My Faith Story: Part 3 — When Joy Remains in the Darkest Valley
Life was full—seven years into marriage, raising Emma and Max, pouring into ministry, and chasing adventures. I felt free in Christ, deeply rooted in His Word, and overflowing with joy.
Then came September 19, 2018.
Stephen collapsed into a season of relentless tachycardia and terrifying episodes. He had already endured three heart surgeries, but this was different.
Every day brought attacks: pain and pressure rising from stomach to chest, burning through his heart, dizziness, fainting, numbness. We lived on ambulance rides, ER visits, and endless tests that all came back “normal.”
He wasted away to bone broth, while I lay awake each night just to make sure he was still breathing.
“We’re exhausted, overwhelmed,” I wrote in a post six years ago. “Stephen collapsed the other night, and since then, he’s had terrible episodes daily. Wednesday was his worst ever—we had to call 911 and rush him to the ER. We’re constantly on the phone with doctors, begging for answers, chasing second opinions. We so desire to live normally again, but right now we’re just doing our best to rest in God’s presence.”
And without a doubt, God met us in the middle of the chaos.
Time and time and time again.
When I had nothing left, God sang over me, held me, dwelled with me.
In one of Stephen’s lowest moments, after another brutal attack, he said, “If I’m overcome by fear or sadness or pain, then something is off in my heart. None of those things can stand up against the love of God. His love crushes the darkness of these circumstances.” Even in his pain, God’s truth anchored him.
But the suffering was suffocating.
One night I curled up in a hospital bed with Stephen and wept like I never had before—snot, tears, shaking. His body was tapped out. “If we can’t find a cure,” he whispered, “sometimes I think about running away, so that you and the kids don’t have to carry this.” I grabbed his face: “I’m not going anywhere. If you run, I’ll hunt you down. We’ll make this our life. Whatever it takes, we’ll do it together, and we’ll find all we need in it.”
I poured out my pain to God daily, sometimes hourly. In a post I wrote: “Several times a day, I sit with the Lord and cry: I love my husband, it’s hard to see him this way, what if the treatment doesn’t work? And every time, I spill my tears and He restores. He turns each fear into joy. Every single time.”
By the time Stephen was admitted to UW Hospital, he could barely walk, talk, or move. Every test said “normal.” But he was dying in front of me. The doctors offered one last option: IVIg. “This is a shot in the dark,” the neurologist warned.
The night before, I wandered into a waiting room, collapsed on the floor, and sobbed until I couldn’t breathe.
I thought I was about to lose my husband.
But in that moment, God’s presence came like a flood—wrapping, holding, overwhelming.
Joy filled me in the midst of terror. I began to smile…laughing even, through the tears.
I knew then: even if Stephen didn’t make it or even if nothing changed, I had everything I needed in Christ.
The treatment burned through his veins, painful and raw—but slowly, life returned. Within days, he was walking and talking again. Over months of therapy and lifestyle changes, he regained his strength. In April 2019, we finally came home.
Looking back, the timeline is filled with collapse, ER visits, children watching their dad fight, prayers that felt like begging. Looking back on another post I wrote, I find that all of this still rings true today: “I read people say we’re strong, but the truth is I’ve never felt weaker. Torn apart, shredded to my core. And yet, in my weakness, Christ is my strength. Any strength you see is only His.”
This is our testimony: God didn’t just restore Stephen’s body; He transformed our hearts.
He taught us that joy isn’t tied to circumstances, but to His unshakable presence.
No amount of suffering can steal our joy in Christ. Even in the darkest nights, we discovered that what the Bible promises is true—His love crushes the darkness, His joy overflows in the trial, and His faithfulness never fails.
So the journey continues.
But we walk it differently now—anchored, surrendered, overflowing with joy that suffering cannot touch
For because of Christ, nothing—not pain, not fear, not uncertainty—can stand against us.
