Tag Archives: mental-health

From Sirens to Silence: Returning from War-Torn Ukraine to the Safety of Home

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There’s a holy kind of disorientation that comes when you leave a war zone and step back into peace.

In Ukraine, the soundscape is unforgettable. It’s not just the sirens—though those pierce your chest like a cold wind—but the in-between silence that follows them. The kind of quiet that feels like holding your breath. The kind of quiet that wonders, “Will it come here next?” And when the silence is broken, it’s by news of another strike, another village leveled, another family forever changed.

You learn to move through your day holding invisible weights. Not just your own responsibilities, but the stories of those beside you. Stories of sons on the front lines, of homes destroyed twice, of trauma that doesn’t wait for a break to speak. And yet—there is laughter. There is resilience. There are old women planting tomatoes near the trenches and children playing soccer next to bomb shelters.

Somehow, hope and horror live side by side.

And then, just like that, you’re on a plane back to the United States. You land in a clean, calm airport. No soldiers, no checkpoints. You stand in line for coffee and no one is scanning the exits. Your bag rolls smoothly over polished tile instead of cobblestone. The barista asks how your day is going.

And you almost forget how to answer.

There’s this peculiar guilt that rises when safety returns too quickly. A feeling that something must be wrong with you for enjoying a warm bed when you know the person you sat across from yesterday might sleeping in a shelter with sandbags for walls. You feel joy at being home—and grief for ever having left. You feel relief—and restlessness. You carry stories that others can’t see, and it makes ordinary life feel… blurry.

I’m learning not to run from that tension.

Because Scripture doesn’t tell us to choose between joy or sorrow. It invites us to hold both. “Rejoice with those who rejoice, and weep with those who weep.” (Romans 12:15)

That’s what Jesus did. He wept at the tomb of Lazarus even though He knew resurrection was coming. He sat with the suffering and also multiplied bread at a wedding feast. He knew how to live between heaven and heartbreak.

So I’m asking myself: how do I live faithfully in between?

Here’s what I’m finding:

I breathe deeper here. Not with guilt, but with gratitude—and remembrance. Every quiet night’s sleep is a gift. Every dinner shared around a peaceful table is holy ground. I don’t want to forget that.

I keep my heart soft. I don’t numb out or move on. I name their names when I pray. I tell their stories when I speak. I don’t let convenience steal my compassion.

I let the discomfort teach me. The pull between two worlds is not a flaw—it’s an invitation. It reminds me that I belong to a global body, and that the peace I enjoy should fuel my advocacy, not silence it.

I practice presence. Not performative urgency. Not performative guilt. But true presence. I listen when someone tells their story. I show up for people who are tired. I stay grounded in what’s real, even when it hurts.

Most of all, I trust that God is near.

Near to the weary pastor still pastoring in a war zone.
Near to the widow who still sets out two plates.
Near to the child coloring in a basement lit by a generator.
And near to me, as I return to a quiet home and try to keep my heart from closing.

It’s tempting to believe that faith means we must always feel strong. But I’m learning faith can look like tears. Like trembling hands still reaching out. Like choosing to stay tender when it would be easier to forget.

This world is broken in ways that are too heavy for words. But the kingdom of God is here, too—in the resilience of those who remain, in the compassion of those who return, in the breath that fills our lungs even after sirens.

So I will rest. And I will remember. And I will return—whether in body or in prayer or in voice—again and again.

Because love doesn’t look away.

And neither will I.

Why Sexual Abuse Prevention Must Be a Priority in Our Churches, Organizations, and Culture

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Last night, I sat with two men—wise, thoughtful, and honest—talking about something that should never have to be discussed, and yet must be: sexual abuse.

The conversation was sobering. We spoke of statistics—how many people have been harmed, how often it happens, and how rarely it’s addressed with the depth and seriousness it deserves. But there was a moment that stopped me: we were looking at the numbers of victims, and my heart asked, “Then how many perpetrators does that mean?”

It was a gut-punch.

Because if we listen to the data—and more importantly, if we listen to survivors—then we must acknowledge that sexual abuse is not a rare, distant horror. It is a widespread, near-at-hand reality. It is not always some dramatic “stranger danger” moment; most often, the perpetrators are known and even trusted by the victims. They are youth volunteers, family members, coaches, neighbors, teachers, ministry leaders. They are often not visibly monstrous—they can seem disarmingly normal. Some aren’t driven by deep, deviant fantasies; they’re opportunists. They act when they think no one will notice, no one will stop them, no one will believe the child or the vulnerable adult they target.

And too often, they’re right.

The Church, of all places, must be where this cycle ends—not where it hides.

Because abuse isn’t just a crime or a psychological wound. It is a sin—an assault against the image of God in another human being. It is a desecration of innocence. It’s a betrayal that shatters trust and buries people in shame that never belonged to them in the first place.

As Christians, we are compelled—by love, by justice, by the very heart of Christ—to act.

We are called to:

  • Believe the wounded when they speak.
  • Break the silence that too often protects the perpetrator more than the victim.
  • Build systems of protection that are not reactive, but preventative.
  • Train our staff and volunteers, not with checkbox policies, but with trauma-informed, survivor-centered wisdom.
  • Create cultures of safety, where abuse cannot thrive and where power is stewarded with integrity.
  • Hold perpetrators accountable, not hide them in hopes they’ll just go away or “repent quietly.”
  • Tend to the healing of survivors, not just spiritually, but emotionally, physically, and communally.

Jesus never turned away from the brokenhearted. He never protected the powerful at the expense of the vulnerable. He flipped tables. He fought for justice. He restored dignity. He invited the wounded near.

So must we.

This isn’t just about protecting our reputations or checking off legal requirements. It’s about reflecting the heart of Christ. It’s about building churches, ministries, and communities where survivors are safe and seen, not silenced or shamed. It’s about acknowledging that for every statistic, there is a story—and that story deserves not just our awareness, but our action.

If we say we follow Jesus, we cannot ignore this.

The cost of silence is too high.

The need is urgent.

And the time is now.

“The systems we build either protect the vulnerable or preserve the powerful. They rarely do both.”
— Diane Langberg

The Kind of Difference We Make

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“You cannot get through a single day without having an impact on the world around you. What you do makes a difference, and you have to decide what kind of difference you want to make.” — Jane Goodall

It’s easy to believe that our lives are small. That our choices slip quietly through the cracks of the day, unnoticed and unseen. But Jane Goodall’s words call us back to something truer: whether we intend to or not, we leave a mark. Every day. Every one of us.

That mark might look like the smile we offer a stranger—or the one we withhold. It could be the gentle way we greet our children, or the edge in our tone when we feel overwhelmed and under-slept. It might show up in the way we speak about people who are different than us, the way we show up (or don’t) for those on the margins, the way we care for creation, or the way we care for ourselves.

We’re always in motion, always rippling outward.

Some days, I find that thought heavy—like the weight of responsibility is too much. Other days, it feels like a gift: the holy reminder that my life is not meaningless. That even the unseen moments, the quiet kindnesses, the small repairs I offer in my relationships, matter.

We all shape the world with our presence. With our purchases. With our posts. With our prayers. With our patterns.

And if we’re going to make a difference anyway—why not choose the kind that leans toward healing?

What if we asked ourselves at the start of each day:

  • What kind of difference do I want to make today?
  • What would it look like to leave people more whole, not less?
  • How can I be part of mending what’s been broken—whether in my family, my community, or my own heart?

We don’t need a grand platform or a perfect plan. Just the willingness to be intentional. To be kind when it costs something. To be present when it would be easier to disengage. To be a little braver, a little softer, a little more loving.

This isn’t about perfection. It’s about participation.

You matter. You always have.
And today—like every day—you’re already making a difference.
May it be the kind that brings a bit more light into the world.

Beauty and Ashes: A Journey Through Ukraine

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A reflection from the front lines of grief, resilience, and hope

After a week of travel, teaching, and countless sacred conversations, I’m sitting in Nashville reflecting on all I’ve seen and felt. My journey to Ukraine this time was unlike any other—a collision of beauty and brokenness, resilience and sorrow, silence and song.

It began on a crisp Friday morning in Nolensville, Tennessee. My senior dog, Maci, seemed to know I was leaving. Her eyes followed every movement as I packed, full of the kind of knowing that only comes with years of companionship. The airport goodbye was tender—quiet, weighty. And from that moment on, I was caught in the current of something much larger than myself.

A turbulent flight to D.C. almost caused me to miss my connection, but grace intervened and I made it to Krakow. Slavik and his young son greeted me, and we drove the three hours to the Ukrainian border, winding through quiet villages and rolling fields. A stop at McDonald’s for cheeseburgers and coffee felt oddly grounding—one last moment of Western normalcy before stepping across the threshold into war-torn Ukraine.

We crossed the border on foot.

Each step on the cobblestones carried weight—leaving peace behind and walking into grief. The change in atmosphere was immediate, not just politically, but spiritually. In Lviv, I returned to the same hotel I stayed in last time. Familiarity helped, even as the city felt different. The golden domes still caught the light, but the air was heavier. The grief more palpable.

Each morning in Lviv began the same: a beautiful, generous breakfast followed by a moment of collective stillness at 9 a.m.—a city-wide pause to remember the fallen. Forks rested. Conversations ceased. For one minute, all of Ukraine stilled to honor those lost in the Great War.

It became a ritual that shaped the rhythm of my day. A sacred reminder that even amid the ordinary—coffee, eggs, chatter—grief walks with us.

At the seminary, I met 24 students training to become counselors in a country still at war. These were not theoretical learners—they were survivors. One student had a prosthetic leg. Another was a combat medic. A young woman had fled Kherson alone. Another had watched her hometown be destroyed.

They brought their full selves to the classroom—grief and hope, pain and persistence. And together, we created space for deep learning: neurobiology of trauma, treatment planning, post-traumatic growth, and narrative healing.

The classroom became holy ground.

Tears came freely. One student broke down mid-case presentation. Another asked, “How do I keep going?” after months of serving on the front lines. And yet, laughter showed up too—in role-plays, over coffee, and in the quiet joy of shared understanding. Hope insisted on making space.

Outside the classroom, beauty met me again and again.

Late-night walks on cobblestone streets where violinists played in the open air. Dinners at Jewish-Ukrainian fusion restaurants. Candles flickering during quiet conversations. One woman said, “There is more to save in Ukraine than has been destroyed.” I saw that truth lived out in every corner.

My translator had been sent to the front three times. He carried trauma in his body but translated with such care—turning pain into something redemptive. A young assistant in the department became a steady source of joy, always ready with help and encouragement.

Students offered small but deeply meaningful gifts—bananas, coffee, earrings, handwritten notes. One told me, “You are Ukrainian now.” I felt the weight of that blessing.

As the week ended, I was given a rushnyk—a traditional embroidered cloth used in Ukrainian weddings. Couples step onto it as they take their vows. Receiving one felt like a vow had been made between myself and this land, these people, this sacred work.

The journey back across the border was long—five hours in cold rain, every bag searched, every body tired. But still, kindness lingered. Strangers held umbrellas for one another. No words needed—just shared humanity.

In Krakow, I allowed myself one quiet day. I wandered through medieval streets. I watched a parade from a glass-walled café. I listened to the trumpet call from St. Mary’s Basilica—its abrupt ending a centuries-old tradition honoring a fallen hero.

It felt fitting.

Now, back in Nashville, I carry a strange mixture:

  • The deep trauma entrusted to me by students who are still living in the storm.
  • The ache of uncertain news from the front.
  • The warmth of dinner with Macon.
  • The soft glow of patio lights I strung with tired hands when I couldn’t fix anything else.
  • The anticipation of tomorrow’s table, where stories and laughter will meet again.

This work is heavy.
But it is holy.
And it is not finished.

How You Can Pray

  • For my students at UBTS, who are learning to help others while carrying their own unhealed wounds.
  • For those on the front lines and the families waiting for their return.
  • For the children growing up in war—may they one day know safety, peace, and joy.
  • For the church in Ukraine—that leaders would be renewed with strength and hope.
  • For the restoration of Ukraine.
  • And for my own heart—that I may hold these stories with reverence and release them with trust.

To those who prayed, who followed, who lifted me up from afar—thank you.
Your love was felt in every step, in every word.
Your prayers made space for this sacred work.

With love and deep gratitude,
Sandy

The Weight and Wonder of Being an Online Trauma Therapist

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Being an online therapist specializing in trauma is both deeply rewarding and uniquely exhausting. It’s a profession that requires me to hold space for some of the most painful human experiences—grief, betrayal, loss, abuse—while also believing, fiercely, in the capacity for healing.

The Space Between the Screens

There’s something intimate about meeting clients online. They are in their own space—sometimes curled up on a couch, sometimes taking a call from a parked car, sometimes in a quiet corner of an office between meetings. The screen creates a buffer, but not a barrier. In some ways, it allows for a kind of rawness that traditional in-person therapy doesn’t always invite. There’s no office door to step through, no waiting room to navigate. Just me, them, and the work.

And yet, there’s a heaviness to it. The stories don’t dissipate when the session ends; they linger in the quiet hum of my computer screen, in the way my body holds tension after logging off. Unlike in an office, where I might have a moment to reset before my next client, in the online space, I sometimes find myself staring at my own reflection between sessions, taking deep breaths, shaking off the energy that clings.

The Unseen Challenges

Online therapy comes with its own set of challenges. There’s the heartbreak of frozen screens and lagging audio when a client is sharing something profoundly vulnerable. There’s the frustration of technological glitches when the work demands presence and attunement. And there’s the reality that sometimes, I have to sit with my own helplessness—when a client is in crisis and I’m not physically there to hand them a tissue, offer a grounding touch, or ensure their immediate safety beyond the words I can speak.

There’s also the paradox of being so deeply connected to clients yet physically alone. In a traditional therapy office, colleagues might be down the hall, a quiet reminder that I’m not holding all of this by myself. In online work, the space between sessions can feel isolating, the echoes of difficult stories left bouncing around in my own home.

The Beauty in the Breakthroughs

And yet, there’s profound beauty in this work. I get to witness resilience unfold in real-time. I see people take tentative steps toward healing, set boundaries for the first time, reclaim their voices. I hear the shift in their tone when they start to believe they deserve more. I see the tears of relief when they realize that their pain is not too much, that they are not broken, that healing is possible.

Being an online trauma therapist means trusting in the power of presence, even through a screen. It means learning how to transmit safety and warmth with only my voice, my eyes, and the small ways I adjust my posture. It means bearing witness to both the worst and the best of humanity—the way trauma wounds, but also the way people rise.

Holding the Work and Holding Myself

To do this work well, I have to care for myself with the same compassion I offer my clients. It’s a lesson I’ve learned the hard way. I have to step away from screens, let silence fill the spaces where words once poured out. I have to remind myself that I am not responsible for fixing, only for walking alongside. I have to remember that healing is a process, and that I am simply one stop along the way.

Some days, I carry this work lightly. Other days, I feel its full weight. But always, I hold it with reverence. Because to sit with someone in their pain, to witness their return to themselves—that is sacred work. And I am honored to do it, one session at a time.

When the Air Still Bites: Holding Steady in the In-Between

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A reflection on presence, patience, and the quiet work of staying grounded

The day began with sunlight—bright and clean—the kind of clear sky that stretches wide over Middle Tennessee and makes the world feel a little more alive. But the air? The air still held a bite. A firm reminder that winter isn’t quite done, no matter how much I want it to be.

I stepped outside with a jacket pulled tight, bracing for the contrast between the sun’s golden light and the chill that clung to everything. The trees, still mostly bare, looked like ink sketches drawn across the sky. The red maples that had bloomed so bravely last week seemed stunned by the sudden cold, their tiny buds curling inward, hesitant.

I get it.
Sometimes, I’m hesitant too.

The work of the day was full.
Nine clients.
Nine stories.
Nine distinct ways trauma shows up and shapes a life.

It’s sacred work—and some days, it feels like standing on the edge of a vast ocean, watching wave after wave of sorrow roll toward me. The temptation is always to brace or retreat, but I’ve learned something better: to stay anchored.

Today, my anchor was simple.
Crocheting.

The quiet loop of yarn in my hands during sessions, the feel of soft fiber slipping over my fingers—it’s more than a habit. It’s a tether. A rhythm that holds me steady so I can keep holding space for others.

By afternoon, I knew I needed a shift.
So I took two sessions outside, wrapped in an afghan, settled on the porch.

Maci curled beside me, her small, warm presence grounding me in the moment. The air was brisk, but the sunlight on my face was soothing. I listened to the wind rustling through the trees and the faint sound of squirrels rustling through the leaves—remnants of autumn still clinging to oak branches, stubborn in their own way.

And in that stillness, I noticed something: the conversations outside felt different.
Softer.
Less heavy.
Maybe because the sky was above us.
Maybe because the earth was holding us too.

Late in the day, a shift in my timeline threw everything off.

The kind of unexpected change that doesn’t quite feel like a crisis, but still leaves you a little unsteady. A plan I had been preparing for—mentally, emotionally—suddenly delayed. The uncertainty wrapped itself around my chest, tight and unwelcome.

Was I relieved? Frustrated? Tired?
Yes.
All of it.

Macon and I went out for dinner to our usual spot. The sun had dipped, and the air had turned sharper again. Still, it was good to be out. To eat something warm. To let the day settle.

As I sat there, I reminded myself:
This is just another wave. It will come, and it will pass.

Tonight, I feel… not resolved exactly, but steady.

I’m learning that contentment doesn’t always arrive with clarity.
Sometimes it comes in small reassurances:
The warmth of the sun on your face.
The weight of your dog resting beside you.
The simple comfort of doing meaningful work, even when the outcome is uncertain.

Spring is still coming—
Hesitant. Slow.
But coming.

And for tonight, that’s enough

If you’re in a season of waiting…
If you’re walking through cold days while hoping for warmth…
If the work is heavy and the way is uncertain…

Let the small things steady you.

The sun still rises.
The trees still bud.
The next season is making its way toward you, even if it hasn’t quite arrived.

Hold fast.
Breathe deep.
And remember: this wave, too, will pass.