Frequently Asked Questions

One day at a time. One prayer at a time. One Scripture at a time. There is no formula for surviving what should have taken you out. There is only showing up, being honest with God about what you are carrying, and refusing to let your circumstances have the final word on your faith. I did not make it through because I was strong. I made it through because God held me when I had nothing left. Some days I simply whispered, 'Jesus, I can't do this' — and I believe that whisper was enough. He met me in the dialysis chair. He met me at my mother's bedside. He met me in every hospital room and every sleepless night. I am still here because He is still faithful.

I didn't survive it gracefully. There were days I fell apart. Days I sat in my car in a parking lot and cried because I had nothing left to give. Caring for two people you love — watching them both decline — is one of the hardest things a human being can do. What carried me was a very simple truth: God does not ask us to be perfect caregivers. He asks us to be present. He fills in the gaps we cannot fill. I learned to ask for help. I learned to say no. I learned that I could not pour from an empty cup. And I learned that loving someone through their hardest season is holy work — even when it breaks your heart.

I learned that my illness is not an interruption to my calling. My illness IS part of my calling. I minister from the dialysis chair now. I write between treatments. I teach with a chest catheter under my clothes. Kidney failure did not disqualify me from serving God — it gave me a new pulpit. Some of the most powerful ministry happens in the places we never wanted to be. The dialysis clinic became my congregation. The chair became my altar. I am living proof that God does not need you to be whole by the world's standards to use you for His purposes.

It is exhausting in a way that is hard to explain to someone who has never done it. Three days a week — Monday, Wednesday, Friday — I sit in a chair for hours while a machine cleans my blood. The treatment itself is draining. The recovery is draining. The brain fog is real. The fatigue is bone-deep. And yet — I am still here. Dialysis is not a death sentence. It is a second chance. It is the thing that keeps me alive while I wait for whatever God has next. I do not sugarcoat it: dialysis is hard. But so is giving up. And I am not doing that.

Slowly. I do not try to be superwoman after treatment. I rest. I hydrate as much as I am allowed. I eat what I can. I give myself permission to not be productive on treatment days. The world will not fall apart if I take a nap. The ministry will still be here. The book will still get written. I have learned that rest is not laziness — it is stewardship. My body is fighting hard to stay alive, and honoring that fight means giving it what it needs.

Honestly? Some days I don't deal with it well. Some days I stare at a blank screen and the words don't come. I have learned to work when my mind is clearest — usually in the mornings, before treatment — and to give myself grace when I cannot produce anything. I write notes on my phone when a thought comes because I know I might lose it five minutes later. And I have stopped apologizing for it. This is what my life looks like right now. The people who matter understand. And the God who called me to write is patient with the pace.

Because my faith is not built on what God does for me — it is built on who He is. I believe God can heal me. I also believe that if He doesn't, He is still good. I have seen too much to walk away. I have felt His presence in the darkest rooms. I have received peace that made no sense. I have watched Him provide when the numbers did not add up. Healing has not happened yet. But wholeness — the kind that has nothing to do with a functioning kidney — has come in ways I never expected. I am not waiting for healing to believe. I believe while I wait.

I don't have to have lived your exact story to sit with you in it. Pain has a universal language. Loss is loss. Grief is grief. I may not know what it is to lose a child, or to be homeless, or to face the particular injustice you have faced — but I know what it is to hurt. And I know what it is to need someone who will not try to fix you, who will just stay. That is what I try to offer: presence, not platitudes. I don't have to understand your pain perfectly to honor it.

I pace myself. I used to think I had to produce at the same speed as someone who was not sick. That nearly broke me. Now I work in the windows I have — between treatments, on good days, when the brain fog lifts. Some months I write a lot. Some months I write very little. I have stopped measuring my faithfulness by my output. God is not keeping a word count. The ministry is not a factory. It is a life — my life — and I have learned to honor the rhythm of that life even when it does not look like anyone else's.

Purpose. I believe with everything in me that God placed me here for a reason — and that reason did not expire when I got sick. There are people I have not reached yet. There are words I have not written yet. There are prayers I have not prayed yet. Every time I think about quitting, someone sends a message saying, 'Your story kept me going.' And I remember: this is bigger than me. My life is not my own. I gave it to God a long time ago. Giving up is not an option — not because I am strong, but because my assignment is not finished.