I took another bath around 1 a.m. last night because the ache in my legs was so frustrating I couldn’t lay in bed any longer. I finally fell asleep around 2:30, already knowing the kids would be ready to go the moment their light turned green at 7 a.m.

We had 8:30 a.m. Mass the next morning, and honestly—I felt like crap. I was sleep-deprived, my body hurt, and I truly didn’t want to go. Every excuse ran through my head. But I went anyway. And there are perks to marrying a Jesus-loving man, because on the days you’d rather stay home and have a lazy morning, you’re reminded why you go to church—not as another checkmark, but because whatever you’re carrying, if you open yourself up and allow Him, He will help you carry it.

Maybe that’s the misconception with church. We think we’ll walk in, sit down, and walk out with everything suddenly going our way—like God is some kind of magic genie. And if that’s how it worked, let’s be honest, every pew would be packed every Sunday. But that’s not how it works. Instead, we’re invited to show up as we are and open ourselves up—not to instant solutions, but to Him. To let Him speak. To help us understand the journey we’re walking through, even when it looks nothing like what we thought it would. Church isn’t about God changing our circumstances on demand; it’s about God meeting us in them.

If you really know me, you know how hard pregnancy has always been for me—both mentally and physically. I often get asked, “Why do you do it?” And I always say the same thing: because the nine months don’t compare to the forever reward after. I’ll stand on that hill until the day I die.

But this pregnancy… this one has been different. Harder on my body than any before, which has naturally affected me mentally too.

As I sat in church, I didn’t sing with the community that day. I just needed to be there. I needed to talk to God. I stared at the crucifix and quietly begged Him to take the pain away. I asked why this pregnancy felt like so much suffering. I asked how He could possibly understand how long the days and nights feel—just trying to make it to the next minute.

And then it hit me as my eyes were drawn to the wounds on His hands and feet.

Hanging on the cross, every second must have felt like days. The aching pain running through His body, unable to do anything but wait. And suddenly, my own ache—day and night—felt familiar. All I can do right now is wait. Wait for the timing to be right. Even though I would happily argue that my earlier timing would be much better than God’s 🙃

At the end of Mass, someone hugged me. Not a quick “how’s it going” hug—but one of those hugs where someone just holds you and sees what’s underneath. And I almost cried, because I didn’t realize how badly I needed it.

It felt like Jesus knew I wanted to argue and question everything. Like nothing He said was going to change my mind—so instead, He did what only He could do in that moment. I could hear Him saying, “I know it’s hard. You’re on the homestretch. Just hang in there a little longer. I’m with you.”

If you’re walking through a season of suffering—wondering if you’ll make it through the next day, or even the next hour—this is for you. Maybe the days feel dark. Maybe the smallest tasks feel impossible. Maybe you’re wondering if the light will ever come again.

Know this: He sees you.

He sees you in your suffering.

He sees every tear that falls.

He hears every cry for help.

And He is working—even when you can’t see it.

He is carrying you when you can’t carry yourself anymore.

Jesus loves you today.

Even on the days you don’t want to accept His unconditional love. 🤍