The house is quiet tonight. Suitcases stand zipped and ready by the door. My passport rests on the counter beside a worn leather Bible. Maci, ever intuitive, moves softly through the house, sensing the shift. And my heart—well, my heart is carrying a blend of peace, urgency, and something that feels like holy ache.

There’s always a weight to the night before.

Not fear, exactly. But reverence. The kind of solemn awareness that rises when you know you’re about to step onto sacred ground again—where trauma runs deep, where suffering is not abstract, and where the call to love is not theoretical.

It would be easier to stay. That truth lives quietly in my body too. Home is warm. Familiar. Safe. And if I’m honest, I’m tired. The last trip was beautiful, yes—but heavy. The stories stayed with me long after I returned. They still do.

But I also know this: my life is not my own.

And when you know you’re called—when you believe with your whole self that love is not just something we feel but something we do —then there’s no question. The path becomes clear, even when it’s hard.

I go because I love the people there. I go because I’ve seen firsthand the resilience and faith of students and counselors and community members who show up day after day to heal others while still healing themselves. I go because God is there—in every classroom, in every story of loss and redemption, in every sacred moment of connection that reminds us we are not alone.

I go because Jesus did.

He didn’t stay in comfort. He entered our pain. He walked toward the wounded, the frightened, the outcast. And in doing so, He showed us what love looks like: Incarnate. Present. Willing.

So tonight, I breathe deep and steady. I let the tears come as they need to. I hold both the joy and the gravity of this calling. And I entrust all of it—my family, my team, my own fragile heart—into the hands of the One who goes before me.

Will you pray with me?

Pray for peace in Ukraine. For safety on the roads and skies. For students who are holding so much as they learn to hold space for others. For churches and counselors who serve tirelessly in a war-weary land. And pray that we, as a team, would be vessels—gentle and willing, filled not with our own wisdom, but with the compassion and presence of Christ.

This is holy work.

Thank you for sending me with your prayers. Thank you for loving us as we go.

With a full and steady heart,
Sandy

“You are not sent to do easy work. You are sent to do holy work. And holy work will stretch you, cost you, and ultimately shape you into someone more like Christ.”
— Unknown