A Broken Heart and a Pile of Hope

I don't have a beautiful bow to offer you, but once upon a time, there was a beautiful blindside.

A few years ago, as winter melted into spring and beauty bloomed all around, I packed a suitcase and my sadness and flew to see friends.

The trip was on the calendar long before grief swept in turning the technicolor of spring to black and white. The shock and vibrancy literally springing up outside didn’t match the shock and devastation inside, but everything was already planned so I flew across the country with a carry-on and confusion suddenly coloring everything: every old memory, every future hope, and every current unknown.

I showed up holding my breath, certain the women were (and are) trustworthy and kind… but on the heels of a loss I didn’t choose or want, I arrived with both: a genuine smile and a broken heart.

What was up had crashed down, spring felt like winter, and in the midst of so much that wasn’t right, I was left with tears running and my hands full of questions.

That is, until one morning a voice gently said, “Kaitlyn, open your hands. You’ve poured out for a long time. It’s our turn.”

Only two of the women knew the details, but they sent out a group SOS on my behalf. It was the most beautiful blindside. A pile of Truth to speak to the lies. Rachel prayed and I wept as page after page, envelope after envelope landed in my open palms. And the two who understood the whole story quietly whispered, “They don’t know. We didn’t say. But we all wanted you to have something to hold onto until the storm stops.”

Despite not knowing the specifics, my friends offered their words like buoys of hope and anchors of truth, each one its own lighthouse in the deep and in the dark. After we all returned home, I read one card each day. When I finished, I started reading them all again from the beginning. Their words were manna in a storm that continued to rage.

The words mattered (matter), but more than that, it was community saying, You’re safe and beloved, we see and we’ll stand here holding your arms until it’s all said and done.

In Exodus 17:9, with the Israelites under attack, Moses does something wildly unexpected. “Choose some of our men and go out to fight the Amalekites,” he said to Joshua. “Tomorrow I will stand on top of the hill with the staff of God in my hands.”

Scripture says that Moses and two of his friends, Aaron and Hur, climbed the hill. “As long as Moses held up his hands, the Israelites were winning, but whenever he lowered his hands, the Amalekites were winning. When Moses’ hands grew tired, they took a stone and put it under him and he sat on it. Aaron and Hur held his hands up—one on one side, one on the other—so that his hands remained steady till sunset” (Exodus 17:11-12).

The minutes slowly ticked by. Sweat dripped. His friends found a rock, a place to rest while the battle continued. His muscles spasmed. Perhaps doubt began to whisper, loneliness drawing near as Moses watched from afar. But then, suddenly, the weight was shared, the load lighter, the heaviness lifted as his hands were held by friends who stayed near, standing by his side and shouldering the pain.

His hands remained steady till sunset.

It’s in this place that Moses built an altar called The Lord is my Banner.

For me, it was a couch in a hotel room, hands open and held up by friends who offered the gift of words in the wilderness, every card a reminder that I wasn’t alone in the chaos before me, each woman pointing me toward the One who is good and kind and faithful in every storm.

I wish, after all this time, I could say that the sun set and the battle ended and now everything feels like spring. I wish I could paint a picture of beauty from ashes, new life growing in the place of loss.

The truth is, I have a pile of cards but there’s no beautiful bow on my story. Not yet, anyway. The storm was cruel and the waves haven’t hushed. I’m drenched through but still standing, heartbroken but hands full.

The truth is, there may not be a bow on the way, at least this side of eternity. I hate that, so very much, for me and for you. But if you can, friend, open your hands. The God of abundance is a Good Father, a Great Friend, familiar with storms, and able to provide manna in all shapes and forms.

May these last lines from the pile of cards be that for you today. Tear off a piece. Pass it along. God won’t run out.

You are held and chosen. No one, no circumstance, nothing can make those truths untrue.

You are deeply loved and seen by Christ. And: you aren’t alone.

Keep clinging to hope. The garden of your life will surely grow new blooms.

A few weeks ago, we all gathered again. This time, I packed two cards in my carry-on, knowing the roles would soon reverse as we stood around the two women who planned that first beautiful blindside, filling their hands with words to carry into the coming days.

Sometimes, our friends hold our hands up.

Sometimes, we get to be that friend.

But always—always—our friend Jesus remains, a faithful banner of love over every season, present in every storm.

I’ve turned the above line into a lock screen (available in a few designs), in case it’s a helpful/hope-full reminder of truth before whatever appears as you scroll (oof). The images will be posted to my Instagram Stories today!

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