The God of the Shadows

When the Shadows Fell

Since the last blog post, the day we had been dreading finally arrived. We knew it was coming. We could feel it inching closer like a slow eclipse. Jenn’s hair had been falling out more with each passing day—each treatment bringing a new wave of change. Showering had become one of the hardest parts of her day, not because of physical pain, but because of the emotional toll. Each rinse meant more hair in her hands. More reminders. More loss.

So earlier last week, she made the appointment. Thursday night. A quiet salon. A chair. A clippers-in-hand kind of moment. It felt like we were walking into a shadow that had been chasing us for weeks.

The Appointment We Dreaded

Jenn had finished her second round of treatment on Monday. Tuesday brought a little strength. But by Wednesday, the fatigue had returned. We had several quiet check-ins about the appointment—late Wednesday, again Thursday morning, and even that afternoon. I did what I could to stay busy. I filled my day with tasks, meetings, and small distractions, hoping to keep the heaviness at bay. But shadows have a way of creeping in, no matter how bright the schedule.

After my last Zoom call, I looked at the clock and decided to jump on the Peloton. It’s been one of my most reliable ways to release the weight I carry. But that ride—Thursday evening—was different. It felt like both the longest and shortest ride I’ve ever done. No amount of pedal strokes could push back what was coming. The shadow was already waiting.

A Holy Silence

The drive to the salon was quiet. Not cold. Just full. We pulled in right at 6 p.m. The salon was already beginning to close, just a few stylists left wrapping up.

Jenn walked in with quiet resolve. She sat in the chair, and Savannah, her stylist, greeted her with a softness I’ll never forget. She asked a few kind, careful questions. But there’s really no preparing for that kind of moment.

There’s no script for loss like this.

Clippers in hand, Savannah began. Chunk by chunk, Jenn’s hair started falling. Softly, silently, it drifted to the floor like feathers. But each piece carried the weight of everything we’ve been holding. The room was still. There were no tears. No dramatic breaking point. Just the quiet sound of hair hitting tile.

When it was done, Jenn walked to the back to have her head shampooed. What caught me most off guard was her stillness. Her face didn’t flinch. Her voice never cracked. She didn’t say much at all. She was steady—not because she wasn’t feeling anything, but maybe because she was feeling everything. A few weeks earlier, she told me she wanted to walk this journey in a worthy way, no matter what God had in store. That night, she did just that. Quiet courage. Silent worship. A sacred kind of strength.

And even in that silent room, I began to sense it—God was there, in the shadows.

When God Whispers from the Dark

A few days after the appointment, I was reading a devotional and came across a line that hasn’t left me: “the God of the shadows.” It landed in a place that already felt tender.

Because if I’m honest, I’ve often looked for God in the fire and wind. I’ve hoped for Him in the dramatic rescues, the big answers, the supernatural displays of strength. But the God I’ve been meeting in this season doesn’t always arrive that way.

He comes more like He did to Elijah—after the mountaintop victory, after the dramatic defeat of the prophets of Baal, after the running and hiding and fear. God didn’t come in the earthquake. He didn’t come in the fire. He came in the whisper. In the shadows of the cave. Quiet, but present. Soft, but unmistakable.

That’s how it felt in the salon. That’s how it’s felt every day since. I can’t point to anything specific He said. There was no booming voice. No miracle moment. But I knew He was there. I still do. The God of the shadows.

The Hardest Part

When we got home Thursday night, the kids didn’t rush out to greet us. They lingered in their rooms—quiet, unsure, maybe even afraid. This has been the hardest part of the journey: not the appointments, not the treatments, not the physical changes, but watching the kids try to process all of it.

They don’t have words for what they’re seeing. Their world keeps shifting under their feet, and all we can do is walk beside them in it.

But even there, God hasn’t left us. Sunday something beautiful happened. For the first time since Jenn’s appointment, the kids saw her without her wig or head covering (which I call her “cancer cap”). They were nervous, but they didn’t run. They asked questions. They spoke their hearts. They stayed.

It was awkward and tender. Honest and raw. But it was also sacred. Because in that moment, they started to name what’s been happening. And somehow, that helped them begin to see it—not as something to fear, but as something they can face.

Even there, God was in the shadows.

A Different Kind of Faith

Over the past few days, I’ve been learning something I didn’t expect. I’m learning how to grieve without rushing. I’m learning to sit in the discomfort instead of trying to fix it. And I’m learning that the presence of God doesn’t always come with light—it often shows up in shadow.

I’ve spent a lot of years seeking the mountaintop moments with God. But now, I’m beginning to trust Him in the hidden places. The quiet ones. The ones that don’t make sense. The ones where I have more questions than answers.

I’m beginning to believe in the God of the shadows. And maybe, just maybe, He’s even more real there.

How You Can Pray

So many of you continue to ask how you can pray. That means more to us than we can say. Here are three specific ways:

1. For Jenn’s strength – She just finished round two of treatment and is working to regain her energy before returning to work. Pray for rest, stamina, and healing.

2. For our kids – Summer is coming, and it will look different than they expected. Pray for peace in the midst of change, and for moments of joy that remind them they’re not alone.

3. For us to see God in the shadows – That we would keep recognizing His presence, even when it’s quiet, and even when the road ahead still feels dark.