Struggle to Sanctuary
This is my sanctuary in the midst of our struggle.
In this photo, you see a quiet view of Colonial Lake Park in Charleston, but what you’re really looking at is years of wrestling with God. I’m sitting here with my legs crossed, wearing my running shoes, looking out at the water while the sun breaks through the clouds. To anyone else, it’s just a beautiful afternoon. To me, it’s the place where I come to breathe when the walls of the hospital start closing in.
Our struggle began in 2004, shortly after the birth of our first son, when Amanda was diagnosed with Ulcerative Colitis. It was a severe case that led to her colon being removed in 2007. While that felt like a blessing at the time, we’ve spent the last two decades navigating the fallout: rampant scar tissue, chronic pain, and dangerous blockages. With over a dozen surgeries behind her, Amanda’s body is a map of resilience, but surgery now is a "life or death" last resort. The scar tissue is so intertwined with her small intestine that it’s nearly impossible for doctors to tell them apart. One wrong move could puncture the bowel without anyone even knowing.
Because of this, I’ve become a reluctant regular at MUSC. Charleston is beautiful, but MUSC is not a place we care to visit. It triggers a physical reaction in us—anxiety and, to be honest (and pun intended), diarrhea.
In the early years, I would simply shut down. Not again. Why now? To keep my sanity during the endless waiting—the dark rooms, the hard chairs, the back pain from sleeping in cars—I started running this path. I’ve been overwhelmed with grief in this park. I’ve felt the crushing weight of helplessness as a husband. Early on, I even shook my fist at God, accusing Him more than questioning Him.
But today, it’s different. It took years of struggle and adversity for God to grow me into a place of pure trust. Even when understanding is distant, I know my Father. I’m reminded of Joseph in Genesis 50:20: "As for you, you meant evil against me, but God meant it for good." I find myself saying that to the Enemy quite often. Every single time, I have seen God overcome, strengthen us, and provide a testimony of His specific goodness.
Recently, I’ve been leading a small group through the book Anxious for Nothing. This past Sunday, I had to leave Amanda at home sick to go lead the lesson. The study was on the importance of being specific in prayer. I realized I’m often guilty of "blanket prayers"—just a quick "Lord, bless this day." It’s like when I ask my boys how their day was and they just say, "Good," while my daughter tells me every single detail.
The author reminded me that my Father loves to hear my voice. He wants the details. He wants me to be intentional.
So today, as I sit here in my sanctuary, I’m being specific. My back hurts from sleeping in the car night one and a chair night two, but I am joyful. I know that no matter the outcome, the best is yet to come. People love to focus on the "prosper" part of Jeremiah 29:11, but I am leaning into the hope.
I look at this view and I hear Him ask, "How is your day?" So, I tell Him everything. I tell Him about the pain, the fear, and the fatigue. And as I sit here, the weight lifts. Because in the middle of the hospital stays and the uncertainty, Amanda and I have the peace that Paul writes about. It is a peace that defies logic and ignores the circumstances—a peace that has no other explanation other than... God.
"Rejoice in the Lord always. I will say it again: Rejoice! Let your gentleness be evident to all. The Lord is near. Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus." – Philippians 4:4-7
