to hold me,
when no melody can quiet what hurts,
when medicine cannot reach the place that aches,
and the world becomes so very dark
that it seems to close in around me,

there is my God.

Not watching from far away.

Here.

My Savior.

His saving grace covers me
like it has covered me
more times than I will ever know.

He sits beside me
when I have nothing to say.

He walks with me
when all I can manage
is one more step.

He catches the tears
I cannot stop.

And when I cry,
I believe He draws me close enough
that I don't have to explain
why I'm crying.

He already knows.

There are days when
my body,
my emotions,
my heart,
and my weary spirit
all seem to say,

This is it.
You've come to the end.

And somewhere beneath all that noise,
God's voice is still there:

My child, you are still here.
I'm not done yet.

Maybe that is why
I keep His Word so close to my body.

Under my pillow.
Beneath the covers.
In my purse.
Going into surgery.
Going into another ordinary day.

I have spent years
carrying His Word with me.

And all along,

His Word has been carrying me.

So when darkness comes,
I may cry.
I may be afraid.
I may reach beneath the covers
just to feel my Bible with my hand.

But I know what I will find there.

The same God
who has met me in every darkness before.

Still covering me.
Still sitting beside me.
Still walking with me.
Still holding me.

And if God is still beside me,

I am not alone.

08/26/2026

This morning,
it feels like Easter in the air to me.

It is a little strange because September is almost here.

But maybe the calendar
doesn't own resurrection.

Maybe resurrection isn't always marked there.

Sometimes it is simply the morning
you wake up and whisper,

Lord, call my name.
Call me forth.

Like You called Your friend Lazarus
out of the grave,
call me out of whatever has held me.

And perhaps there is something important
I am finally beginning to understand:

Being inside isn't necessarily hiding.

Hiding is disappearing from your own life.

And even though I have felt trapped
inside these apartment walls,
frustrated with myself
because I think I should be farther along,

I haven't disappeared.

I've been writing.
Creating.
Questioning.
Praying.
Remembering.
Dreaming.

I've been putting pieces of myself
back into the world.

I've been imagining community
while sitting alone.

I've been thinking about making room for others
while wondering where my own room will be.

I've been asking what can still be built
from right here.

There has actually been
quite a lot of life
happening inside these walls.

Maybe God has been preparing me here.

Because Lazarus didn't resurrect himself.

He didn't lie in the tomb thinking,

Come on, Lazarus. Try harder.

Everyone else seems to be making progress.

You really should have figured this out by now.

😂

He didn't need a five-year plan.

He didn't update his résumé.

He didn't clean himself up
before answering the call.

He was called.

“Lazarus, come forth.”

And then Lazarus had something to do.

He had to come out.

Still wrapped in what belonged
to the place he'd been.

Still carrying evidence
of the tomb.

And Jesus didn't look at him and say,

Good grief, Lazarus,
couldn't you at least have changed first?

He called him exactly as he was.

And then something else happened
that I don't want to miss.

Jesus told the people around Lazarus
to help unwrap him.

Resurrection wasn't entirely solitary.

God called him forth,
but other hands helped remove
what still bound him.

Maybe that's part of what
I've been thinking about all along.

Community.

People helping people
come out of places
they were never meant to live in forever.

Maybe that's why
it feels a little like Easter this morning.

Because something is alive
that I might have mistaken for dead.

My imagination isn't dead.

My faith isn't dead.

My desire to contribute isn't dead.

My ability to dream about another life
isn't dead.

My purpose isn't dead.

And God certainly isn't standing somewhere
looking at His watch and saying,

Well, we really should have gotten
to this resurrection sooner.

God has never been frightened
by the calendar.

A year ago I wrote about coming out
broken, shaky, unsure and scared
into the light of day.

I wrote:

Don't hide.

I didn't know that a year later
I would wake up asking God
to call me out.

Maybe those two moments
have been walking toward each other
all this time.

The woman who wrote those words
was leaving a trail marker
for the woman who would need them today.

Don't hide.
Keep showing up.
God hasn't finished.

So maybe my prayer isn't simply,

Lord, get me out of this apartment.

Maybe it is bigger than that.

Lord, call forth everything in me
You have been preparing.

Call my name.

Call me into the light.

Call me toward the life
You still have for me.

And when I hear You,

help me come forth.

I don't have to leap.

I don't have to arrive polished.

I don't have to burst from the tomb
doing cartwheels.

Lazarus apparently managed
the whole resurrection thing
wrapped like a burrito.

🌯😂

So maybe I can manage
one shuffling step.

And then another.

Still wrapped in a few things
that need removing.

Still becoming.

Still learning.

Still trusting the Voice
that knows my name.

Because one shuffling step
toward the light

is still movement.

One step out of the grave

is still resurrection.

And when God calls your name,

maybe the only thing
you have to do first

is come forth.

🌸🙏

The journey continues.

08/25/2026

Humor is a panacea
and
maybe a crutch,

but I'm still grateful
for it,
Lord.

Out of the grey,
color rushes out in bouquets.

Out of silence,
burst new ideas.

Out of yesterday, a new day is born with endless possibilities.

Out of loss after loss,
I rise on the wings of a Risen Savior.

08/25/2026

With Quiet Little Life – I just got recognized as one of their top fans!

08/24/2026

Notes from Judie 🌸

When I finished this piece, I noticed something I hadn't realized I had created.

In the distance, where the flower-covered arch reaches toward the flowers along the fence, I can almost see the shape of a heart.

It isn't quite upright yet.

And I thought, that's me.

Not broken.
Not lying flat.
Not finished.

Just leaning a little.

Still growing.
Still reaching.

Still turning toward the light.

And beneath that leaning heart, there is a path that keeps going.

Maybe my heart doesn't have to be completely upright before I continue.

Maybe I can keep following the path while it finds its way.

For now, I think I am a leaning heart on a path.

And that's still a heart.

Judie ♡

08/24/2026

08/24/2026

I came across your page today.

It is beautiful and welcoming, like your smile and your kind words. I felt peaceful as I entered this beautiful new world, this welcoming place, and it filled my heart with God's love, mercy, and grace.

I've been troubled lately and wrestling with myself, going day to day with an ebb and flow of knowing God's will, yet sometimes fearing I won't fulfill His purpose soon enough.

I've been thinking that before I can gather others and help others, I need to become a welcoming place.

Maybe God's mercy and grace can shine through me even while I am still learning the landscape.

I wear His covering as I try to emerge from this grave and rediscover how to move and breathe in a world that has been lost to me.

I am not a prodigal.

I am a stranger in a new land.

I am learning the landscape.

And perhaps I can be rebuilding my own house while still leaving the porch light on for someone else.

Thank you for building a welcoming place.

Maybe that is part of how God gathers us.

One person makes a little room.

Someone else wanders in.

They rest for a while.

And when they leave, they carry a little of that light with them and make room for someone else.

Today, I feel a little bit lighter and brighter for having visited.

And perhaps that is where I will begin another day.