Tag Archives: mental-health

When a Survivor’s Trauma Becomes a Political Weapon

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The Amy Acton controversy and the survivors who are watching

She was twelve years old.

Twelve. An age when a little girl should be worrying about school, friendships, and growing up, knowing the adults in her life will keep her safe.

Instead, Amy Acton’s childhood was marked by sexual abuse, instability, and the failure of adults who should have protected her.

That little girl grew up to become a physician, Ohio’s director of public health, and now a candidate for governor.

Nearly fifty years later, her childhood has become the subject of a political advertisement. Produced by her opponent Vivek Ramaswamy’s campaign, it features Acton’s estranged biological mother accusing her of lying about her childhood. The campaign has acknowledged producing the advertisement and announced a $4 million effort to promote it.

I have spent much of my professional life listening to survivors of childhood sexual abuse. I know how difficult it can be to speak, how deeply disbelief can wound, and how long healing from betrayal can take.

So I find myself thinking not only about Amy Acton, but about the survivors watching.

What does it say to them when something done to a child becomes a weapon against the woman she becomes?

The Burden of Being Believed

For many survivors, telling someone about sexual abuse is one of the hardest things they will ever do.

Imagine being a child hurt by someone you trusted. You may not have the words to explain what happened. You may fear that no one will believe you or that speaking will tear your family apart.

Children depend on adults for safety and belonging. When that trust is violated, silence can feel safer than speaking.

I have listened to survivors describe carrying those secrets for decades. Many remember not only the abuse, but the painful realization that someone they loved might not believe them.

In Acton’s case, substantial documentation exists. In 1978, her biological father contacted authorities about allegations that her stepfather had sexually abused her. Her stepfather was arrested and indicted on a rape charge involving a child under thirteen. Amy and her brother were removed from their mother’s custody.

Her stepfather pleaded not guilty but failed to appear in court, so the case never went to trial. There was no conviction. That distinction matters, but so do the investigation, indictment, custody proceedings, and the account of her brother, Philip Stearns, who has publicly supported her description of their childhood.

The absence of a conviction does not mean the abuse did not happen.

Sexual abuse often occurs without witnesses, and many survivors never report it. Relatively few reported cases result in convictions.

Yet here is a woman whose childhood account is supported by substantial documentation, still having her credibility publicly challenged decades later.

How much evidence is enough?

When Betrayal Becomes Another Wound

When I learned that Amy Acton’s own mother appeared in the advertisement, I was angry. And honestly, I felt a deep sense of betrayal on behalf of that little girl.

Of all the people in the world, shouldn’t a mother be the person a child can turn to when something terrible happens? The person who believes her, holds her close, and does everything she can to keep her safe?

According to Acton and her brother, their mother stayed married to the man accused of sexually abusing Amy, even after the children were removed from her custody. And now, nearly fifty years later, she is publicly questioning her daughter’s account of what happened.

I keep coming back to the little girl in this story. She needed her mother. She needed someone to stand up for her. And by the accounts of Acton and her brother, she didn’t get the protection she deserved.

In my years of working with survivors, I’ve heard so many stories about what happened after the abuse. The parent who didn’t believe them. The family that wanted to keep everything quiet. The adults who knew something was wrong but did nothing.

Sometimes those failures leave wounds that survivors carry for the rest of their lives.

I’ve sat with adults who still wonder why they weren’t worth protecting. Who somehow came to believe that they were responsible for what happened or for the family falling apart.

And part of our work together is helping them understand that they were children. They weren’t responsible for the abuse, and they weren’t responsible for the choices the adults around them made.

I don’t know what Amy Acton feels about any of this today. That’s her story to tell, not mine.

But I do know this: a child should never have to earn her mother’s protection. And she shouldn’t have to spend her adult life defending the truth of what happened to her.

Sometimes the deepest hurt isn’t only what someone did to you. It’s knowing that someone who should have protected you didn’t.

The Survivors Who Are Watching

Survivors notice how other survivors are treated. They see who is believed, who is questioned, and when families or institutions seem more concerned with protecting reputations than caring for those who have been harmed.

In trauma work, we call this institutional betrayal, the additional harm that can occur when those expected to provide safety fail to do so. Research suggests that witnessing such responses can influence whether survivors feel safe disclosing their own experiences.

I think about the woman who has never told anyone about the sexual abuse she experienced as a child. She has spent years building a life, raising children, and quietly carrying something painful. Perhaps she has finally found the courage to make an appointment with a therapist.

Then she sees this advertisement. She watches a physician and public health leader have her childhood experiences challenged by her own mother, despite substantial supporting documentation.

If Amy Acton can have her story questioned after all these years, what would happen to me?

Survivors respond differently. Some may feel anger or renewed determination to speak. But for others already struggling with shame and fear, watching another survivor’s experiences become the subject of public attack may make silence seem safer.

The consequences of how we treat one survivor may reach people whose stories we will never hear.

Healing Is Not Something Survivors Must Prove

There is something remarkable about the life Acton has built. But her accomplishments are not what make her worthy of dignity or compassion.

I have worked with survivors who have built successful careers and fulfilling lives, and others who continue to struggle with relationships, anxiety, shame, or simply getting through the day. Many experience both. Their stories matter equally.

Healing is rarely a straight line. Sometimes it means learning to trust again, setting boundaries, asking for help, or letting go of shame that never belonged to you.

No survivor should have to become an extraordinary example of resilience to deserve compassion, or repeatedly reopen the most painful chapters of their life to defend their character.

Our Moral Responsibility

People seeking public office should face difficult questions about their decisions, qualifications, and records. That is part of democracy.

But what does something terrible that happened to a twelve-year-old girl have to do with whether the woman she became is qualified to serve?

Questions of honesty matter, but they should be grounded in evidence, not the exploitation of childhood suffering.

And this problem extends beyond politics.

I have seen how families, churches, and institutions can become more concerned with protecting reputations or relationships than caring for someone who has been harmed. Sometimes through denial, sometimes through silence, and sometimes through the hope that everyone will simply move on.

For those of us who follow Jesus, this should trouble us deeply. We are called to care for the vulnerable, seek justice, and speak truth, even when doing so is uncomfortable.

Those commitments cannot change depending on whose political party we support.

The biblical call to justice is not suspended during election season.

Our faith is revealed not only in what we say we believe, but in how we treat people when protecting them or standing beside them becomes inconvenient.

The Message We Choose to Send

Acton’s policies and leadership deserve thoughtful scrutiny. But what happened to her as a child should not become a weapon against the woman she is today.

This story reaches far beyond one election.

Somewhere, someone is watching. A woman carrying a painful secret. A man who still struggles to speak about his childhood. A child deciding whether it is safe to tell a trusted adult.

We may never hear their stories. But how we respond to survivors helps shape whether others believe they will be treated with care or suspicion.

We cannot promise that disclosure will be easy or that every institution will respond appropriately. But we can listen with compassion, take disclosures seriously, examine evidence fairly, and refuse to shame people for the harm they experienced.

She was twelve years old.

Before she was a physician, a public health leader, or a candidate for governor, she was a little girl who deserved to be safe.

Whatever our political differences, surely we can agree that she deserved that.

And so does every survivor who is watching.

Running with Patience: Loving Trauma Survivors Well

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“Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us also lay aside every weight…and let us run with patience the race that is set before us.” — Hebrews 12:1

One of the hardest truths trauma survivors carry is that the greatest pain often does not come from the abuse itself. It comes from what happens when they finally find the courage to tell someone.

For many survivors of sexual abuse, disclosure is not a single event. It is the culmination of months, years, or even decades of wrestling with fear, shame, confusion, self-doubt, and grief. Before speaking, survivors often rehearse every possible outcome. They wonder whether anyone will believe them. They wonder whether they will be blamed. They wonder whether telling the truth will cost them relationships, community, or even their faith.

Sadly, those fears are not unfounded.

Research cited by Anna C. Salter Valliere in Unmasking the Sexual Offender found that approximately 85% of people continued to believe or support the offender—even when the offender had confessed or had been caught in the act. Think about what that means from the perspective of a survivor. They are not merely risking embarrassment or misunderstanding. They are risking isolation. They are risking being viewed as the problem while the person who harmed them continues to receive trust, sympathy, and protection.

Survivors know this long before they ever tell their story.

Many remain silent because they have watched what happens when others speak. Others disclose only after the emotional burden of carrying the secret becomes heavier than the fear of not being believed. Even then, they often tell just one trusted person, hoping against hope that someone will simply listen.

When that trust is met with disbelief, minimization, or spiritual clichés, the injury often deepens. Trauma experts sometimes refer to this as a “second wound.” The original abuse communicated, You are not safe. A dismissive response communicates, You are still not safe.

As believers, we must recognize that safety is not merely a psychological concept. It is a profoundly biblical one.

Throughout Scripture, God consistently reveals Himself as a refuge, a fortress, a shelter, and a strong tower. Again and again, He identifies with the oppressed, the widow, the orphan, the stranger, and those who have been exploited by people with greater power. His people are repeatedly commanded to defend those who cannot defend themselves.

Notice the pattern. God does not first ask whether the vulnerable have forgiven. He first commands His people to protect them.

Safety is one of God’s earliest gifts. Before healing comes safety. Before trust comes safety. Before vulnerability comes safety.

This is not simply emotional comfort. For trauma survivors, safety is the environment in which the nervous system begins to settle enough for healing to become possible. A survivor whose body remains on constant alert cannot simply choose peace by an act of will. God wonderfully designed our brains to detect danger. When danger has been experienced repeatedly, especially at the hands of someone trusted, that alarm system remains highly sensitive.

This is why protecting safety is one of the most loving things the church can do.

Safety means believing that someone’s story deserves careful attention. Safety means taking allegations seriously. Safety means refusing to pressure survivors into interactions they are not prepared for. Safety means establishing wise boundaries that protect the vulnerable rather than the influential. Safety means understanding that trust is earned, not demanded. And safety sometimes means allowing consequences that are both just and necessary.

Unfortunately, churches sometimes unintentionally reverse these priorities. In an effort to restore relationships quickly, we ask survivors to carry responsibilities that Scripture places elsewhere. We ask them to meet with the offender. We ask them to reassure others they have forgiven. We ask them not to “cause division.” We ask them to move on for the sake of unity.

Yet nowhere does Scripture define unity as pretending evil did not occur. Biblical peace is not the absence of conflict. It is the presence of truth, righteousness, and justice.

When Jesus spoke of caring for “the least of these,” He was describing more than acts of kindness. He was revealing the heart of God’s kingdom. Throughout His ministry, Jesus consistently moved toward those society overlooked, dismissed, or blamed. He listened before He instructed. He restored dignity before He restored reputation. He never sacrificed the vulnerable to preserve the comfort of the powerful.

This should shape the culture of every church.

When someone discloses abuse, our first responsibility is not to explain forgiveness. Our first responsibility is to listen. Instead of asking, “How do we preserve everyone’s comfort?” we should be asking, “How do we protect the person who has already been harmed?”

Instead of wondering how quickly relationships can be restored, we should be asking what wisdom, accountability, and boundaries are needed for genuine repentance to be demonstrated over time.

Forgiveness is central to the Christian faith. But forgiveness is not denial. Forgiveness is not forgetting. Forgiveness does not erase consequences. Forgiveness does not require immediate reconciliation. Forgiveness does not eliminate the need for accountability. And forgiveness should never be used to silence someone who has been wounded.

In fact, genuine forgiveness becomes meaningful only when truth has been acknowledged. Grace never asks us to pretend darkness is light. Rather, grace shines light into darkness so that healing can begin.

Imagine how different our churches would become if every survivor knew they would be met first with compassion rather than suspicion.

Imagine if every child, every woman, every man, every vulnerable adult knew that their church would choose protection over reputation, truth over appearances, and faithful presence over easy answers.

Imagine if our first words were:

“Thank you for trusting me.”

“I’m so sorry this happened.”

“What happened to you was wrong.”

“I believe you.”

“You are safe here.”

Those five words, You are safe here, may communicate more of the heart of God than a hundred theological explanations.

The gospel calls us to something better than simply knowing the right answers. It calls us to become safe people. People who protect rather than pressure. People who listen rather than lecture. People who patiently bear another’s burden instead of rushing them toward resolution.

The race described in Hebrews is one of endurance. Walking beside trauma survivors requires that same patient endurance. Healing rarely follows a straight line. Trust grows slowly. Safety is built consistently. Hope often returns one small step at a time.

May we become the kind of believers whose presence reflects the refuge of God Himself.

May survivors encounter in us what they so desperately need, not perfect people with perfect answers, but faithful people whose lives quietly proclaim:

“You are seen. You are believed. You are valued. And by God’s grace, you do not have to walk this road alone.”

The Sound of Staying: What I Carried Home from Ukraine

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There is a moment each morning in Lviv that stays with me. At exactly 9:00 a.m., everything shifts. Not stops, just deepens. A low, steady tone begins to echo through the streets. It’s not quite a siren, not quite a bell. More like a pulse. A remembering. For one minute, the country collectively pauses. And then the national anthem rises.

The first time I heard it, I didn’t fully understand what was happening. But I felt it deep in my chest. That rhythmic, steady beat moving through my body like a second heartbeat.

Grief.

Defiance.

Remembrance.

All at once.

Blessed Are Those Who Mourn…

Macon told me about a book he had read, The Beatitudes and Terror. I didn’t read it until I got home, but I think in some ways, I was already inside it. Because here, the Beatitudes are not abstract. They are lived. You see them in the quiet strength of students who come to class carrying stories they don’t fully tell. In the way grief is not something they visit, but something they live alongside.

Blessed are those who mourn.

Not someday.

Now.

A Conversation I Can’t Shake

One morning, before class, I met with a student at a small coffee shop just across from the seminary. It was early. The city was just beginning to wake up. There was the soft clinking of cups, the smell of strong coffee, and that quiet hum of conversation that feels almost sacred in its ordinariness.

She sat across from me, hands wrapped around her cup and then, gently, she began to share.Not dramatically. Not all at once. Just honestly. Pieces of her story. The weight she’s been carrying. The questions she doesn’t have answers to. The exhaustion that doesn’t go away with sleep. nd as she spoke, I found myself noticing something familiar, not just in her words, but in her body.

The subtle tension. The scanning. The way her nervous system stayed just slightly on alert, even in a safe space.

Trauma has a language and I recognized it.

So we slowed it down. We talked about what her body was doing, not as a problem, but as protection.

We named the responses:

  • This is your nervous system trying to keep you safe.
  • This isn’t weakness. This is adaptation.

And I watched something shift, not a full resolution, and not a dramatic breakthrough. Just a softening. A breath that went a little deeper. A moment where she wasn’t alone inside her own experience anymore.

And I thought to myself: This is the work.

Trauma, Faith, and the Body That Remembers

I came to teach about trauma and about how the brain and nervous system respond to overwhelming experiences. About why grief doesn’t follow a timeline. About why the body holds what words cannot.

And they leaned in because this isn’t theoretical here. It’s lived.

We talked about pendulation, titration, and how healing happens in small, manageable moments, not all at once.

And again and again, I found myself saying:

“You are not broken. Your body is doing exactly what it was designed to do.”

And you could feel it land.

The Church That Knows Its Mission

If I could describe the Church here in one phrase, it would be this: They know why they are here.

There is a clarity that comes when everything unnecessary falls away.

I saw it in:

  • students preparing to sit with trauma they cannot fix
  • leaders building care in the middle of uncertainty
  • worship that feels less like performance and more like offering

And it quietly asks something of me:

What would it look like to live this clearly at home?

Beauty That Refuses to Disappear

And still there is beauty. Chestnut trees beginning to bloom along the walk to the seminary. Cappuccinos made with care at Papa Joe’s. Laughter echoing in the hallways between classes. Sunlight stretching across cobblestone streets.

It doesn’t erase the pain but it stands beside it, faithfully.

Faith That Stays

There is a kind of faith that tries to explain suffering and there is a kind that stays. Ukraine is teaching me about the second kind. The kind that doesn’t rush to answers, that makes room for grief, and that trusts that presence matters.

What I’m Carrying Home

I didn’t come home with neat conclusions but I came home changed.

I’m carrying:

  • a deeper trust in the wisdom of the body
  • a clearer understanding of resilience
  • a quieter, steadier vision of faith

And a question that lingers:

What does it look like to stay present to what matters most when life feels comfortable again?

The Sound I Didn’t Expect to Carry

On my last morning, everything was packed. Somehow, the suitcases closed, though I was still holding extra bags filled with gifts pressed into my hands by students, faculty, friends. Small tokens that somehow carried so much more than their weight.

I stepped out of the hotel and began the walk. The wheels of my suitcase caught the cobblestones immediately. That familiar, uneven rhythm. Loud. Unignorable. Clattering behind me as I made my way back to the seminary one last time.

And with every step, I became aware of something I hadn’t let myself fully feel yet:

I was leaving.

The city was just waking up, cool air, soft light, sidewalk sweepers moving along their paths as if tending something sacred. Life continuing, as it always does.

And there I was being pulled forward by the weight of what I was carrying. Not just in my hands, but in my body and in my heart.

The conversations.

The stories.

The resilience.

The grief.

The faith.

The sound of those wheels on the cobblestone felt like a kind of translation. A physical reminder that some things don’t leave quietly. They echo.

Even now, back home, far from Lviv, far from that street, I can still hear it. That uneven, persistent rhythm.

A quiet invitation:

To remember.

To stay.

To live awake.

Good Friday: The Love That Stayed

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This morning felt quieter than usual.

Not silent, there were still the small sounds of life unfolding, but quieter in a way that felt intentional, as if the day itself was holding its breath. The light came in softer, filtered through the window in that early way that doesn’t rush. I wrapped my hands around a warm mug and just sat for a moment longer than I normally would.

It’s Good Friday.

And something in me knows this isn’t a day to move quickly.

I’ve been thinking about how easily we move past this day. We know what’s coming. We know the ending. Resurrection is already waiting on the other side.

But today asks something different of us. It asks us to stay with the weight of it, with the ache., and with the kind of love that doesn’t rush to relief.

Because when you slow the story down, really slow it down, you begin to notice things.

The loneliness of it. The way Jesus was misunderstood, even by those closest to Him. The way the crowd turned. The way injustice unfolded in plain sight, unchecked and uncorrected.

The physical suffering is there, of course.

But so is the emotional pain of betrayal, abandonment, and humiliation.

And He didn’t step out of it. He stayed.

There’s a moment in the story that always catches me. He could have stopped it. At any point, He could have stepped away from the pain, from the cross, from the slow unraveling of His own body and breath.

But He didn’t.

Not because He was powerless, but because He was choosing something greater than relief.

He was choosing love.

And not the kind of love we’re used to, not love that waits until someone is worthy, withdraws when it’s not returned, or protects itself at all costs.

This is a love that moves toward the broken places. A love that enters into suffering rather than avoiding it. A love that sees the full reality of who we are, every hidden place, every wound, every way we’ve learned to survive and doesn’t turn away.

I think, for many of us, this is where it gets tender. Because if we’re honest, this kind of love can feel unfamiliar.

We’ve learned to brace ourselves. To earn love. To anticipate distance when we’re not at our best.

But Good Friday quietly interrupts that story. It tells us that God did not wait for us to become whole before drawing near. He came close in the middle of our humanity, in the middle of our fear, n the middle of our failure, and in the middle of our not-enoughness.

And maybe what undoes me most is this:

He knew.

He knew the cost.
He knew the pain.
He knew the weight of what He was choosing.

And He stayed anyway.

There is something deeply personal about that. Not abstract. Not distant. But intimate in a way that reaches into the places we often try to hide.

The cross is not just a moment in history. It is a declaration. That there is no depth of suffering, no complexity of story, no part of you that is too much that will cause God to turn away.

So today, I’m not rushing. I’m letting the quiet do its work. I’m letting the story unfold slowly, even the hard parts. I’m noticing where I want to skip ahead and gently choosing to stay instead.

Because Good Friday is not just about what was done. It’s about what was revealed.

A love that does not leave when things get hard.
A love that does not withdraw in the face of brokenness.
A love that stays.

And maybe the invitation today is simple. Not to fix anything, prove anything, or rush toward resolution.

But to sit, even for a few moments, and let yourself be seen by that kind of love. The kind that knew. The kind that chose. The kind that stayed.

Even now.

The Small Graces of an Early Tennessee Spring

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There are seasons when gratitude feels like something you must search for. And then there are weeks like this one in Middle Tennessee, when it seems to be rising quietly from everywhere.

This morning I stepped out onto the back porch with my coffee, and the air held that particular softness that only comes when winter finally loosens its grip. Not the thick humidity of summer. Not the sharp chill of January. Just that gentle, almost hesitant warmth that says, spring is on its way.

All around the neighborhood the trees are beginning to stir.

The Bradford pear trees are the first to announce the change, bursting into bright white blossoms before their leaves even arrive, like scattered clouds caught in the branches. They are one of the earliest bloomers each year, their flowers appearing suddenly and dramatically across Tennessee landscapes as winter fades.

Drive down almost any road this week and you’ll see them, whole streets dusted with white.

The redbuds are beginning to blush purple along the edges of the woods. The maples are pushing out tiny red buds. And if you look closely, the bare gray limbs that felt so lifeless just a few weeks ago now hold the faintest haze of green.

It is that quiet miracle that happens every year and somehow still surprises me.

And as I sat there this morning, I realized how many things I am grateful for in this particular season of life.

I’m grateful that Lowell is healing well. There is a deep kind of relief that comes when someone you love comes through a medical scare and begins to mend. Healing has a quiet rhythm to it, slower than we wish sometimes, but steady.

I’m grateful for Macon. For his steadiness. For the way he carries things calmly when life gets complicated. For his loyalty, his patience, and that quiet strength that doesn’t make a lot of noise but somehow holds everything together.

I’m grateful for simple days that hold no great drama. Today was one of those, just a good day of shopping, moving through errands without hurry, and the kind of ordinary day that reminds you life doesn’t have to be extraordinary to be good.

I’m grateful for the warmer weather this past week. For windows cracked open. For sunlight lingering a little longer in the evenings. For the way the light falls across the patio furniture that sat unused all winter.

That back porch and patio have become small sanctuaries again. A place for coffee in the morning. A place for quiet conversations in the evening. A place where the birds seem to hold committee meetings in the trees while the neighborhood dogs offer their occasional commentary.

Spring in Middle Tennessee doesn’t arrive all at once. It unfolds. First the light changes. Then the air softens. Then one morning you realize the trees are waking up.

And if you’re paying attention, gratitude seems to bloom right alongside them.

Not because life is perfect. But because grace often arrives in the small, ordinary moments — the ones we might miss if we aren’t looking.

A healing body.
A steady husband.
A warm afternoon.
White blossoms on the roadside.
Coffee on the porch.

Sometimes that is more than enough.

A Friday Evening Practice of Gratitude

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Friday evenings have a way of inviting honesty. The pace slows just enough for the week to catch up with us, not as a list of tasks completed, but as moments lived. Tonight, gratitude feels less like a spiritual discipline and more like a gentle noticing.

I’m grateful for a full week of meaningful work. For clients who trusted me with their stories and their nervous systems. For conversations that mattered, not because they were dramatic, but because they were real. For the quiet privilege of sitting with suffering and resilience side by side, and for the reminder (again) that healing is rarely loud or flashy. It’s steady. Faithful. Human.

I’m grateful for meetings that were grounding rather than draining. For collaborative spaces where wisdom was shared, not postured. For colleagues and friends whose integrity is felt as much as it is spoken and people who don’t require performance, only presence. Steady might be the better word here. Solid, yes, but also rooted. The kind of relationships that hold when the wind picks up.

I’m grateful for coffee with like-minded people and those sacred little windows of connection where ideas breathe and souls exhale. For sitting across from someone who understands both the clinical language of trauma and the spiritual language of hope and knows when to let silence do the talking. These moments remind me that loneliness isn’t cured by crowds, but by attunement.

I’m grateful for the gift of seeing people in person again such as friends from out of town whose faces I’ve known mostly through screens lately. There’s something holy about proximity. About laughter landing in the same space. About shared space and unhurried conversation that no bandwidth can replicate.

I’m grateful for warm weather and a body that is cooperating today. For health that allows me to travel, teach, listen, write, and still have enough left to enjoy the evening. For the quiet miracle of stamina in this season of life and the grace to honor my limits without shame.

And tonight, I’m especially grateful for quiet time on the patio with Macon. A fire glowing low. The week loosening its grip. No agenda beyond being together. These are the moments that re-anchor me – the small liturgies of marriage, companionship, and rest that preach the gospel without words.

Scripture tells us to “give thanks in all circumstances,” not because everything is good, but because God is present in all of it. Gratitude doesn’t deny the weight of the world or the grief, or the complexity. It simply refuses to let those things have the final word.

So tonight, my prayer is simple: Thank You.
For work that has meaning.
For people who are safe.
For conversations that nourish rather than numb.
For warmth, health, love, and a fire that reminds me light still gathers when evening comes.

This is enough for today. And tonight, that feels like grace.

When Trauma Touches Every Part of Life

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Today, I sat across from people carrying stories too heavy for one heart to hold: war, abuse, abandonment, loss, betrayal. Each one unique, and yet each one echoing a truth we don’t often say out loud: trauma changes us.

It touches the way we see ourselves, the way we trust others, the way we move through the world. Sometimes it shows up as restlessness, sometimes as cynicism or withdrawal, sometimes as shame or self-doubt. Trauma doesn’t stay in the past. It tries to convince us we are still unsafe, still unworthy, still alone.

But trauma is not the end of the story.

Over and over again, I am reminded that the same human heart that absorbs unthinkable pain is also capable of deep healing. With compassion, safety, and God’s presence, the story can shift. What felt like permanent ruin can slowly become a place of new growth. The psalmist’s words ring true: “The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit” (Psalm 34:18).

I can’t share the details of the lives I encounter. Those stories are sacred, and privacy is part of the safety each person deserves. But I can tell you this: people are finding courage to face what they’ve endured. They are discovering that their worth was never erased by what happened to them. They are learning that God’s love meets them not in some future perfect version of themselves, but right here, in the middle of the mess and the ache.

For those who feel weary, weighed down by wounds no one else can see: you are not forgotten. You are not alone. Healing is possible. And even on the days when hope feels faint, God has not turned away.

As a community of faith, may we be people who refuse to look away from suffering. May we create spaces of gentleness and belonging, where survivors can breathe, tell the truth, and remember that their story isn’t finished yet.

I’m Tired, Lord — But Mostly I’m Tired of People Being Ugly

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There’s a line from a movie that echoes in my soul lately:
“I’m tired, boss… tired of all the pain I feel and hear in the world every day… there’s too much of it. It’s like pieces of glass in my head all the time.”

Can I confess something to you, friend?
I’m tired too.

Not just the “need-more-sleep” kind of tired. But soul-tired. Tired in my bones.
Tired of watching people speak with venom instead of care.
Tired of injustice wrapped in religious language.
Tired of cruelty masquerading as boldness.
Tired of the ache I see in the eyes of the kind-hearted who keep getting trampled by the sharp edges of other people’s pride.

But mostly? I’m tired of people being ugly.
Not ugly in appearance. Ugly in action.
Ugly in the way they dismiss, demean, and divide.
Ugly in how they scapegoat the vulnerable to feel powerful.

Scripture tells us that Jesus wept over Jerusalem, not because He was weak, but because He saw the hardness of people’s hearts.
He saw religious leaders burden the people with law but withhold mercy (Matthew 23:4).
He saw the temple turned into a market.
He saw the woman at the well judged and discarded.
He saw lepers outcast, children silenced, and foreigners feared.

And He didn’t just weep.
He healed.
He welcomed.
He restored.

He kept showing up with kindness anyway.

Maybe you’re reading this today and you feel it, too. The ache. The exhaustion.
You’re trying to be light in a world that seems to prefer shadows.
You’re offering dignity in spaces that reward domination.
You’re leading with grace and watching others lead with greed.

And you wonder: is it worth it?
Is being kind in a cruel world still powerful?

Beloved, hear me: Yes.
It is holy resistance.

Every act of kindness is a refusal to let darkness win.
Every time you choose empathy over ego, you echo the heart of Christ.
Every gentle word, every patient pause, every bridge you build, it matters.

Galatians 6:9 reminds us:

“Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up.”

That verse doesn’t ignore our weariness; it acknowledges it.
Doing good will wear on you. It’s costly. But it’s also kingdom-building.

So if today you’re tired, take a breath.
Cry if you need to. Step back. Be held by the One who never wearies.

And then? When you’re ready?

Let’s get back to the holy work of being kind in a world that often isn’t.
Let’s be people of gentleness in a culture of outrage.
Let’s be living, breathing reminders that God’s love is still present, even here. Even now.

Because ugliness may be loud, but kindness is still louder in the Kingdom of God.

And we? We were made for such a time as this.

Gratitude at the End of a Purpose-Filled Week

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It’s the kind of tired that settles deep, not just in your bones, but in your spirit. The kind of tired that follows a week full of pouring out, showing up, making decisions, holding space, and carrying burdens that aren’t always your own. It’s been a long week… but it hasn’t been wasted.

This is the sacred tension: exhaustion and gratitude holding hands.

Because while your body might ache and your mind may crave quiet, your heart knows something beautiful, this week mattered. The conversations, the care, the hidden sacrifices, the unseen prayers, the hard things you did anyway—they were seeds sown with purpose.

And so, we pause—not just to rest, but to give thanks.

Not just for the strength to get through, but for the privilege of being part of something bigger than ourselves. For the grace that met us in early mornings and late nights. For the people we served, the ones who surprised us, the laughter that snuck in when we needed it most, and the reminders that we are never alone.

Scripture reminds us: “Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord, not for human masters.” (Colossians 3:23)

That changes everything.

It means the spreadsheet wasn’t just a task. It was stewardship. The counseling session wasn’t just a job. It was holy ground. The meal you delivered, the hug you offered, the weary smile you gave anyway; those were offerings. Worship, in motion.

So yes, you’re tired. But let that tired be evidence of a life poured out with intention.

And as you exhale, may gratitude be your companion not just for what was accomplished, but for the One who walked with you through it all.

Take a breath. Say thank you. And let that be enough for today.

You did well, friend.

When Trauma Becomes Testimony: How Childhood Wounds Shape Our Hearts—and How Faith Heals

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Recent insights from Neuroscience News reveal that childhood trauma doesn’t just leave invisible scars—it actually rewires the brain, triggering chronic inflammation that reshapes its structure and function over a lifetime. As believers, these findings don’t just inform our understanding—they invite a prayerful response to suffering, hope, and redemption.


Childhood trauma doesn’t just hurt emotionally—it shapes how the brain and body function at the most foundational levels. According to recent research highlighted in Neuroscience News, early adversity can leave behind more than just painful memories. It can biologically reprogram how the brain’s immune system functions, setting the stage for inflammation that lingers for years—sometimes decades.

Neuroinflammation: When the Brain’s Alarm Won’t Turn Off
Our brains are equipped with microglia—tiny immune cells that serve as the nervous system’s “first responders.” In a healthy system, these cells activate when we’re sick or injured, helping the brain recover. But when a child experiences abuse, neglect, household instability, or chronic fear, those microglia can become chronically activated.

This is sometimes called “neuroimmune priming.” It means the brain becomes stuck in a hyper-alert state, constantly bracing for danger, even long after the threat is gone. Over time, this leads to chronic inflammation in areas of the brain critical for emotional regulation, memory, and relational trust—like the amygdala, hippocampus, and prefrontal cortex.

In biblical terms, it’s like the body becomes a land under siege, with every gate guarded and every door bolted. Safety feels foreign because the internal alarm never truly shuts off.

Genetic and Epigenetic Impact
This kind of early stress also affects gene expression. Even if a child was born with healthy brain wiring, trauma can flip certain switches “on” or “off”—changing how genes responsible for stress regulation and emotional balance behave. This is known as epigenetic change, and it helps explain why some people struggle with emotional dysregulation, depression, or autoimmune conditions even when their environment has improved.

Researchers are now identifying biomarkers—biological signatures of trauma-related inflammation—in the blood and brain imaging of trauma survivors. This holds promise for earlier diagnosis and more targeted treatment in the future.

Long-Term Consequences: Emotional, Physical & Spiritual
Children whose brains were shaped by early adversity may grow up more likely to experience:

Anxiety or hypervigilance

Chronic shame or self-loathing

Depression or emotional numbness

Disrupted sleep and appetite

Increased risk of autoimmune illness, heart disease, and other physical conditions

Difficulty with trust, connection, and a sense of self-worth

But here’s the part that matters most for those of us walking with Christ: none of this is destiny. The brain—though deeply affected by trauma—is also incredibly resilient. Neuroplasticity means healing is possible. The same inflammation that was once destructive can be reversed through safety, connection, and care.

As research continues to affirm what many of us already know in our spirits—that trauma affects every part of a person—it also confirms the deep wisdom of a holistic gospel: that God came to heal not only souls, but bodies, minds, and relationships too.

Faith’s Response: From Woundedness to Wholeness
Naming the Wound with Compassion
Scripture frequently reminds us that God gathers our tears (Psalm 56:8). Acknowledging the biological reality of trauma gives language to the invisible, offering a bridge from suffering to prayer.

  1. Spiritual Practices as Soothing Balm
    • Prayer, lament, and scripture meditation are not only spiritual acts—they’re healing interventions. By activating the parasympathetic nervous system, they can actually lower inflammation and calm the brain’s stress circuits.
      Romans 8:11 reminds us that the Spirit who raised Christ lives in us—bringing not only spiritual revival, but potential neurobiological renewal.
  2. Building Safe Spiritual Communities
    • Trauma distorts relational wiring—making community feel threatening. Yet small groups, trauma‑informed churches, and safe listening partnerships create relational “safe zones” where trust can be rewired through consistent love and grace.
  3. Partnering with Professional Care
    • The discovery of inflammation biomarkers pushes us to incorporate mental‑health care into our pastoral work. Faith and psychotherapy aren’t competitors; they’re collaborators in bringing holistic healing.
  4. Embracing Transformation—not just Coping
    • The most hopeful part of this science? The brain remains plastic (malleable), and inflammation is reversible. Just as Paul speaks of being “transformed by the renewing of your mind” (Rom 12:2), God invites us into permanent renewal—soul, mind, and neurons aligned in healing.

This science shows us that what Jesus called shalom—total flourishing—isn’t sentimental, but rooted in deep biological and spiritual transformation. In that truth, we can move forward with faith: that wounds can heal, hope can flourish, and the renewing Spirit can reshape more than our souls—He can change our very wiring.