Hope & Heartbreak

Hope & Heartbreak

Shortly after my son was born with a severe brain injury, there was a song I listened to on repeat—God’s Promise, written by Woody Guthrie and sung by Ellis Paul. I think I was drawn to it because it didn’t lie to me. It didn’t pretend the road ahead would be easy. It offered no illusions.

“I didn’t promise you skies painted blue… no victory without fighting, no laughs without woes…”

It named what wasn’t promised—and then offered what was: strength for the day, help from above, undying love. That felt holy to me. True. Like something I could hold onto when everything else was slipping through my hands.

In those early days, watching my infant son struggle to live, everything felt fragile and upside down. I had no control, no clarity, no guarantees. But this song gave me language for what I did still believe: that God hadn’t abandoned us. That even in the agony, we were not alone. That love was still present, even in the shadows. It helped me believe that God was with us—not because the suffering ended, but because we experienced Him in the midst of it.

So I held on. And for a long time, I settled into a way of hoping that felt safer. I didn’t ask for the obviously miraculous—not because I didn’t believe God could, but because I’m not sure I ever expected that He would. I found comfort instead in what I trusted He would give: His presence. Just enough to keep going. Not healing, not reversal, not wholeness—but endurance. Peace. Light for the next step.

There are kinds of hope that feel responsible, restrained. Hopes that seem wiser to carry because they don’t leave as much room for heartbreak. These are the kinds of hope I’ve learned to live with. And maybe they’ve been a gift. Maybe they’ve kept me from falling apart in ways I couldn’t afford to fall apart.

But lately, I’ve begun to wonder if that song didn’t just comfort me—if it also quietly convinced me not to ask for more. Not to reach too far. Not to long too much. Not to pray for things that might never come.

Because true hope—real, vulnerable hope—doesn’t always make us feel better.
Sometimes, it breaks us open.

It doesn’t protect us from pain; it invites it in. It doesn’t shield us from disappointment; it risks it. It asks us to keep our hearts soft when they’d rather close up. And I’m not sure I’ve ever really let myself hope like that.

I think I’ve avoided it.

Not just by steering away from specific prayers,
but in the way I’ve moved through crisis in general.
My strategy, especially when things felt most fragile,
has often been to try to see the next tragedy before it arrived—
to stay one step ahead of heartbreak,
as if I could outsmart grief by preparing for it early.

I also became wary of anything that felt promising or joyful.
Like joy was a distraction I couldn’t afford.
If I let myself feel too much delight, too much relief, I feared I’d be blindsided again.
So I learned to hold joy at a distance—
not because I didn’t want it,
but because I didn’t trust it.

And maybe hope felt too close to joy—
too close to being caught off guard.
Too close to being exposed.

Not consciously, maybe—but over time, I’ve found myself steering away from those deeper longings. I’ve asked God for presence. For strength. For peace. But I’ve stopped short of asking for change. For healing. For something that feels like too much to want.

I don’t know exactly what it would look like to hope for more.
But I can see how carefully I’ve held back—especially when it comes to asking for things that feel too far out of reach.
Not because I don’t care, and not because I’m unwilling to pray,
but because we’ve been through so many terrifying ups and downs with Luke.
So many moments when we didn’t know if his body could keep going,
when we weren’t sure if we’d get another day, or were afraid all our days would be filled with the same intense struggle.

In that kind of reality, praying for nothing more than the strength to endure
has felt like the only acceptable prayer.
The only safe one.
To endure what’s coming next.
To keep breathing. To stay steady.
That has felt like enough to ask for. Sometimes, it’s felt like all I could ask for.

Because I’ve never wanted to pray for something I didn’t believe God would do.
Not healing his brain. Not curing his epilepsy. Not anything that would set me up for disappointment I couldn’t carry.
There’s a kind of heartbreak that feels too heavy to hold,
and sometimes I’ve feared that hoping for too much would undo me.

But then I find myself asking—quietly, even reluctantly—why I believe God wouldn’t do more.
And if I’m honest, I don’t know the answer.
Maybe I’ve been afraid to want something so big.
Afraid to feel let down.
Afraid to be embarrassed by my own hope.
Afraid to love that boldly and have the outcome stay the same.

Still, when I read Scripture, I see people bringing God specific, vulnerable, desperate requests.
They don’t hold back. They cry out—not with polished words, but with honest ones.
And I find myself wondering what I’ve missed—
not only in what I’ve asked for,
but in how I’ve let myself relate to God in the asking.

There’s a kind of closeness I may have kept at a distance.
Not out of defiance, but as a way of staying steady.
Maybe to avoid the pain of feeling unheard.
Maybe to protect something deep in me that’s grown cautious over time.
But I wonder if, in trying not to be hurt,
I’ve also missed something of God’s heart.

Even if healing never comes,
maybe there’s something sacred
in allowing myself to ask.