God is Love: Dr. Patti Schultz

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Monday, July 27, 2026

Devotionals for the Heart: How to love someone who is experiencing grief

How to Love Someone Whose Grief Hides Behind a Smile
A devotional by Patti Schultz, Ed.D.

Note: July is Bereaved Parents Awareness Month. It is a time to remember and sit gently with those who carry the weight of losing a child, at any age or stage.

“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”

—Psalm 34:18 (NIV)

She's the first face you see on Sunday mornings with bright blonde hair, a hand on the door, blue eyes that crinkle at the corners because the smile is the real kind, the kind that reaches all the way up. In her thirties, she remembers names, personal life stories, prayer requests, and little triumphs to cheer you on and praise God for.

What most people at the door don't know is how many babies have been said goodbye to. Enough to be a soccer team. But that number is carried quietly. It is folded small enough to fit behind that smile every week. No one hears about the nurseries never used, the due dates that came and went with empty arms, or the anniversary dates only a numb, grieving couple remembers. The bulletin still gets handed over. “How was your week?” is a question that still gets asked and meant.

It's easy to mistake this kind of joy for a life untouched by sorrow. But grief rarely announces itself. More often, it greets you warmly at the door and goes home to a quiet house. You don't have to have buried a child to know someone carrying an absence like that. And once you know, a natural question follows: What do I do with this?

If you know a woman who is suffering in silence and want to help, just love her well. Here are a few good ways to do that:

Say the name. If you know the name(s) of the child(ren), use them. Avoiding the name does not protect them from the pain.

Remember the date, not just the moment. A due date, a birthday, a loss anniversary. A short text like “thinking of you and (the baby’s name) today” on that date means more than anything said in the immediate aftermath.

Let go of timelines. Grief doesn't resolve on a schedule. Someone can be five, ten, or twenty years out and still be undone by a certain song or an aisle at the store. It is not a setback. It is pure love with nowhere to go.

Sit in the discomfort instead of filling it. You don't need the right words. “I don't know what to say, but I'm here” is often more healing.

Psalm 34:18 does not say God is close to the healed or those who've moved on. It says He is close to the brokenhearted. It is present tense, in the middle of the breaking. But Scripture doesn't stop at describing God's posture; it gives us one too. The Apostle Paul wrote these words in the Bible: “Mourn with those who mourn” (Romans 12:15) and “Carry each other's burdens” (Galatians 6:2).

Notice that neither verse says “fix” or “explain”. They say mourn with and carry. That's the whole assignment—walk close enough that she isn't carrying it alone.

Let’s Pray:

Lord,

You see the empty chair and the dates that ache. Be close to every parent carrying a loss the world can't fully see. Give me eyes to see the grief hidden behind a smile and the humility to know I won't ever fully understand it. Take away my need to say something perfect and replace it with the willingness to simply stay. Show me the names, the dates, and the small moments where love is needed most. Mold me into someone who mourns with those who mourn.

In Jesus’ Name.

Amen.

~*~
Song of Reflection #1: “Do It Again” by Elevation Worship, Cover in ASL. Listen to it here.

Song of Reflection #2: “Because He Lives” by Caleb & Kelsey Cover / ASL by Megg Rose. Listen to it here.

Song of Reflection #3: “Yet Not I But Christ in Me” by CityAlight/ ASL Cover. Listen to it here.

Song of Reflection #4: “Every Single Tear” by Scott Krippayne. Listen to it here.

Song of Reflection #5: “The God Who Sees” by Nicole C. Mullen. Listen to it here.

~*~
Author Bio:

Dr. Patti Schultz’s inspiring journey weaves a tapestry of compassion, resilience, and divine hope.

Formerly a public school principal, professor, teacher, and interpreter for the deaf, she now dedicates her life to a heartfelt ministry rooted in her personal experiences.

As a mother to three miracle boys here on Earth and a member of a heavenly soccer team, Patti’s story is one of unwavering faith and profound love. Her decade-long battle with infertility and recurrent loss fuels her deep compassion for grieving mothers, guiding them toward healing through the comforting embrace of Jesus Christ’s garment.

Patti’s gentle wisdom offers a safe haven for women navigating pain, reminding them they are never alone. Through her ministry, she seeks to envelop grieving mothers in divine comfort, encouraging hope, renewal, and the reassurance that God's love is always near, wrapping them in His compassionate hem as they walk the path to healing.

Living in northern Michigan, she cherishes precious moments with family and community, drawing strength from faith and connection.

~*~
Connect with Patti:
Website: pattischultz.com
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/dr.pattischultz/
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/Dr.Patti.Schultz
Email: dr.patti.schultz@gmail.com

Monday, June 22, 2026

Devotionals for the Heart: When God allows you to experience tough times

When we are pressed hard but not crushed in despair
A devotional by Patti Schultz, Ed.D.

"We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed."

—2 Corinthians 4:8-9 (NIV)

Can I sit with you for a minute?

I know summer has arrived. I can see it. The evenings are longer, the neighbors out on their lawns, the kids with their popsicles and their noise. Maybe you are watching all of it from somewhere that still feels very far away. Maybe you are doing the thing where you smile at the right moments and show up where you're supposed to, and nobody quite knows how much you are carrying just to get through an ordinary day.

I see you.

There is something about the brightness of it, the way the world just keeps going, relentlessly cheerful. Like everyone else received an invitation to feel alive this season, and yours got lost somewhere. Like joy is happening just on the other side of a window you cannot quite open. You are not behind. You are just in it. And it landed here, in June, uninvited and unimpressed by the weather.

There is a passage I keep returning to in seasons like this. Not because it ties anything up neatly, but because it doesn't try to. The Bible says we are hard pressed, but not crushed. Perplexed, but not in despair. Struck down, but not destroyed. Two words keep catching me every time I read this verse: but not.

Not, “it's okay now.” Not, “the hard part is over.” Just “you are still here.” And that is not nothing. That is, in fact, everything. And so is God. Still here. Not in a hurry with you. Not watching the calendar. He hasn't forgotten a single thing about what this has cost you.

I wonder if somewhere in this summer, hope might find its way to you in the quiet ways it tends to. Not announced. Not dramatic. Just a moment that catches you off guard, where something still feels like something. A conversation that goes longer than you expected. An evening that is just soft enough. A small, unremarkable thing that reminds you that you are still capable of being reached.

I think of the years I spent grieving children I never got to hold. The ones lost before I could meet them, and the one who was promised to me and then taken away. I remember sitting in a nursery I had barely begun that I had to quietly dismantle, certain that grief like that simply does not get redeemed, that some losses just sit there forever, unanswered. In a way, they still do. I did not get the ending I prayed for. But somewhere in the unraveling, I found that I had not actually been let go of. God did not rush in with an explanation or a replacement. He just stayed. He stayed through the waiting rooms, the empty rooms, the rooms I could not walk into for a while. That is the part I did not expect: not that the ache would disappear, but that I would slowly become someone who could carry it without being consumed by it. Hard pressed, yes. Still not crushed. I say this not as someone watching from a distance, but as someone who has waited through summers like this one.

I do not think hope means the pain is gone. Maybe it just means you are still reachable. Maybe that is enough to carry into today. Not healing. Not answers. Just the quiet possibility that you are held—even now, even here, even in the middle of a summer that arrived before you were ready.

~*~
Let’s Pray:

God, I'm tired in a way that's hard to explain to people. Summer showed up and I'm still here. Still in this. I'm not asking You to rush it or fix it into something pretty. I just need to know You're close. That You see what this actually looks like from the inside. Hold what I can't. And when something like hope starts to come, help me recognize it. Even if it's small. Even if it's quiet. I'm still here. And I know that matters to You.

In Jesus’ name, I pray.

Amen.

~*~
Song of Reflection #1: “It Is Well” (Acoustic version) by Kristene DiMarco. Listen to it here.

Song of Reflection #2: “Come As You Are” by Crowder (Cover by Vanessa Magnon in ASL). Listen to it here.

Song of Reflection #3: “Steady My Heart” by Kari Jobe (cover in SASL Translation by St. Vincent School for the Deaf). Listen to it here.

Song of Reflection #4: “Just Be Held” by Casting Crowns. Listen to it here.

~*~
Author Bio:

Dr. Patti Schultz’s inspiring journey weaves a tapestry of compassion, resilience, and divine hope.

Monday, May 25, 2026

Devotionals for the Heart: How God taught me to be more self-controlled

We All Have Smelly Words Sometimes
A devotional by Patti Schultz, Ed.D.

“Do everything without grumbling or arguing.”

—Philippians 2:14 (NIV)

There is a moment every parent knows. The moment before the words come out — that half-second when what we feel and what we're about to say are standing in the hallway together, and one of them needs to sit back down.

The Apostle Paul’s simple, almost laughably direct command in Philippians 2:14 is aimed right at that hallway: Do everything without grumbling or arguing. Everything. Even the homework battles. Even the spilled milk at 7 o’clock in the morning. Even the teenager who just rolled his eyes so hard you could hear it.

Before words become words, they are thoughts. And thoughts, like guests, need to be checked at the door. Not silenced, just screened. We should silently ask: Is what I'm about to say true? Is it kind? Is it necessary right now? That half-second pause is not weakness; it's the Holy Spirit doing His quiet, faithful work. Grumbling rarely starts loud. It begins as a murmur in the mind, a complaint rehearsed one too many times, until it walks right out the front door of our mouths and settles into the air around our children like a fog they can't quite name but can absolutely feel.

Here is a tender truth: Some of our words simply smell. They carry the odor of exhaustion, of unmet expectations, of fears we haven't handed to God yet. Grace is the deodorant. It doesn't pretend the smell isn't real; it transforms what goes out into the room. Before speaking to my child in a hard moment, I've learned to try breathing one honest prayer: Lord, let what comes out of me smell like You. A word laced with grace can correct without crushing. It can redirect without wounding. It can even say "no" in a way that feels like love because it is said from a place of care and compassion that lets the listener know they are loved.

Loving words are a currency we give, receive, and sometimes need to mop up from the floor. We give them when we choose encouragement over criticism, presence over distraction, saying “I'm proud of you” over silence. We receive them when our children speak their own brave truths to us and we resist the urge to defend or dismiss. And we mop them up on the days we get it wrong, which feels like most days for me, because parenting is not a performance. It is a long, imperfect act of love that keeps asking us to offer the same grace we so desperately need ourselves.

On the days I have already made a mess of it, when the words came out wrong and I know it, I found that going back is less scary than I thought. When I have to go back and mop up a harsh word, I try to do it with my whole self. Look them in the eye and say: “I was wrong, and you deserved better from me.” That is not weakness in front of your child. That is one of the greatest things they will ever see you do.

Philippians 2:14 is not a command to be cheerful at all costs. It is an invitation to carry our burdens without letting them become a burden on everyone around us. Somehow, in the middle of all that carrying, our kids are watching, not for perfection, but for what we do when we fall short. May they see in us someone who pauses in the hallway between what we feel and what we say…and chooses grace.

Let’s Pray:

Lord, set a gentle guard at my lips today. When I am tired and the words want to tumble out without kindness, slow me down. Let my thoughts pass through You before they reach my children. Where I have already spoken harm, give me the courage to go back and make it right. And in all the giving, receiving, and mopping up, let my children see not a perfect parent, but a loved and learning one. In Jesus’s name I pray. Amen.

~*~
Song of Reflection #1: “Speak Life” by Toby Mac. Listen to it here.

Song of Reflection #2: “Words” by Hawk Nelson. Listen to it here.

Song of Reflection #3: “Slow Down” by Nichole Nordeman. Listen to it here.

~*~
Author Bio:

Dr. Patti Schultz’s inspiring journey weaves a tapestry of compassion, resilience, and divine hope.

Monday, April 27, 2026

Devotionals for the Heart: When grief overshadows the beauty of springtime

When Everything Blooms and You Are Still Learning to Breathe
A devotional by Patti Schultz, Ed.D.

“See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it? I am making a way in the wilderness and streams in the wasteland.”—Isaiah 43:19 (NIV)

There is something almost cruel about spring when you are grieving.

The world does not slow down for your heartache. The dogwoods bloom anyway. The birds sing their first morning songs before you are ready. Children laugh outside your window, and the sky turns a particular shade of blue that only April knows and somehow, all of it hurts. I have stood at that window myself, feeling the strange loneliness of a world that keeps being beautiful when you are not ready for it. If you have felt that ache, you are not alone.

The Scriptures are honest about this tension. The Psalms are full of people who wept beneath a beautiful sky. Even the disciples, after the resurrection, went back to fishing—feeling numb and not yet sure what to do with hope that felt too large to hold. Grief does not follow the calendar. It does not know that it is almost May.

When God declares, “I am doing a new thing!”, He does not promise we will see it easily or feel it quickly. He asks something gentler: “Do you not perceive it?” Sometimes the new thing is so quiet, so fragile and so unlike what we imagined like a small green shoot that we see pressing through hard ground, a moment of unexpected peace, a morning when the ache, just briefly, lifts. Sometimes perceiving is simply not looking away.

Spring is not a command to feel better. It is a promise that God is still working. Life still comes from ground that looked dead all winter. He has not forgotten you in the cold season, and He has not forgotten you now. You are allowed to sit with your grief while also looking at the flowers. You are allowed to cry tears of sadness while watching a beautiful sunrise. You are allowed to let beauty reach you even when you cannot explain how. That is not a contradiction; it is what it means to be human and held at the same time.

God is making a way in your wilderness, even now. You may not see it whole yet. But spring is His gentle reminder that new things are possible. Even here. Even for you.

Let’s Pray: Lord, the world is waking up around me, and I am still so tired. I thank You for the beauty You have placed in this season, even when I do not know how to receive it. Help me not feel guilty for the moments when it reaches me and be gentle with myself in the moments when it doesn’t. You are the God who brings life from what is dormant. You are the One who makes streams in the wasteland. I trust that You see my desert place, and that You are already at work there, even when I cannot feel it. Teach me to perceive the new thing You are doing, however quietly, however slowly. And until I can, hold me through the ones who love me, in the mercy of each ordinary morning, and in the steadfast hope that You are not finished yet. In Jesus’s name I pray. Amen.

~*~
Song of Reflection #1: “It Is Well with My Soul” (song cover in ASL & CC by Rock Church Deaf Ministry). Listen to it here.

Song of Reflection #2: “Even If” by MercyMe (song cover in ASL with Brandon of the Deaf Millennial Project). Listen to it here.

Song of Reflection #3: “Goodness of God” by CeCe Winans (song cover in ASL & CC by Rock Church Deaf Ministry). Listen to it here.

Song of Reflection #4: “Held” by Natalie Grant. Listen to it here.

~*~
Author Bio:

Dr. Patti Schultz’s inspiring journey weaves a tapestry of compassion, resilience, and divine hope.

Monday, March 23, 2026

Devotionals for the Heart: Hope for when you don't truly feel okay

The O.K. No One Else Saw
A devotional by Patti Schultz, Ed.D.

“We have this hope as an anchor for the soul, firm and secure.”

—Hebrews 6:19a (NIV)

“O.K.” Perhaps you whispered that word again last night.

Maybe into the dark of your bedroom. Maybe in the car after you finally made it out of the parking lot, or in the shower where no one could hear you fall apart. That small word, barely a breath. O.K. As if saying it enough times might make it true.

I have pressed it into empty nurseries. Into hospital corridors. Into the silence after infertility treatments and the particular grief that has no name, no grave, and no casserole brought to the door. I have grieved children who arrived in my heart through adoption only to be carried away before they were ever placed in my arms. I have kept watch beside neonatal incubator in the small hours, willing tiny miracle bodies to hold on.

Hope and heartbreak are not opposites. They are, so often, the very same breath drawn in the very same moment, from the very same breaking place. I am somewhere between broken and becoming. Maybe that is where you are, too. Maybe grief is not tied to any particular date on the calendar. Maybe it simply follows you, loyal and uninvited, into each new morning.

If that is where you are, I want to sit with you here for a moment. Not to fix it. Not to hand you a map out. Just to be here, beside you, in the rocking. Grief is not a failure of faith. It is love with nowhere left to go. And it is holy.

In John 11:33-35, we see that Jesus Christ wept at the tomb of Lazarus. Not after the miracle. Before it. He stood in sorrow with those who were broken open by loss. He did not explain it, or rush past it, or offer a silver lining. He stood in it then. He stands in it now.

Did you know that “O.K.” is one of the most versatile words in the English language? Linguists marvel at how this small expression can bend itself to almost any role. It can be an adjective when saying, “She’s going to be O.K.” An adverb, when saying “Things are going OK, I suppose.”

But grief knows a different one. That exhaled, barely whispered interjection you say to yourself in the quiet after the worst has happened. The one that is not a promise. It is just a breath. It is just: I am still here.

There will be well-meaning people who will speak O.K. over you like a doctor giving a prognosis. “You’re going to be okay.” They will press it against your shoulder like a warm hand. And they are not wrong. But on the days when that assurance feels like a country you cannot find on any map, I want to offer you something sturdier than optimism.

An anchor.

The writer of Hebrews (a book in the Bible) was speaking to people who understood grief and displacement deeply. They were exhausted, persecuted, unsure if the hope they had staked their lives on was real. And into that trembling space, these words were released: “We have this hope as an anchor for the soul, firm and secure.”

An anchor does not stop the storm or make the waves lie flat. It holds you. It allows the boat to rock—and grief will rock you—without letting you be swept away entirely. Hope is not a feeling. It is a tether. A soul held fast, even when it cannot yet stand on steady ground.

You don’t have to be further along than you are today. Maybe O.K. is not yet an adjective that describes you. Maybe today it is only that quiet interjection, the exhaled acknowledgment. Still present. Still, somehow, held.

Maybe what you OK’d today took tremendous courage. You got out of bed. You answered a phone call. You let someone bring you a meal. You gave yourself permission to keep going, even when going felt impossible. That quiet, private O.K. you gave yourself—the one no one else saw—it counted. It is enough.

God does not need you to be fine to be near you. He does not need you to have arrived somewhere better before He shows up. He is the anchor, not the destination. He holds you in the middle: in the rocking, in the gray, in the season when O.K. is the most honest and the most courageous word you can manage.

What does O.K. feel like to you today? Bring that word, exactly as it is, to God. He can hold every version of it. O.K. You are still here. So is He.

Let’s Pray: Lord, I am somewhere between broken and becoming. I am not always certain I believe the O.K. that people speak over me, but I choose to believe in You as the anchor that holds even when I cannot feel the line. Be near to me in this grief. Let hope be not a feeling I must manufacture, but a foundation You provide. Tether me to You today. In Jesus’s Name I pray. Amen.

Song of Reflection #1: ASL Cover of “Held” by Natalie Grant. Listen to it here.

Song of Reflection #2: ASL Cover of “Even If” by Mercy Me. Listen to it here.

Song of Reflection #3: ASL Cover of “I Can Only Imagine” by Mercy Me. Listen to it here.

Song of Reflection #4: “Sound of Surviving” by Nichole Nordeman. Listen to it here.

Song of Reflection #5: “The Anchor Holds” by Ray Boltz. Listen to it here.

~*~
Author Bio:

Dr. Patti Schultz’s inspiring journey weaves a tapestry of compassion, resilience, and divine hope.

Monday, February 23, 2026

Devotionals for the Heart: God sees you and understands your deep pain

From Tears to Hope: Embracing the God Who Sees
A devotional by Patti Schultz, Ed.D.

Then she called the name of the Lord who spoke to her, You-Are-the-God-Who-Sees; for she said, “Have I also here seen Him who sees me?”—Genesis 16:13 (NKJV)

In the throes of deep suffering and quiet despair, a woman named Hagar came face to face with El Roi. He is described in Genesis 16:13 as “the God Who Sees”.

God noticed her pain, her tears, and her silent heartbreak. He offered her gentle comfort and renewed hope even when she felt abandoned and invisible. Just as He compassionately saw the woman in the Bible, God sees you. He notices every ache in your body, every tear streaming down your face, and every prayer in your heart.

I understand what it feels like to be unseen in the throes your own profound pain. Over the course of a decade, I endured the heartbreaking loss of nearly a dozen precious babies at various stages of pregnancy. Each loss shattered my heart and left me feeling fragile and vulnerable. During those times, I watched the people who I love (friends and family members) celebrate new life as I witnessed their joyful reactions to their positive pregnancy tests. I cried internally while being outwardly happy for them as I saw these expectant mothers prepare nursery decorations. I tried not to focus on the deep pain of my own dreams of motherhood not coming true yet as I received invitations to their baby showers. It often felt as if my grief was too heavy and too silent for others to truly see or understand.

There were moments when I questioned whether God noticed my pain or if He truly cared about my tears. This kind of overwhelming loneliness can feel isolating because it is an ache that words struggle to express. If you are feeling this way now, please know that you are not alone in your suffering. Your grief matters and your heartbreak is seen by a compassionate God who longs to bring comfort and healing to your broken heart.

During these dark and lonely moments, I clung desperately to the truth that El Roi, the God Who Sees, is near, especially in our times of deepest pain. He saw my heartbreak—every tear, every silent cry—when no one else could. His presence was a gentle reassurance that I was not forgotten. His love didn’t diminish because of my suffering; it became a soothing balm to my wounded soul. I learned through tears and trembling that even in my most vulnerable moments, God was holding me tenderly, weeping with me, and whispering promises of hope and renewal. His compassion is greater than any pain we carry. He understands the aches of your heart and longs to wrap you in His comforting embrace.

Take gentle comfort in the beautiful truth that we serve a God who sees us—truly, deeply, compassionately. He understands your grief, your frustration, your hopes, and even your moments of despair. He is not distant or indifferent to your suffering; He is right there with you, walking beside you in your pain. He sees your heartache and the deep sting within your soul, and His love for you is unwavering. In your moments of weakness, He is your strength and in your moments of sorrow, He is your comfort.

You are immensely precious in His sight—cherished beyond measure. God longs to surround you with His comforting love and to fill your heart with renewed hope in the midst of your struggles. He knows the deepest desires of your heart, those quiet hopes and unspoken prayers. Trust in His perfect timing, even when it feels slow or uncertain, and rest in His never-ending love. Believe that His plans for you are filled with purpose and hope, even if they differ from what you may expect or imagine. Hold onto the hope that, in His mercy and grace, He will transform your sorrow into joy, turning your mourning into dancing, and your tears into a testament of His faithfulness.

Remember, just as God saw me in my pain and carried me through those dark valleys in my life story, He sees you too. Nothing about your suffering is hidden from His compassionate gaze. Lean into His promises, cling to His unwavering love, and know that His mercy is new every morning. Your story is still being written by the One who holds all things together. In His perfect time, He will bring beauty from your ashes and joy from your mourning. Be assured that His love for you is unfailing, and His goodness will shine through even the hardest seasons.

Let’s Pray:

Heavenly Father, El Roi, the God who sees and understands, we come before You with heavy hearts burdened by infertility for some of us and other types of loss for others. Help us to trust that You see our tears and silent prayers and love us unconditionally. Please comfort us with Your gentle presence, strengthen our faith, and help us to trust in Your perfect timing, even when the journey feels long. May Your peace fill our souls, turning our sorrow into joy, and remind us that we are precious in Your sight, held safely in Your loving hands.

In Jesus’s name I pray. Amen.

~*~
Song of Reflection #1: “The God Who Sees” by Nicole C. Mullen. Listen to it here.

Song of Reflection #2: “You Say” by Lauren Daigle | ASL cover by Bee Adams. Listen to it here.

Song of Reflection #3: “The Blessing” by Kari Jobe | ASL cover by Deaf Millennial Project. Listen to it here.

Song of Reflection #4: “Never Alone” by Barlow Girl. Listen to it here.

Song of Reflection #5: “Every Single Tear” by Scott Krippayne. Listen to it here.

Song of Reflection #6: “Friend of a Wounded Heart” by Wayne Watson. Listen to it here.

Song of Reflection #7: “His Strength is Perfect” by CeCe Winans. Listen to it here.

~*~
Author Bio:

Dr. Patti Schultz’s inspiring journey weaves a tapestry of compassion, resilience, and divine hope.

Monday, January 26, 2026

Devotionals for the Heart: Why we can always reach out to Jesus Christ

Hope in the Hem: Why Your Trembling Touch is Enough for Jesus Christ
A devotional by Patti Schultz, Ed.D.

And He said to her, “Daughter, your faith has made you well. Go in peace, and be healed of your affliction.”—Mark 5:34 (NKJV)

There were days when simply remembering to breathe felt like victory.

Days when brushing my teeth required more strength than I thought I had. This was my reality through a decade of infertility, recurrent pregnancy loss, and an adoption that fell through.

In those dark moments, I longed for stories of others who understood. What I discovered in that fragile space was something unexpected: God's presence woven into every uncertain step, every whispered prayer, every tear-stained morning. Like the woman with the issue of blood (Mark 5:25-34) who reached for the hem of Jesus Christ’s garment in desperate faith, I too began reaching out—not yet knowing how the story would end, but trusting that Jesus was near.

When we finally welcomed three miracle babies, I understood her story in a deeper way: healing isn't always immediate, but His presence is always available. I learned that sometimes the miracle isn't just in the outcome, but in the strength He provides for each impossible day.

Perhaps you're entering this new year carrying your own heavy burdens—waiting for answers that haven't come, holding onto prayers that feel unanswered. The story of the woman who touched the hem of Christ’s garment speaks directly to that ache. Her desperate faith offers us a lifeline when all seems lost.

In Mark 5:25-34, we see a woman who, in desperation, reached out and found healing when she touched the hem of Christ’s garment. Despite her long suffering, she believed Jesus possessed the power to cure her. Her act was a simple yet profound step of faith—a quiet gesture that changed her life.

This story highlights that faith, when paired with unwavering trust, can transform even the darkest circumstances. As we face new challenges this year, we too can reach out to Jesus, trusting in His power to heal. Her story encourages us to believe that no matter how long we’ve waited or how heavy our burdens, Jesus is always ready to meet us with compassion.

What I've learned through my journey is this: Jesus doesn't wait for us to have perfect faith or eloquent prayers. He responds to the desperate reach, the trembling touch, the quiet cry for help. Through prayer, tears, and whispered longings, I experienced His grace in ways I never expected. The transformation wasn't always dramatic—sometimes it looked like tiny fingers grasping mine, or the strength to face another day. But each moment became evident that His life-giving presence was real, intimately woven into the fabric of my everyday life.

So how do we reach out when our arms feel too heavy to lift? How do we touch the hem of His garment when despair threatens to paralyze us? Start small. Consider creating sacred spaces in your day—perhaps a morning prayer where you literally extend your hand upward, or an evening journal where you write down the “small victories” of grace you've witnessed. These simple practices became my lifeline during the darkest seasons, and they can become yours too.

Whatever burdens you carry into this new year, whatever losses still ache in your heart, know this: Hope is never truly out of reach. It waits for you in the hem of His garment, in the sacred moment when you reach out and whisper, “Jesus, I need You.” Then in His compassion, Jesus will meet you there, ready to make something beautiful from your brokenness.

Let’s Pray:

Heavenly Father, thank You for this new year—for fresh mercies and new beginnings. I come to You with a hopeful heart, trusting that You see every need and hear every cry. Help me to reach out in faith, just as the woman who was suffering for twelve years did, knowing that Your power is available to heal, restore, and renew. Calm my fears, strengthen my hope, and fill me with Your peace. May I always remember that no matter how long I’ve been waiting, You are the God of miracles. Meet us, Lord, in our unique needs—You who know each of us by name. Thank You for Your unwavering love.

In Jesus’s name, I pray. Amen.

Song of Reflection #1: “Healer” by Kari Jobe (covered by ASL & CC by Rock Church Deaf Ministry). Listen to it here.

Song of Reflection #2: “Just One Touch” by Kim Walker Smith. Listen to it here.

Song of Reflection #3: “Meet Me There” by Lydia Laird. Listen to it here.

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Author Bio:

Dr. Patti Schultz’s inspiring journey weaves a tapestry of compassion, resilience, and divine hope.

Patti’s gentle wisdom offers a safe haven for women navigating pain, reminding them they are never alone. Through her ministry, she seeks to envelop grieving mothers in divine comfort, encouraging hope, renewal, and the reassurance that God's love is always near, wrapping them in His compassionate hem as they walk the path to healing.

Living in northern Michigan, she cherishes precious moments with family and community, drawing strength from faith and connection.

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Connect with Patti:
Website: pattischultz.com
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/dr.pattischultz/
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/Dr.Patti.Schultz
Email: dr.patti.schultz@gmail.com