If you’ve been praying for the same thing for a really long time…

Me too.

And I think these 4:04am words typed in the notes app are meant for you.

For twelve years, l’ve prayed for physical healing.* When the brain tumor was removed, insomnia began. Most nights (days?), I fall asleep around 5am. The day is dawning, the birds already chirping, and I’m still tossing and turning. Deep exhaustion is my normal. The night is long and I don’t mean that as a metaphor—although yes, that too.

What I’m saying is, I know what it’s like to pray for the same thing so many times that some days all you can muster is a whispered “God, You know. Amen.” I’m familiar with the tension of holding both hope and heartache.

I understand the often unspoken cost, the little losses that add up, and the daily decision to say it again: God, I know You could change this in an instant… but I’ll love You and trust You, even if not.

I kept this part of my story quiet until last year, and am really only posting these slides now to give context for the 4am note, but I want you to know—you aren’t alone in fighting to get your hopes up.

Last week, I wept watching episode 5 in the new season of The Chosen. Inspired by Luke 8, it shows “the woman with the issue of blood”, as she’s often called. But then there’s Jesus, naming her: Daughter. She’s the only one in Scripture that Jesus called Daughter, by the way.

The woman known for a problem… and named by the healer.

IMAGE

One from May 2022, taken right before I walked into the first of a dozen+ weekly appointments for yet another “please let this help” new medical treatment that didn’t just not work, but actually made things so much worse… and one from August 2024, taken right after receiving a health update, data on the page after a dozen+ appointments for another treatment. Each, eyes filled with a dozen+ years of chronic daily pain and determined hope. Each, weary and waiting. Each, known and named. Each, seen. Each, a declaration on their own and louder together: Hope is not done writing this story.

Twelve years of chronic pain and constant loss. Twelve years of hoping, praying, and spending all she had… only for things to get worse.

It’s just a TV show, but seeing the story portrayed—her grief and hope met with the kindness and tenderness of Jesus? It was breathtakingly beautiful.

But this is what did me in: Jesus didn’t respond with “you’re welcome” or “of course” when thanked a little later in the episode.

Instead, He replied “thank you for your faith.”

You won’t find that response in Luke 8, but it sounds a little like “well done, good and faithful servant” to me. And after a decade plus of daily prayers, all I can say is that it moved me deeply, the beautiful imagining of five small words, a single sentence, a reminder that you and I… we’ve always been seen in the struggle.

“Have you watched the latest episode?” a friend called to ask. “I felt like it could have been you talking on the screen.”

“I want to write about it,” I said, “but don’t know if I can find the words.” I fell asleep the next morning with dawn streaming through the blinds, but an hour before, I reached for my phone and typed a note. Words. Messy and honest and pain-filled, hope-full words.

And I truly believe—they’re not just meant for me. They’re also for you.

Jesus meets us in the mess.

He draws near. He comes close.

He names and does not put to shame.

The Author is kind. The story is good.

Your hope, our hope, won’t be wasted.

It’s always been true. What a gift to see it pictured.

If you’ve been praying for the same thing for a really long time… If you’re fighting for hope… If you just need to know today that you are seen in the struggle…

This note is for you.

Hope has something to say.

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A few weeks ago, I suddenly found myself blinking back tears and thinking “I just can’t wait to meet her” as I prepped and formatted this post from Holley. In the margins of our shared document, I wrote “One of my all-time favorite people in Scripture. This one made me teary.” I’ve written about Daughter half a dozen times over the years, but on Monday night, I scheduled the last piece before Holley’s words went out on Tuesday morning, closed the computer, sat down on the edge of my bed, re-read the January 12th, 2022 note, and wept.

They mean what they meant and they mean something new, in that wild way words do, tucked away over time. I needed them then, and I need them now, and I wondered if maybe you might, too?

A month ago, when Thursday Things returned after a summer break, I mentioned the surprise you gave me with all 3 reposted reader-favorites. Your kind words and generous shares led to me saying in TT #117 → “This has me pondering what it might look like to bring back one of YOUR favorites every other month or so. Your reaction + over a decade regularly writing online + how easy it is to miss something from algorithms and full inboxes = something I’m thinking through for the fall! TBD.”

This is a little bit of a twist, because although it’s a reader-favorite on Instagram based on the shares/saves, it never landed in your inbox. Well, actually, it somewhat did . . . the day after writing the note, I shared details/a bit of backstory with you that isn’t posted anywhere outside Thursday Things #81. The note was too fresh to pixelate in a way others might see, but as I sat with it over the next few days and wrestled with the words written in the night, I couldn’t shake the nudge to share on social.

With a lot of trepidation and a vulnerability hangover rapidly arriving as my fingers hovered over the button, I clicked post and this went into the world.

Although a percentage (I’d guess about 25%) of what I write appears multiple places (example: both Instagram and Facebook), I very intentionally write some that only goes out via email, some that only lives on Instagram, some that is only posted on Facebook, etc. Why? If I put myself in your shoes and you’re following along everywhere, I imagine it would be annoying to see a 100% repeat all the places. Why would you want to receive the exact same thing x3 or more, right?

But—I know that not everyone is everywhere, and so a portion does appear multiple places for those who would miss it otherwise. This was one of those in-the-middle pieces, living on both Instagram and Facebook but not on email (except the pre-words TT #81).

Monday night, about an hour after I wiped the tears away, I opened my computer again and began typing this to you. There was a nudge, similar but different, saying that maybe just maybe someone is only here on email and never saw, needs to know right now today that she is seen and loved and named.

Maybe that someone is you?

If so, scroll back up. Go slow and know: you are seen. Hope is not done writing your story.

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If you’re holding both hope and heartache today and you need a few more words, perhaps one of these would bring a little bit more hope? Each one sits in the tension of the two. On deep heartache and doorways of hope + for when you’re (still) waiting on a miracle + on cancer and grief and that one time Jesus showed up to greet me at the door.

*This was accurate when first posted to Instagram, but of course time has continued timing so 12 is now 14.