For my dear friend Shauna and her family—
As you walk through a season you never expected, carrying both the weight of grief and the gift of a precious grandson, may you know that God is near, that your tears are seen, and that His love for Baker is greater than anything we could ever imagine.

Life has a way of bringing us face-to-face with moments we never prepared for.

We make plans. We carry dreams. We hold quiet pictures in our hearts of how life will unfold—the people we love thriving, the relationships we treasure remaining steady, the years ahead filled with the joys we have imagined.

And then, sometimes, the news comes.

A diagnosis.

A loss.

A broken relationship.

A dream that suddenly feels unreachable.

And the road ahead looks nothing like the one we had envisioned.

I have been walking alongside a dear friend whose heart is breaking after learning that her brand-new grandson, Baker, has been diagnosed with Cystic Fibrosis. The joy and anticipation surrounding his arrival was quickly met with a reality she never expected. The future she had pictured for this precious child suddenly felt uncertain.

She is grieving.

Not because she does not love him.

Not because she does not have faith.

But because she loves him deeply.

Grief is often the evidence of great love.

She is mourning the things she imagined—the carefree childhood she pictured, the experiences she hoped he would have, the ease she wanted for him. She is mourning a version of the future that may no longer exist.

And I have found myself reflecting on how often life asks us to grieve the things we thought we were guaranteed.

I know this grief in my own way.

And yet, one of the hardest parts was not just grieving what was lost—it was grieving what would never be.

The life I had envisioned had to be released.

And releasing it hurt.

Disappointing detours have a way of rubbing against our dreams and expectations. They can leave us feeling disoriented, wondering how the story we thought we were living could suddenly become something so different.

But perhaps one of the most sacred things God does in these moments is meet us exactly where we are.

He does not ask us to pretend the pain is not real.

He does not rush us past grief.

He does not shame us for mourning what we hoped would be.

The Bible makes room for lament.

The Psalms are filled with cries of confusion, sorrow, and questions. God’s people have always brought their broken hearts honestly before Him.

Lament is not a lack of faith.

Lament is faith turning toward God in the middle of pain.

It is saying:

“Lord, I do not understand this. I do not like this. This is not what I wanted. But I still believe You are here.”

And that is where God meets us.

Not only after the storm has passed.

Not only when everything makes sense.

But right in the middle of the chaos.

God met Hagar in the wilderness when she felt abandoned. He met Elijah when he was exhausted and discouraged. He met Mary and Martha in the grief of losing Lazarus. He met Jesus in the garden of Gethsemane as He faced suffering He did not desire.

Our God is not distant from our pain.

He enters it.

He sits with us in it.

He carries us through it.

I have learned that surrender is not saying, “This doesn’t hurt.”

Surrender is saying, “God, this hurts more than I can carry, so I am trusting You to carry me.”

Sometimes we ask God to restore what has been lost.

Sometimes He does.

But sometimes His greatest work is not restoring the circumstance—it is restoring our hearts.

He expands our capacity to love.

He deepens our compassion.

He teaches us that our hope cannot rest solely in the outcomes we desire, but in the character of the One who holds us.

Baker’s diagnosis has not changed God’s goodness.

It has not diminished God’s love for him.

It has not removed the beautiful plans God has for his life.

The road may look different. The journey may require more courage, more advocacy, more tears, and more dependence on God than anyone expected.

But God will be there.

He will be present in every appointment.

He will be present in every prayer whispered through tears.

He will be present in every milestone celebrated and every challenge faced.

Because the promise of Scripture has never been that we will avoid hardship.

The promise is that we will never walk through hardship alone.

Romans 8 reminds us that nothing—not trouble, hardship, or uncertainty—can separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus.

The detours of life are painful because we are human beings who love deeply and hope sincerely.

But perhaps the sacred invitation in every unexpected turn is this:

Will we trust the God who sees beyond what we can see?

Will we believe that He is still writing a story when the chapter we are living feels unbearable?

Will we allow Him to meet us not just in the outcome, but in the journey?

The road may not look like we imagined.

The dreams may need to be surrendered.

The grief may need to be carried.

But God is still good.

God is still present.

And even on the roads we never would have chosen, He is still making all things new.

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A Prayer for the Road Ahead

Father,

Today I lift up Baker and his entire family into Your loving and faithful hands.

You knew Baker before he was formed. You created him with intention, purpose, and love. Before his parents knew his name, You knew him completely. Before his first breath, You had already gone before him.

Lord, I bring You the grief, the fear, and the uncertainty that comes with a diagnosis no parent or grandparent ever wants to receive. You see the tears. You know the questions. You understand the moments when the future feels overwhelming and the weight feels impossible to carry.

Meet them there.

Remind them that they are not walking this road alone.

Give Emily and Zack strength for each day—not the strength to carry every tomorrow all at once, but the grace to receive what they need for today. Surround them with wise doctors, compassionate caregivers, and people who will love them well and walk faithfully beside them.

Protect their marriage in this season. When exhaustion comes, give them patience with one another. When fear rises, help them turn toward each other rather than away. Remind them that they are a team, united by their love for Baker and held together by Your love for them.

Give Emily peace when her heart grieves the easier road she imagined. Remind her that Baker does not need a perfect mother—he needs his mother. The one You chose for him. The one who will advocate for him, comfort him, celebrate him, and love him fiercely.

Give Zack courage and wisdom as he loves and leads his family. Strengthen him in moments when the responsibility feels heavy. Remind him that he does not have to carry this alone because You are walking beside him.

And Lord, we pray for baby Baker.

Surround this precious child with Your protection and care. Give wisdom and skill to every person who provides for him. Strengthen his little body. Bring comfort in difficult moments. Fill his life with joy, laughter, friendship, discovery, and an overwhelming awareness of love.

Help this family remember that this diagnosis is not the entirety of Baker’s story.

Baker is not defined by Cystic Fibrosis.

He is defined by You.

He is Your beloved child, created in Your image, held securely in Your hands.

Lord, give this family eyes to see Your goodness even in the hard places. Let them recognize the gifts woven throughout this journey—the smiles, the milestones, the victories, and the unexpected moments of grace.

And when they cannot see the road ahead, remind them that You are already there.

You are the God who makes a way in the wilderness and brings rivers in the desert. You are the God who meets us in our deepest grief and reminds us that sorrow is never the end of the story.

We trust Baker to You.

And we trust the story You are still writing.

Amen.

“Cast all your anxiety on Him because He cares for you.” — 1 Peter 5:7