Not Greatly Shaken

Grace in the Ordinary

God has been very good—and kind and gracious—to Jenn and our family over the past few days.

For the first time in weeks, Jenn has had energy again. Real energy. The kind that lets her beat me out of bed, pack the kids’ lunches, and kiss us goodbye as we rush out the door. The kind of energy that helps her dream again—talking and planning and even preparing for her vegetable garden. She sat with us at dinner. She put our son to bed. These everyday moments, the ones she hasn’t had strength for, have returned, and they’ve felt holy.

We know what these moments are: mercy. Pure kindness from the Lord. And I sense Him gently telling me to hold onto them. Because the dark nights still come, and they come quickly. And when they do, I need to remember: it isn’t always dark. The darkness doesn’t last forever.

Waiting in Silence

Last night I sat with Psalm 62 in my quiet time, and it became a lifeline.

“For God alone my soul waits in silence; from him comes my salvation…”

Some moments feel silent—like God has pulled away, like the answers aren’t coming. But in this silence, I’ve been reminded again that God is my salvation. Not just my eternal rescue, but the One who saves me in despair. In hopelessness. In these dark valleys.

He is our Rock. Our Fortress. Our Refuge.

“I shall not be greatly shaken.”

That word—greatly—stood out. The promise isn’t that we won’t be shaken. We are. Our faith, our family, our future—they’re all being rattled. But the promise is that we won’t be greatly shaken. That even in trembling, we can run to Him. We can pour our hearts out to Him. And He will hold us.

The Day We’ve Dreaded

What I’m sharing today, I actually wrote yesterday. I couldn’t find the words in real time, but I knew I needed to put them down. Because yesterday was one of those trembling days.

It started that morning. Jenn noticed more hair than usual in her brush. And just like that, it began. The moment we’ve all dreaded. The kind of moment where it doesn’t matter how many times you’re told—it still hits like a punch to the chest.

Since Saturday, I’ve walked past Jenn’s wig at least a dozen times. I knew one day it would mean more than I could’ve imagined. And now, here we are.

Even writing this makes me feel a little sick—not because I don’t want to see Jenn without her hair, but because of what this means for her. The grief wrapped up in this moment. The sorrow in something so visible being taken from someone you love.

If you’ve never met Jenn, you might not know—she has beautiful, long, jet-black hair. It’s been part of her signature, her presence. I remember our wedding day. Her bright blue eyes. That long black hair flowing down her back. I was captivated. Still am.

But the first time I saw her walk that aisle wasn’t at our wedding—it was years earlier. She was home from college for Christmas break. We had just finished the Christmas Cantata at church, and as the service ended, Jenn came walking down the aisle to greet her parents who were in the choir loft. She looked right past me—her eyes fixed on them. And that’s when I saw her. I’ll never forget it. Those deep blue eyes. That jet-black hair. She stood out in every way.

Now, to think cancer is trying to take that too…

Her Glory, Her Crown

I’ve been thinking a lot about what Paul says in 1 Corinthians 11:15:

“But if a woman has long hair, it is her glory…”

Paul’s words were about worship order in his context, but he makes a cultural point—one that still holds: a woman’s hair was a sign of honor, beauty, and dignity.

That’s what Jenn’s hair has always been for her. A crown. A covering. But it’s also what she carries with or without it. Her dignity, her honor, her beauty—they are not in her hair. They are in her. I believe that. I pray she will too.

When we talked yesterday morning, I could tell—her heart was heavy. This hasn’t fully settled in yet, but it’s coming. And I just want God to guard her heart. To shield her from the lie that anything about her worth is being stolen. I want her to know she’s still Jenn. Still radiant.

But my heart aches. Because I can’t stop this. I can’t save her hair. I can’t make it easier. I can only sit with her in it.

The next few days will be hard. There’s no easy way around it. A day is coming soon when it will be time to shave her head. I feel a pit in my stomach just typing those words. And I don’t think there’s any way to truly prepare for it.

How You Can Pray

As we continue to pour our hearts out to God, we’re inviting you to do the same with us. Here are a few specific ways to pray:

1. For Jenn – That God would be near as she begins to lose her hair, and that her sense of beauty, dignity, and worth would be protected in His truth.

2. For Strength – Jenn’s second round of chemo begins Monday. Please pray this round doesn’t drain her as much as the first.

3. For Our Kids – That life would feel as “normal” as possible, and that they would continue to feel safe and loved in the midst of all this change.

Our Refuge Still

“Trust in him at all times, O people;

pour out your heart before him;

God is a refuge for us. Selah”

(Psalm 62:8)

We are being shaken. But not greatly.

We are heartbroken. But not abandoned.

We are waiting. But not without hope.

Thank you for walking with us.

Grace and Peace

Todd