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.
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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.
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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
