The core of abiding, as I see it, is psychological flexibility. It’s the capacity to hold tension with pain in one hand, hope in the other, without letting one cancel out the other. This isn’t resignation; it’s deep trust. It’s trusting that even in silence, God is near. The difference between this and resignation is subtle but profound. Resignation whispers, “Nothing will ever change,” while abiding humbly stays in the truth, leaning into love despite circumstances.

The long middle is sacred time. It’s where we learn faithfulness, not through dramatic breakthroughs but in small, everyday acts of presence. As I reflect on Julian of Norwich, or on my own years of waiting, I see that God isn’t more present in the explosive moments, but in the ongoing insistence of staying, no matter how long the season. This is the real work of faith: remaining.

So where do we start? By asking ourselves: In what parts of my life is God calling me to abide rather than escape? How can I practice presence, even when pain feels overwhelming? Because true abiding is a gift and an invitation to stay connected, rooted, and resilient. And in that staying, we discover more of who we truly are, more alive, more loved, more human.

Abiding isn’t just a spiritual practice; it’s a way of living, trusting the presence of God and ourselves, in the long, ordinary middle of life.

If you want to explore this further, check out Season 2, Episode 1.

Listen now on: Spotify, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you listen to podcasts.

Abiding in the sacred middle with you,

Rachel

I know it before I open my eyes. Something in my body registers it before my brain catches up — a low familiar ache settling into my chest like it lives there. Because at this point, it does.

When April arrives, it means another year has passed…

Mother’s Day is coming. And I can’t forget.

This week is National Infertility Awareness Week (April 19–25). And every year when it arrives, my feed fills up with the same well-meaning posts. God has the final say. Speak life. Your miracle is coming. Don’t give up.

I want to be careful here, because I believe every word of that — and I also need to tell you what those words did to me.

The hole doesn't go away. You just learn to live around it.

What the Encouragement Posts Almost Cost Me

I am eight years into infertility. We have tried to adopt three times. I am not writing from the other side of this. There is no bow on this story. Not yet. Maybe not ever — and I’ve had to make peace with that possibility in ways I never expected.

For the first several years, every “speak life” post, every “God has the final say” declaration, every infographic listing every infertile Bible couple who eventually had a child, they felt like encouragement. And then, slowly, they started to feel like something else.

They started to feel like a checklist I was failing.

If God has the final say, and my miracle hasn’t come… What am I saying wrong? What am I believing wrong? What is wrong with me?

I want to be clear: the people posting those things love God, and they love people in pain. I am not questioning their hearts. But I was on the receiving end of that theology for years, and I need to tell you honestly — it almost broke me. Not the infertility. The framework I was handed to understand it.

I came closer to deconstructing my faith entirely than I have ever admitted out loud.

The Reconstruction

What pulled me back wasn’t a miracle. It wasn’t a resolution. It was a different framework entirely, one that had room for the messy middle, not just the ending.

Dr. Kate Bowler was a significant part of that reconstruction. A historian of the prosperity gospel who was diagnosed with Stage 4 cancer at 35. A woman who has written and spoken with unflinching honesty about what it means to hold faith and suffering in the same hands without forcing one to fix the other.

She taught me — through her books, her podcast, her writing — that the prosperity gospel isn’t just a fringe theology. It has permeated every facet of American Christianity (regardless of your faith tradition beacuse it is at the core of American mythos). And when you’re fragile, when the formula isn’t working, you feel its influence in ways that people standing on solid ground simply cannot see.

Which brings me to last Monday.

God Hitting Me Over the Head

I have to tell you something I find almost funny, in the way that only God can be funny.

This is my 8th April. The week before National Infertility Awareness Week. And somehow, in the middle of all of it, I found myself sitting in a room listening to Kate Bowler talk about her new book — Joyful Anyway.

In typical academic librarian fashion, I took five pages of notes!

I’m still processing…

But one thing she said I haven’t been able to put down. She said (this is as close to a direct quote as I wrote down) that those of us who are fragile are able to see the problems in the systems that are supposed to shelter and protect us.

Eight years in, I’ve seen it. From right here. From the middle. From the place the formula didn’t reach.

And I couldn’t help but notice the irony — that in my 8th April, the week before IAW, God was hitting me over the head with joy. Not the performed kind. Not the “my miracle came” kind. The anyway kind.

What the Bible Actually Says About the Middle

Here’s where I want to slow down, because this matters theologically.

The “speak life” framework isn’t wrong because God can’t heal infertility. He can. He does. Miracles are real, and I will never tell you otherwise.

It’s wrong — or at least dangerously incomplete — because it treats the middle as a malfunction.

As if the only faithful response to unanswered prayer is louder, more persistent, more correctly-worded prayer. As if the people still waiting are waiting because something in them hasn’t quite gotten it right yet.

But Romans 8 tells us that creation itself groans. Not as a sign of weak faith. Not as a temporary inconvenience on the way to resolution. As the honest condition of a broken world that God has not abandoned.

And in John 9, when the disciples asked Jesus who sinned, this man or his parents, to cause his blindness, Jesus didn’t say, " Have more faith, and you’ll see.” He dismantled the framework entirely. Neither. The suffering wasn’t caused by a failure of faith. It just... was. And God was present in it.

Paul asked God three times to remove his thorn. God said no. Not, not yet. No. And Paul was not faithless. Paul was not being punished. Paul was not outside God’s plan.

Faithful people carry unanswered prayers. That is not a malfunction of faith.

That is faith.

What “Joyful Anyway” Means (to me)

I used to think joy required resolution. That it lived on the other side of the answered prayer, the completed adoption, the positive test.

Kate Bowler’s new book is called Joyful Anyway. And sitting in that room last Monday, eight years in, still in the middle — I think that’s exactly right.

Not joyful because the miracle came.

Not joyful after the grief resolves.

Not joyful instead of the ache.

Anyway.

The theology I’ve had to rebuild from the rubble of the framework that almost broke me says this: God is present in the ache. In the 8th April. In the room on a Monday when you’re still in the middle, and someone hands you a framework that finally has room for where you actually are.

My wound isn’t gushing the way it used to. It’s more like an ache now. Scabbed. Still tender. Still there when I (or circumstances) press on it.

But I am still here. And I am — somehow, anyway — still finding joy.

Joy vs. happiness is a different conversation. For more details, see Joyful Anyway by Kate Bowler.

For Those of You in the Messy Middle

If you’re reading this during Infertility Awareness Week and the “speak life” posts are making you feel like you’re failing — I need you to hear this:

You are not doing it wrong. The ache is not evidence of weak faith. The unanswered prayer is not a verdict on your worthiness.

You don’t have to perform hope you don’t feel. You don’t have to explain why April is hard. You don’t have to have a testimony with a resolution yet.

You can hold your grief and your faith at the same time. You don’t have to choose.

The fragile ones see clearly. And what we see — from right here, from the messy middle, from the place the formula didn’t reach — is a God who is present not just on the mountaintop but in the valley. Not as a consolation prize. Just... here.

We’re here.

We’re still here…

And that — even now, even in the 8th April — is enough to build on.

I’m still here with you,

Rachel

P.S. Season 2 is still on track to begin in July 2026. I'll see you there.

Listen to Sacred Thorns on Spotify, Apple Podcasts, YouTube, and Castbox.

And I’ll be honest—I wasn’t sure how to wrap up a season about suffering that hasn’t ended, how to tie a bow on unanswered prayers when the silence is still stretching.

The truth is? You don’t. But you can learn to live in the middle.

In this episode:

• What it means to live in the sacred middle—the long space between unanswered prayer and resolution

• Elisabeth Elliot’s profound teaching on offering our suffering as sacrifice

• How to hold your hands open: not clenched in demand, not closed in resignation, but open as an offering

• Why our unfulfilled longings can become material for worship, not just problems to fix

If you’re stuck in the waiting room of your own life, if you’re tired of being told to either “move on” or “just have more faith,” if you’re wondering whether your suffering is for nothing—this one’s for you.

Listen now on: Spotify, Apple Podcasts, YouTube, and Castbox.

Season 2 returns in July 2026. While I’m away writing, subscribe to this Substack so you don’t miss the announcement. I’ll be sharing occasional thoughts from the sacred middle.

Your suffering can become your offering.

Living in this sacred middle with you,

Rachel

Maybe you’ve been praying for the same thing for years now. Maybe you’ve run out of words. Maybe you’re angry, confused, or just tired of showing up to a conversation that feels one-sided.

This episode is about prayer when Heaven feels silent—not for a day or a week, but for months, years, maybe even a lifetime.

In this episode:

• The difference between prayer as transaction and prayer as abiding

• Why persistence might not mean repeating a request until God gives in

• What lament teaches us about holding both faith and doubt

• The “nevertheless” of Gethsemane and what it means to stay in the room with God

• Why mystery doesn’t mean failure

If you've been told your unanswered prayers mean you lack faith, if you're wrestling with anger at God, if you're wondering whether staying connected matters when the conversation feels one-sided—this one's for you.

Listen now on: Spotify, Apple Podcasts, YouTube, and Castbox.

Prayer in the silence isn’t about getting what we want. It’s about staying connected to who God is.

Staying in the conversation with you,

Rachel

If you’re starting 2026 in the same valley you started 2025 in—if the thing you prayed would change by now hasn’t changed—this episode is for you.

We’re exploring the spiritual hierarchy we’ve created around valleys and mountains, and why saying “God is still with you in the valley” might be getting it backwards.

In this episode:

• Why “The God of the mountain is still God in the valley” isn’t as comforting as we think

• What happens when the “assigned this mountain to show others it can be moved” theology meets unmoved mountains

• What Psalm 23 actually says about God’s presence in the valley

• Why valleys are sheltered, fertile places—and mountains are exposed, barren terrain

If you’re tired of being told to climb higher to find God, if you’re wondering whether your story only matters if it has a victory ending, if you’re exhausted from all the “New Year, New You” messaging—this one’s for you.

Listen now on: Spotify, Apple Podcasts, YouTube, and Castbox.

God doesn’t still dwell in the valley. He just dwells there.

Walking through this valley with you,

Rachel

In this episode:

• Why I refused to put up a Christmas tree for three years during infertility

• What those of us with barren wombs understand about the Incarnation

• The Feast of the Holy Innocents: why the Church commemorates murdered children three days after Christmas

• How Christmas became not a denial of my pain, but a defiant declaration of hope within it

If you’re dreading Christmas this year, if the decorations feel like mockery and the carols sound hollow, if you’re tired of the sanitized version of the story—this one’s for you.

Listen now on: Spotify, Apple Podcasts, YouTube, and Castbox.

Light breaks into darkness. Present tense. Right now. In your darkness.

Walking through Christmas with you,

Rachel

Today is December 23rd. The final O Antiphon. O Emmanuel, God with us.

For the past week, the Church has been praying these ancient prayers, each one naming something we lack and calling on God to come:

O Wisdom... O Key of David... O Dayspring... O King of Nations...

And now, on this last day before Christmas Eve, we pray, O Emmanuel—God with us.

Not God far away. Not God waiting for us to get our lives together. Not God withholding presence until we’re worthy of it.

God with us. Right here. Right now. In this.

Tomorrow is Christmas Eve. The waiting is almost over, liturgically speaking. The baby will be born. The carols will be sung. The celebration begins.

But here’s what I keep thinking about as we stand on this threshold: Emmanuel doesn’t mean “God fixes everything.” It means “God with us.”

With us in the mess.
With us in the grief.
With us in the waiting, that doesn't end the way we hoped.
With us in the darkness, we can't dispel on our own.

Look at the verses of the hymn “O Come, O Come Emmanuel”:

“...and ransom captive Israel, that mourns in lonely exile here...”
“...disperse the gloomy clouds of night, and death’s dark shadows put to flight...”

This is the language of people who are not okay. People in exile. People mourning. People surrounded by death’s dark shadows. People waiting for something, Someone to come and make sense of the senseless.

And yet, right in the middle of naming all that’s broken, the chorus erupts:

“Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel.”

Not "Rejoice, because your prayers were answered."
Not "Rejoice, because Christmas makes everything better."
Not "Rejoice, because you'll get what you've been waiting for."

Rejoice, because Emmanuel shall come.

The promise isn’t that our circumstances will change. The promise is Him. His presence. His coming into our darkness, our exile, our unanswered prayers, our thorns, not to necessarily remove them, but to be with us in them.

This is the difference between the prosperity gospel and the actual gospel. The prosperity gospel says: “Rejoice, because God will give you what you want.” The actual gospel says: “Rejoice, because God gives you Himself—and that is enough, even when nothing else changes.”

It’s a command to find joy not in getting the resolution we’re praying for, but in the promise of Emmanuel—God’s presence with us, whether our prayers are answered the way we hope or not.

Christmas will come. We will light candles and sing carols. We will celebrate the Incarnation, God breaking into our world, not in power and triumph, but as a vulnerable baby born, laid in a feeding trough because there was no room.

Christmas has always been about God showing up in the least likely places. In the mess. In the middle of empire and exile. In a stable that smelled like animals.

In the places where we least expect Him.
In the moments when we feel least ready.
In the darkness we thought would never end.

So if you’re walking into Christmas carrying something heavy—unanswered prayers, chronic suffering, the ache of what’s missing—you’re not doing it wrong. You’re doing it exactly right.

You can mourn in lonely exile and sing “Rejoice!” in the same breath.
You can feel death’s dark shadows and trust the Dayspring is coming.
You can enter Christmas not okay, and still proclaim: “Emmanuel. God with us.”

Not God who promises to fix everything.
Not God who guarantees our prayers will be answered our way.
God, who promises to be with us. Right here. Right now. In this.

And somehow, mysteriously, that is enough.

Merry Christmas, friends. I’m honored to wait—and to hope—with you.

Rachel

P.S. The next episode releases Sunday, December 28th, the Fourth Day of Christmas and Feast of the Holy Innocents. We'll be in the season of light by then, but we'll still be learning what it means to carry both sorrow and joy. I'll see you there.

Listen to Sacred Thorns on Spotify, Apple Podcasts, YouTube, and Castbox.

In this episode:

• The rose blooming out of season that changed how I see Advent

• Why Mary’s blessedness came from her faith, not her fertility

• How liturgical traditions teach us to survive long seasons of suffering

• Practical ways to engage Advent when all the Christmas imagery hurts

If you’re dreading December, if Advent feels like a season designed for everyone but you, if you’re wondering how to wait well when you’ve been waiting years—this one’s for you.

Listen now on: Spotify, Apple Podcasts, YouTube, and Castbox.

You can’t change your season. But you can bloom within it.

Walking through Advent with you,

Rachel

In this episode:

• My journey from devastating loss to survivor’s guilt to authentic (not forced) gratitude

• The biblical framework that gives permission to hold grief and thanksgiving together

• Practical strategies for holiday gatherings when family doesn’t understand

• Why liminal spaces are where the most profound growth happens

If you’re dreading this week, if the “count your blessings” pressure feels crushing, if you’re wondering how to be grateful when your biggest prayer remains unanswered—this one’s for you.

Listen now on: Spotify, Apple Podcasts, YouTube, and Castbox.

You don’t have to choose between gratitude and grief. You can give thanks for what is while still longing for what isn’t yet.

Walking through this Thanksgiving with you,

Rachel

This episode explores why, and uncovers the biblical women we’ve overlooked—women God valued mightily with no mention of children whatsoever.

From Judith, who saved a nation, to Mary Magdalene, who proclaimed the resurrection, Scripture shows us that legacy isn’t limited to DNA, and your worth to God has never depended on motherhood.

Listen now on: Spotify, Apple Podcasts, YouTube, and Castbox.

If this speaks to you—or to someone you love—please share.

A few weeks ago (late October) in northern Indiana. My friend and I were walking across campus when we both stopped at the same moment.

A rose bush. With buds.

Not dying roses clinging to stems. Not the last stragglers of autumn. Fresh buds, tight and new, as if it were May. One bloom already open, cream petals with a yellow center, and behind it, more buds pushing through between leaves, starting to brown at the edges.

It had been cold for a week, maybe two. The kind of cold that makes you pull your coat tighter, warning you that winter is coming. The grass was still green, but leaves were starting to change and drop. The trees knew what season it was. The air knew—sharp enough to make you shiver.

But this rose bush was pushing out buds anyway.

“Blooming out of season,” I said.

My friend laughed and made some quip about it being a podcast episode title.

I snapped a quick picture (below) and we kept walking, but I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Something about beauty that refuses to follow the rules. Something about blooming when you’re not supposed to, when everything around you says it’s time to go dormant, to conserve, to wait.

I’ve been thinking about that rose bush all week.

The Rush Past Thanksgiving

This week—November 3rd—everywhere I look: Christmas decorations. Christmas music playing in stores. Social media posts declaring “Thanksgiving is just a DAY—Christmas is a SEASON. Don’t listen to the Grinches who tell you it’s too early!”

I understand the impulse. Maybe some people need to skip Thanksgiving because it’s too raw, too hard, too full of what they’re missing. Forced gratitude when you’re grieving isn’t spiritual discipline—it’s violence. (If you’re dreading Thanksgiving this year, my podcast episode on November 23rd explores how to practice gratitude in the middle of ongoing suffering—the “already and not yet” of being genuinely grateful while still deeply longing.)

But there’s something else happening here that troubles me. Something deeper than just putting up Christmas trees in November.

We’ve forgotten how to wait.

What We’ve Lost

The cultural rush to Christmas isn’t just about skipping Thanksgiving. It’s about misunderstanding what both seasons are for.

Modern American Christians have largely lost the liturgical rhythm. We think Christmas is a season that starts in November and ends on December 25th. But that’s backward.

Christmas isn’t a season that starts on December 25th. It’s a season that begins on December 25th and lasts until Epiphany on January 6th. Twelve days of celebration after the birth, not four weeks of celebration before.

What comes before Christmas? Advent. A season of waiting.

But we don’t wait anymore. We celebrate early because we’ve forgotten that waiting itself is sacred. We’ve lost the practice of longing, of preparation, of sitting in darkness before the dawn breaks.

The Church in her ancient wisdom knew what she was doing when she ordered the calendar this way:

Hallowtide. All Saints, All Souls, remembering the dead and the communion of saints.

Advent. Four weeks of waiting, watching, and preparing for the coming of Christ.

Christmas season. Celebration that lasts after the birth, not before.

This isn’t arbitrary. This is formation. This is learning to live in the rhythm of redemptive history, of promise and fulfillment, of longing and satisfaction.

And here in America, we happen to have Thanksgiving fall right in that threshold space between Hallowtide and Advent. A civic pause for gratitude before entering the Church’s season of waiting.

The Gift of Late Thanksgiving

I always thought it was strange that American Thanksgiving comes so late. Fourth Thursday of November, practically bumping into Advent.

But now, walking through seven years of prolonged suffering, I’m grateful for this timing.

By late November, I’ve already walked through Hallowtide. That triduum of remembering the dead, acknowledging loss, sitting with the reality that some people we love are no longer at our tables. I’ve already done the hard work of facing absence.

Then comes Thanksgiving. Not at the beginning of November, when I might feel obligated to perform gratitude. But at the end, after I’ve already walked through the hardest remembering, when I can practice gratitude despite the rawness, alongside the grief.

It’s a bridge between acknowledging what we’ve lost and entering a season of waiting with hope still intact.

American Thanksgiving isn’t part of the liturgical calendar. It’s a civic holiday that happens to fall in this threshold space. But maybe that’s providence, too. A national pause for gratitude right before we enter Advent, whether we realize it or not.

What Advent Teaches

Advent is a season of waiting in darkness. The readings get progressively more somber, focusing on the longing for a Messiah who hasn’t come yet. It’s preparation, not celebration.

We light candles one at a time, week by week. We wait in the dark a little longer before each new light. We practice longing.

For those of us carrying crosses of prolonged suffering, Advent is deeply honest. It doesn’t pretend the Messiah has already fixed everything. It acknowledges we’re still waiting. The world is still broken. The night is still dark. Come, Lord Jesus.

And then, only then, comes Christmas. The light breaks into the darkness. The waiting is fulfilled. The celebration begins after we’ve practiced longing, after we’ve sat in the dark long enough to appreciate the dawn.

This is what we lose when we put up Christmas trees the day after Halloween: the practice of holy waiting.

We lose the formation of learning to live with longing. We lose the discipline of sitting in darkness without immediately reaching for the light switch. We lose the rehearsal for every other kind of waiting we’ll do in our lives. Waiting for healing, for answers, for restoration, for the Kingdom to come in fullness.

Beauty Out of Season

That rose bush was blooming out of season. It shouldn’t have been. By all natural order, it should have been dormant, preparing for winter, conserving energy for spring.

But there it was. Buds opening in late October cold.

Here’s what I’m learning about blooming out of season: sometimes beauty appears when it’s not supposed to. Sometimes you find gratitude in the middle of grief. Sometimes hope shows up in Advent darkness. Sometimes you discover joy while carrying your cross.

This isn’t toxic positivity. This isn’t “everything happens for a reason.” This is the mystery of the already and not yet. Transformation can happen in liminal space. God works in the wilderness. Waiting itself can be fertile ground.

But here’s what’s crucial: you can’t rush the seasons.

That rose bush didn’t skip autumn to get to spring. It was still in autumn. The cold was still real. Winter was still coming. But in the middle of autumn, in the cold, it bloomed anyway.

You can’t skip Thanksgiving to get to Christmas. You can’t skip Advent’s waiting to reach the joy of Christmas. You can’t skip the darkness to get to the light.

The Church knew: you walk through each season. You don’t jump over them.

Living in Your Actual Season

I’m learning to live in my actual season, not the season I wish I were in.

Right now, it’s early November. Hallowtide is behind me. Thanksgiving is ahead. Then comes Advent, with four weeks of practicing the kind of waiting I already do in my life.

I don’t get to skip to Easter. I don’t get to fast-forward to the resurrection. I have to walk through the liturgical year the same way I’m walking through these years of unanswered prayer: one season at a time, trusting that each one has something to teach me.

The liturgical calendar is formation for prolonged suffering. It teaches us to sit with death before celebrating life. To practice gratitude before entering seasons of longing. To wait in darkness before lighting candles. To let Christmas be Christmas, a season of celebration that comes after the preparation, not before.

Maybe that rose blooming in late October was showing me something: beauty can appear out of season. Grace can break through when you least expect it. God can work in the cold and the dark, as well as in the in-between.

However, the rose still has to endure winter.

So do I.

And I’m learning that the Church, in her wisdom, gave us a calendar that teaches us how.

Waiting with you,

Rachel

And before you roll your eyes or brace for another debate about whether Christians should participate, let me offer a different perspective: Halloween isn’t the problem. It’s actually part of something profound, Hallowtide, the three-day observance that begins with All Hallows’ Eve (October 31st), continues through All Saints’ Day (November 1st), and concludes with All Souls’ Day (November 2nd).

These aren’t just random days on the church calendar. They’re deeply connected to the reality of spiritual warfare—a reality we tend to talk about more this time of year than any other.

Why Halloween Brings It Up

There’s something about Halloween that makes us more aware of the spiritual realm. Whether it’s the imagery, the folklore, or just the thinning veil between worlds that ancient traditions spoke of, we’re more willing to acknowledge in October what we ignore the rest of the year: we’re not just living in a physical world.

The early church understood this. That’s why they placed All Hallows’ Eve and the days following it on the calendar, not to baptize pagan festivals, but to boldly declare: We know spiritual warfare is real. We know evil exists. But we also know that the saints have gone before us, that the souls of the faithful departed are held in God’s love, and that Christ has already won the victory.

Halloween, when understood through the lens of Hallowtide, isn’t about glorifying evil. It’s about acknowledging the battle and remembering who wins.

The Battle Most of Us Are Actually Fighting

But here’s what I’ve learned through years of ongoing suffering: spiritual warfare doesn’t usually look like Hollywood portrays it. It’s not dramatic exorcisms or obvious demonic possession.

For those of us carrying lasting wounds—chronic illness, infertility, caregiving burdens, grief that won’t lift, mental health battles—the battlefield is far more subtle and far more personal.

In Episode 3 of Sacred Thorns, I share about a Mother’s Day service that became one of the most profound experiences of spiritual warfare I’ve ever faced. Not because anything supernatural happened, but because I realized the enemy’s whispers were deafening: “Run. You don’t belong here. This is for everyone but you.”

And the victory? It wasn’t dramatic deliverance. It was simply staying in the pew when everything in me screamed to flee.

Tomorrow’s Invitation

So tomorrow, as you see jack-o’-lanterns and costumes, as you hand out candy or attend fall festivals, consider this: What if these days—All Hallows’ Eve, All Saints’ Day, All Souls’ Day—are actually inviting us to acknowledge something we need to face all year long?

That the battle is real. That our wounds can become targets. That the enemy knows exactly where we’re bleeding. But also, standing firm IS victory.

In the episode, I walk through:

• How to recognize the difference between natural grief and spiritual attack

• The enemy’s most common tactics across all forms of suffering

• Why the prosperity gospel actually aids the enemy’s work

• Practical strategies for fighting battles no one else can see

• How our wounds can become weapons in God’s hands

If you’re carrying any kind of lasting cross—if there’s pain that won’t resolve, prayers that seem unanswered, or struggles that others can’t see—this conversation is for you.

Tomorrow night, as Halloween fades and we move into All Saints’ Day, remember: we’re not fighting alone. The saints have gone before us. The battle belongs to the Lord. And sometimes, the most powerful act of warfare is simply refusing to move when everything screams to run.

Listen to Episode 3 on your preferred platform: Spotify, Apple Podcasts, Castbox, or YouTube.

New: Full transcripts for Episodes 1-2 are not available on the Sacred Thorns Substack!

Happy Hallowtide, friends. May you stand firm.

Rachel

I was teaching my third and fourth grade Sunday School class this week about the parable of the persistent widow. You know the one, the widow keeps bothering the judge who doesn’t care about her case, doesn’t care about her, doesn’t care about God. She just keeps showing up at his courthouse, asking for justice.

The kids were fixated on how annoyed the judge was. I wondered if they were missing the point entirely.

But when we finished the story, I asked what they’d learned. One boy raised his hand: “God doesn’t always answer us right away, but that doesn’t mean we should give up asking.”

I felt relief in that moment. I hope this understanding sticks with him. I hope it stays with all of them as they grow older and life gets hard and “not right away” starts to mean something they can’t imagine yet.

What Not Right Away Can Mean

Third and fourth graders can grasp persistence. They understand that sometimes you have to ask more than once. They know what it’s like to wait for something they want.

Seven years of infertility has taught me that they won’t understand for a long time: “not right away” can mean seven years. Or fifteen. Or twenty. Or never in the way you imagined.

The widow in the parable wasn’t given a timeline. She wasn’t promised that if she asked exactly ten times, or prayed with enough faith, or said the right words, she’d get her answers. She just kept coming back.

Day after day, she walked to that courthouse. Her neighbors watched. The judge rolled his eyes when he saw her coming. She didn’t have new arguments. She didn’t have better words. She just showed up again. What must have that cost her?

I’ve been asking God for the same thing for seven years now. I’ve run out of new words. I’ve exhausted every angle of prayer I know. Some mornings I wake up and wonder if there’s any point in praying at all when nothing has changed, when heaven feels silent, when I’m not sure anyone’s listening. But I keep showing up.

There’s a kind of intimacy that develops through praying the same prayer for years, through continuing the conversation even when it feels one-sided, through choosing relationship with God even when you don’t understand His silence.

Like old friends who can sit together without speaking, I’m learning to simply be in God’s presence with my longing. I don’t always have words anymore. Sometimes I just sit there, holding my desire before Him, trusting that He sees it even when He doesn’t answer it.

This is the mystery the widow understood: God’s silence is not the same as God’s absence. The judge’s annoyance didn’t mean the widow wasn’t heard. Heaven’s quiet doesn’t mean our prayers bounce off the ceiling.

When the Answer Doesn’t Come

Here’s what I couldn’t tell those third and fourth graders, what they’re too young to carry: the widow got her justice. But not everyone does. Not in the way they’re asking for. Not in this life.

I don’t know if I’ll ever hold a child of my own. After seven years with no living children and the door to adoption being slammed each time we try to go down that path, I know it would take a miracle. And I’m learning that sometimes God’s answer to persistent prayer is to give us the strength to keep praying, not the thing we’re praying for. That sounds like a consolation prize when you write it out. It feels like one too, if I’m honest.

But I’m also learning that the widow’s persistence changed her even if it hadn’t changed the judge. Those daily walks to the courthouse, the refusal to disappear, all of it shaped her into someone who could stand before injustice and not crumble.

My seven years of persistent prayer haven’t given me a child. But they’ve given me something I didn’t know I needed: a faith that doesn’t depend on getting what I ask for. A relationship with God that’s deeper than transaction. A trust that somehow survives disappointment.

I don’t say this because I’ve made peace with it. Most days, I haven’t. I say it because it’s true even when it doesn’t feel like enough.

The persistent widow kept showing up, and eventually her prayer was answered. I keep showing up, and maybe mine won’t be, not the way I’m asking. Both of us are practicing the same faith.

Keep Showing Up

I’m learning to keep praying even when “not right away” stretches longer than I can imagine. Keep showing up even when even when heaven feels silent, even when nothing changes.

The widow kept returning to the courthouse. I keep returning to the same conversation with God every morning.

All of it is faith. All of it is trust. All of it matters.

That third-grade boy understood something I needed to hear again: we don’t give up asking. Not because we’re guaranteed the answer we want, but because showing up itself is prayer. Persistence itself is trust.

The widow taught me that. And this week, a classroom of children reminded me.

I’m still here, God. Still asking and still showing up.

Even after seven years.

If you’re reading this, you’re here at the very beginning. Thank you.

Sacred Thorns launched today, a podcast where we meet God in the wounds that won’t heal and the prayers that seem unanswered.

Two episodes are live now:

Episode 1: The Day Everything Changed

Episode 2: Where Is God in the “No”? Beyond Prosperity Gospel

Listen on your preferred platform:

• Spotify

• Apple Podcasts

• Castbox

• YouTube

Thank you for being here. Thank you for listening. Thank you for walking this road together.

You’re not waiting alone.

Rachel

P.S. If these episodes resonate with someone you know, please share. Sometimes the most powerful ministry is simply letting someone know they’re not alone in their questions.

I hit “publish” on the trailer two days ago, and I’m still shaking a little.

There’s something terrifying about putting your deepest wounds on the internet for strangers to hear. Part of me wants to crawl under a blanket and pretend I never had this idea. But then I remember why I started this project in the first place: my story touched and impacted people I never expected.

Sunday, October 12, 2025, is our official launch date. Just 17 days away, and I can’t believe we’re almost there.

Listen to the trailer and subscribe on:

• YouTube

• Spotify

• Apple Podcasts

• Castbox

If you listen to podcasts on other platforms, let me know in the comments or send me an email. I will do my best to be available wherever you listen.

Leave a comment

Why Sacred Thorns?

Sacred Thorns is a podcast for anyone carrying invisible crosses, whether that’s infertility, chronic illness, caregiving, mental health struggles, grief that won’t lift, or any form of ongoing suffering.

Sacred Thorns exists because I kept sitting in church services, support groups, and even therapy sessions, feeling like my experience didn’t quite fit anywhere. My infertility journey has lasted seven years now, and somewhere along the way, I realized that all the “encouragement” I was receiving assumed my story would eventually have a happy ending. What about those of us still waiting? What about the stories that don’t resolve the way we hoped?

This podcast is my attempt to create the space I wish had existed when I first started carrying this cross. A place where we can talk honestly about the spiritual dimensions of ongoing suffering without rushing to tie everything up with a neat bow.

I’ve been working on these first few episodes for the last month, oscillating between excitement and terror. What if no one listens? What if everyone thinks I’m just complaining? What if I’m wrong about God using our wounds?

But then I remember that moment on Mother’s Day when I chose to stay in that pew instead of running to my car to cry in private. That simple act of remaining became one of the most profound spiritual battles I’ve ever fought. And I think maybe others need to hear that their staying matters too.

When to expect new episodes

New episodes will drop on the second and fourth Sundays of each month when we're in season. I’m planning to take breaks between seasons because, honestly, this content is heavy, and I want to make sure I’m processing well before asking you to process with me.

If you’ve been carrying something that feels too big, too long, or complicated for the usual spiritual platitudes, I think you’ll find a home here. We will explore some hard questions together, and I can’t promise we’ll always find satisfying answers. But we won’t be doing it alone.

Thank you for being here from the beginning. Your encouragement over these past few weeks has meant more than you know.

P.S. The trailer is less than 2 minutes long, but it will give you a good sense of whether this is for you. And if you know someone who might need this kind of space, would you share it with them? Sometimes the best ministry is just letting people know they’re not the only ones asking these questions.

Share

"You need to release this," my nephew told me yesterday. "People need what you have to share."

He's right.

This October, I'm launching Sacred Thorns. A podcast born from seven years of infertility, countless unanswered prayers, and the discovery that sometimes God meets us most profoundly in our wounds.

For anyone carrying chronic illness, grief, infertility, or suffering that won't resolve: you're not alone.

For anyone exhausted from pretending everything's fine: there's space here.

For anyone whose faith needs room for both tears and trust: welcome home.

Sacred Thorns launches October 2025!

Stay tuned. 🌿