Danielle | Germany

God was closer than I thought.

← Read Part 2

And yet…
in the midst of this inner battle…

the Lord gave me a dream.

A dream so real
that when I woke up,
I struggled to accept
that it had not truly happened.

I saw my mother again.

She was beautiful.

Radiant.
Peaceful.
Filled with joy.

She was dressed in white.

And she seemed to carry a light
that did not belong to this world.

Something pure.
Alive.
Heavenly.

We walked together.

For a long time.

We talked about everything and nothing.
We laughed.

Like before.

As if nothing had ever happened.

As if she had never left.

And for a few moments…

everything felt complete again.

I felt safe.

At home.

As though my heart had finally found again
what it had been missing for so long.

But then…

I woke up.

And the moment I realized
it had only been a dream…

something inside me collapsed all over again.

Reality hit me with brutal force.

She was gone.

And that emptiness…

felt even greater than before.

I cried.

Deeply.

Like someone
exhausted down to the soul.

Like someone
who no longer knew how to carry
such unbearable pain.

But without even realizing it…

something had begun to change inside me.

Not suddenly.

Not dramatically.

Gently.

Very gently.

As if God had begun rebuilding,
in silence,
the broken pieces of my heart.

The anger that had lived inside me
for so long
slowly began to lose its strength.

And underneath that anger…

there was still something else.

An immense sadness.
A deep ache.
A loneliness difficult to explain.

But also…

the first signs
of inner healing.

One day,
in the middle of my distress,

the Holy Spirit reminded me
of a phrase my mother used to repeat to me:

“In loneliness,
you are never truly alone.”

And while I reflected on those words…

I heard deep within my heart
a gentle voice.

A voice filled with peace.

“I am here.”

Only three words.

But those three words
touched something inside me
that had been closed for a very long time.

And for the first time…

I understood what my mother
had been trying to teach me
all those years.

That even when I cannot feel Him…

God is there.

That His presence does not depend
on what I feel or see.

And that day…

I cried differently.

Not only because of pain.

But because in the middle of my tears…

something inside me
was finally beginning to heal.

A year later,
the Lord allowed us
to finally organize
an official funeral for my mother.

Because of the lockdown,
it had not been possible sooner.

I returned there
for several days.

And honestly…

even today,
I still do not know
how we managed to organize everything.

The Lord opened doors for us
in incredible ways.

The resources.
The organization.
The paperwork.

He provided for everything.

And while I was there,
I was running everywhere.

I wanted everything to be perfect
to honor my mother
one last time.

But despite all the chaos…

God continued His work inside me.

Gently.

Silently.

And during that season…

I managed to write a message
for my mother.

One final tribute.

A few lines
that came from the deepest part of my heart.

“Dear Mom,

I always believed
you left far too soon.

But with time,
I came to understand
that our perception of time is so limited.

There is no measure capable
of truly grasping its value.

All we can do
is live the life the Lord has given us
in a way that pleases Him,
and find favor in His eyes.

And I am convinced, my precious mother,
that YOU found favor
in our Lord Jesus Christ’s eyes.

And for that reason,
He called you back to Him
so that you would remain with Him forever.

We miss you deeply, Mom.

But as Saint Augustine once said so beautifully:

“You are not far away…
just on the other side of the road.”

Your loving daughter,
Danielle.”

But after the funeral…

something collapsed inside me again.

All that time,
I had been busy.

Organizing.
Managing.
Serving others.

I had never truly taken the time
to feel.

And when everything stopped…

the pain came rushing back all at once.

Like a wave impossible to hold back.

I cried every day.

Sometimes for hours.

A deep pain.

Burning.

As if I had only just learned
that my mother was gone.

And despite all the comfort
God had already begun pouring into me…

a part of me
was still fighting.

I remembered everything He had shown me.

His goodness.
His love.
His presence.

But sometimes…

nothing seemed able to calm the pain.

And one morning, during prayer…

God brought back a memory.

With overwhelming clarity.

As though I were reliving the entire scene.

I was about fourteen or fifteen years old.

We were all gathered in the living room
when my father told us
that my mother needed to be hospitalized.

He tried to reassure us.

He said it was only for tests.

But something inside me
was already afraid.

The next day,
I went to the clinic.

And the farther I walked through the hallways…

the more a strange fear
rose inside me.

Then I saw my family.

My aunts.
My grandmothers.

And I understood
that something was wrong.

I started running
toward my mother’s room.

The door was slightly open.

And there…

I saw my father crying.

Before that day,
I had almost never seen him cry.

And in that instant…

something inside me completely collapsed.

Because his tears
could only mean one thing:

I was losing my mother.

When I entered the room…

she was lying there,
connected to several machines.

So pale.

I took her hand.

It was ice cold.

I wanted to believe
everything would still be okay.

Then suddenly…

the machines began to sound alarms.

The doctors rushed in.

And we were forced out of the room.

That night…

I cried out to God.

I begged Him to save my mother.

To heal her.

I prayed with everything I had inside me.

And a few hours later…

a friend of my mother came to get me.

She brought me back to see her.

And this time…

my mother was doing better.

She looked at me.

She squeezed my hand.

And she simply said:

“It’s going to be okay.”

Those words calmed me.

And through all those years…

I had never fully realized
what had truly happened that night.

Then one day in prayer…

while I was telling the Lord
how much I missed her…

that gentle voice returned.

And He said to me:

“I know.
I gave you twenty years.”

When I heard those words…

something inside me stopped.

All those years,
I had only looked
at what I had lost.

But God…

showed me everything
He had given me.

He could have called her home
twenty years earlier.

But in answer to the prayer
of a teenage girl…

He had given me
twenty more years with my mother.

And suddenly…

my tears changed.

They were still there.

The pain too.

The absence too.

But in the middle of that pain…

a deep gratitude
began to grow inside me.

I was no longer looking only
at her departure.

I was finally looking
at everything God had allowed me
to live with her.

Every laugh.
Every conversation.
Every piece of advice.
Every simple moment of everyday life.

All of it…

was grace.

And little by little…

God changed the way I saw everything.

Even today,
I still miss my mother.

Some days are harder than others.

Moments when I still wish
I could call her.
Talk to her.
Share something with her.

And sometimes…

the ache still hurts deeply.

But now…

I no longer walk through this pain alone.

Because in the middle of this valley…

God revealed Himself to me
in a way I never would have known otherwise.

He taught me
that He is close
to the brokenhearted.

And even today…

in moments of loneliness…

I still softly hear these words:

“In loneliness,
you are never truly alone.”

“The Lord is nigh unto them that are of a broken heart;
and saveth such as be of a contrite spirit.“
— Psalm 34:18 (KJV)

✦ Danielle | Germany ✦

Danielle | Germany

What God Revealed to Me in Front of a Mirror.

The mirror showed me a broken body.
God reminded me of who I am.

There are days…

when our greatest battle

isn’t taking place inside our bodies.

It’s taking place in the way we see ourselves.

In what we choose to believe

about who we are.

That day,

I was slowly making my way
through my apartment.

Every step required more strength
than the one before.

My muscles burned.

Every joint ached.

I had gotten out of bed for one reason only:

to prepare a plate of fruit
before lying down again.

I had simply asked the Lord

to give me enough strength

to accomplish that one small task…

and to keep me from becoming dizzy

until I could make it back to my bed.

Then…

I walked past the hallway mirror.

And I stopped.

I looked at myself.

Sitting on my rollator.

My back bent forward.

My body tense.

My face marked by pain.

For a moment,

I barely recognized the woman
looking back at me.

How could I reconcile this reflection with the person
I used to be before illness entered my life?

The tears began to fall.

Once again,

I found myself crying

over a body

that seemed to fail me a little more

every single day.

Then…

right in the middle

of that pain…

I heard His voice.

Gentle.

Peaceful.

So familiar.

The Lord simply said,

“You know…
it’s only dust.”

I froze.

Confused.

Speechless.

Then…

completely unexpectedly…

I burst out laughing.

A deep, uncontrollable laugh.

Even as the tears kept running

down my face.

I stood there for a long time,

laughing

and crying

at the same time.

Because in a single moment,

the Lord had turned my eyes away

from my broken body

and toward

an entirely different reality.

I remained silent.

His words kept echoing inside my heart.

“You know… it’s only dust.”

I knew those words were anything but ordinary.

They carried a truth
I had not yet fully understood.

As I slowly made my way back to my bedroom,

I kept thinking about what He had said.

Why dust?

Why those words?

Then,

the Holy Spirit brought a verse to my mind.

“for dust thou art,
and unto dust shalt thou return.”
— Genesis 3:19 (KJV)

I had known that verse for years.

I had read it countless times.

But that day…

I wasn’t reading it with my eyes.

I was hearing it with my heart.

Suddenly, everything became clear.

I had been looking at my body as though
it defined who I was.

Every new weakness…

every pain…

every ability I lost…

felt like I was losing a part of myself.

As though the more my body weakened,

the more my identity was disappearing.

But that was never the truth.

The Lord was showing me
something life-changing.

I wasn’t looking at who I was.

I was only looking at the body I live in.

And those are not the same thing.

My body is precious.

God Himself says it is the temple
of the Holy Spirit.

But it was never meant to define
my identity.

It is simply the earthly body
through which I live in this world.

But…

I am not this body.

I am not this earthly body.

I am who God says I am.

And one day, He has promised
that I will be with Him

in a glorious,
imperishable body—
free from pain, weakness, and suffering forever.

That truth began to change
the way I looked at my reflection.

I lifted my eyes again.

The mirror was still there.

It reflected exactly the same image.

A weakened body.

A tired body.

A body marked by suffering.

Nothing had changed.

And yet…

I wasn’t seeing it the same way anymore.

Because now I knew that reflection

did not define

who I am.

Then

I thought about all the times I had cried
in front of that same mirror.

I thought I was crying because of my illness.

But in reality,

I was crying because I had allowed my identity
to become attached to something fragile…

to something that was always meant
to be temporary.

What incredible freedom
there is in realizing that!

No,

God wasn’t minimizing my suffering.

He wasn’t pretending my illness
wasn’t real.

He wasn’t asking me to ignore
my pain.

He was simply reminding me of a truth
greater than my suffering.

A truth powerful enough 
to change the way I saw everything.

Little by little,

I began to understand why,

just moments earlier, I had burst into laughter
through my tears.

It wasn’t the laughter of mockery.

It was the laughter of someone
who had just been set free from a lie
they had believed for far too long.

With one simple sentence,

the Lord had broken the chains
that had tied my identity to the condition of my body.

Since that day,

I have never looked into that mirror
the same way again.

It still reflects the weakness
of my body.

But it no longer tells me

who I am.

Because what God sees

when He looks at me

goes far beyond

anything a mirror could ever reflect.

“The body is sown in corruption; it is raised in incorruption:
 It is sown in dishonour; it is raised in glory:
it is sown in weakness; it is raised in power:
It is sown a natural body; it is raised a spiritual body.“
— 1 Corinthians 15:42–44 (KJV)

✦ Danielle | Germany ✦

Danielle | Germany

Between pain, silence and confusion.

← Read Part 1 ✦ Read Part 3 →

I thought I could handle everything.
But inside… everything was falling apart.

I thought I could keep going.

Just move forward.
Do what needed to be done.
Keep living as if nothing had changed.

But deep inside…

something had gone out.

Not a peaceful silence.

A heavy silence.
Suffocating.
An emptiness that kept growing inside me.

I got up every morning.
I did what had to be done.
I talked to people.
I smiled.

On the outside…

everything seemed fine.

But in truth…

I was no longer really there.

Something inside me
had shattered.

And I didn’t even realize…

how far I had already fallen.

For a long time,
I thought it was “just” sadness.

That time would eventually heal everything.

But about a year later,
I was admitted to a clinic
for treatment of a lumbar disc herniation.

And that was when…

another word appeared.

Depression.

When the doctors said it,
I was surprised.

Because I was still functioning.

I could talk.
Smile.
Handle daily life.

And yet…

inside…

I was exhausted.

Empty.

As if pain had slowly consumed
everything that was left in me.

At the clinic,
I began speaking with psychologists.

And the more I talked…

the more I realized
how much suffering
I had buried deep inside myself.

All that time,
I had kept moving forward.

Like someone on autopilot.

Without ever truly stopping
to look at what was happening inside me.

After leaving the clinic,
I needed ongoing psychological care.

But in Germany,
the waiting lists are long.

Very long.

I was told
I would have to wait about a year.

A year.

When you are already fighting battles inside yourself,
even a single day
can feel endless.

And despite everything…

I kept moving forward.

But deep inside me,
the struggle was still there.

Especially with God.

Because despite everything I had experienced…

I did not understand God.

I kept praying.

But my prayers had changed.

They were no longer filled with hope.

They were filled with pain.

I cried out to God.

I questioned His silence.

I could not understand
why He had not answered my prayers.

Why He had not healed my mother.

Why He had taken her from me
so early.

I could still see His hand moving
in certain areas of my life.

But I could not feel gratitude for any of it.

Because all my attention
was fixed on what I had lost.

And this question
kept returning again and again:

Why?

Why her?
Why now?
Why so soon?

I did not want to hear anything else.

I just wanted my mother.

“How long wilt thou forget me, O Lord? for ever?
how long wilt thou hide thy face from me?
 How long shall I take counsel in my soul,
having sorrow in my heart daily?“
— Psalm 13:2-3 (KJV)

✦ Danielle | Germany ✦

Danielle | Germany

My circumstances had not changed. But my perspective had.

For a long time, I thought the greatest battle was taking place in my body. But God showed me that it first began in the way I chose to look at my circumstances.

There are seasons in life
when it feels as though everything is falling apart.

The past few years have been such a season for me.

Since being diagnosed with ME/CFS,
one complication after another has followed.

Every new medical appointment
seemed to bring another change.

Little by little, I felt as though I was losing,
day after day,
another piece of my freedom.

At first,
I was still able to move around my apartment
with the help of a walker.

Then came the wheelchair.

And later,
the power wheelchair.

Little by little…

my world became smaller.

And without even realizing it,

my eyes became fixed on everything I was losing.

A little more strength.

A little more independence.

A little more of the life I had once known.

The hardest part wasn’t only the illness.

The hardest part was the battle taking place in my mind.

How could I keep hoping when everything my eyes saw
seemed to say the exact opposite?

How could I keep my illness from becoming the only reality
occupying my thoughts?

Every new limitation pulled my attention
a little more toward what I had lost.

Every new symptom seemed to remind me
of everything I could no longer do.

Without even noticing it,
I had almost stopped looking at anything else.

Then came another doctor’s appointment.

Another change.

This time…

a catheter.

That day,
Maggie (name changed to protect her privacy),

the young woman who helps me with my daily needs, had accompanied me to the appointment and driven me back home.

When the front door closed behind her…

silence filled the apartment.

And with that silence…

everything I had been holding together

finally gave way.

I lay down on my bed.

And I cried.

For a long time.

A very long time.

The pain ran deep.

Looking at that catheter made me realize once again
that the illness was still advancing.

It felt
as though it had taken something from me

once again.

A little more freedom.

A little more independence.

A little more of myself.

Thought after thought began to flood my mind.

One after another.

Growing darker with each passing moment.

Yet deep inside,

I knew one thing.

I did not want to feed those thoughts.

So, in the middle of my despair,

I cried out to God.

I poured out my heart before Him.

I told Him how deeply I was hurting.

How painful it was to watch my body
seem to fail me
a little more each day.

Then I prayed the only prayer
I could still find the strength to pray:

“Lord…
please help me.

Speak to me.

Give me a word.

Just one word.

Anything…

but please…

speak to me.”

In the middle of my tears…

I suddenly heard

that familiar voice.

Gentle.

Quiet.

Yet unmistakably clear.

“Job.”

…

I held my breath.

“Job.”

…

A third time.

“Job.”

Slowly,

I got up.

I picked up my Bible.

And I asked,

“Lord…
what do You want me to read in the book of Job?”

His answer came immediately.

“My answer to Job.”

I had already read the book of Job

several times before.

I knew his story.

I knew his suffering.

I knew everything he had lost.

And yet,
I found myself wondering:

Why read it again?

How is that going to change my situation?

But despite my questions…

I chose to obey.

I turned to Job chapter 38.

And I began to read.

As tears continued to stream down my face,

I kept reading…

while inwardly,

I wrestled with God.

I didn’t understand why He had led me
to this particular passage.

If I am honest, part of me almost wanted to protest.

It felt as though God was only talking about Himself.

“Where were you when I laid the foundations of the earth?
Tell Me, if you have understanding.
Who determined its measurements? Surely you know!”
— Job 38:4–5 (KJV)

Still…

I kept reading.

Not because I understood.

But because this was the answer
God had chosen to give

to my desperate cry.

So I kept reading.

“Hath the rain a father?
Or who hath begotten the drops of dew?”
— Job 38:28 (KJV)

And I kept reading.

Then…

something began to happen.

At the time,

I didn’t even realize it.

The more I read…

the more my eyes drifted away

from my illness.

Without realizing it, I stopped staring

at my despair.

Instead, I found myself

looking at God.

His greatness.
His power.
His majesty.
His sovereignty.

Suddenly,

I stood in awe of the God
who was answering Job.

It was as though,

with every verse,

God was gently emptying me
of myself…
only to fill me with Himself.

The more I read,

the more He turned my eyes away
from everything they had been fixed on:

my illness…
my limitations…
my disabilities…

and fixed them entirely on Him.

The more I read,

the more my perspective changed.

My circumstances had not changed.

But my perspective

had.

Without even realizing it, I had reached the end
of God’s answer to Job.

And suddenly,

Job’s words became my own.

“I have heard of thee by the hearing of the ear:
but now mine eye seeth thee.”
— Job 42:5 (KJV)

The tears continued to fall.

But they no longer meant the same thing.

Just moments earlier,

they had been tears of deep despair.

Now…

they had become tears of wonder.

The catheter was still there.

So was the illness.

And yet…

what had felt so unbearably heavy
only moments before had somehow

lost its weight.

My heart was now filled with the One

who is infinitely greater

than everything I was going through.

And so…

that night,
I fell asleep.

That evening,

God taught me something I will never forget.

Faith is not about denying what our eyes can see
— our reality.

Faith is choosing to believe that what our eyes see
is not the ultimate truth.

The Truth is God.

The Truth is what God says.

The Truth is what He reveals about Himself
in the midst of our circumstances.

Every single day,

I have to choose where I will fix my eyes.

On my circumstances…

or on God.

In His goodness,

the Lord did not change my circumstances
that evening.

But He changed my perspective.

Because when our eyes are fixed on the One
who is above all things…

even if our circumstances
do not change immediately…

our hearts can already begin

to find rest.

And that is exactly what God did for me that evening.

To Him alone be all the glory.

“Looking unto Jesus the author
and finisher of our faith…“
— Hebrews 12:2 (KJV)

✦ Danielle | Germany ✦

Danielle | Germany

Loss, pain and inner brokenness.

Everything collapsed inside me.  
And I had no control anymore.

Covid.  
Lockdown.  
Pain.  
Loss.  
Helplessness.

The world stopped.  
And for me… everything fell apart.

It was a Saturday morning.

A quiet morning.  
Almost ordinary.

I had woken up gently,  
with that rare feeling of lightness.

I was on leave.

Finally.

A week to breathe.  
To slow down.  
To live differently.

I had plans.  
So many ideas in my mind.

And above all…  
I was happy.

And then…

the phone rang.

It was my aunt.

From the very first seconds,  
I knew something was wrong.

Her voice was shaking.

She told me my mother  
had collapsed in the middle of the market.  
That she had been rushed to the hospital.

And in an instant…  
everything shifted.

My reality changed.

Everything happened so fast.  
Too fast.

The days that followed were a battle.

A battle in prayer.  
In decisions.  
Against time.

I was searching for solutions.

I refused to accept  
that this could end badly.

I wanted to bring her to Europe,  
to be close to me.

I kept telling myself  
she would have better chances here.

But the lockdown had just begun.

Borders were closing.  
One after another.

As if every door  
was shutting right in front of me.

Everywhere…  
the same answer.

Impossible.

One door closing.  
Then another.

There was one last option.

To operate on site.

I held onto it.  
Like a final hope.

But even that…  
was not possible.

Specialized doctors were stuck in Europe.
They couldn’t come.

And that’s when…

I started to understand.

I had no more solutions.  
No more control.

There was nothing I could do.

That feeling…  
of total helplessness…  
I had never known it before.

So I clung to God.

With everything I had.

I prayed without stopping.

I asked Him to intervene.  
To heal her.

And deep inside…  
I still believed He would.

But His plan…  
was different.

The following Saturday…  
everything changed.

It was Holy Saturday.

And that day…

God called her home.

That night,  
I didn’t sleep.

Not even a minute.

I prayed.  
Again.  
And again.

As if staying awake 
could still change something.

Around 4 a.m.…  
my phone rang.

It was one of my cousins.

His voice felt strange.  
Muted.

He said:  
“Grandma is gone.”

I got angry.

I told him not to say that.  
Not now.  
Not like that.

Because deep down…  
I knew.

But I refused.

When I hung up…  
something inside me collapsed.

Not on the outside.

Inside.

As if a part of me  
had disappeared with her.

But I didn’t fall apart.

Not right away.

I didn’t have the right.

I am the eldest.

My brothers needed me.  
My family too.

So I held on.

While everything around me  
was breaking.

My aunts were collapsing.  
Some were hospitalized.

Pain was everywhere.

And me…

I had to stay standing.

Organize.  
Decide.  
Carry.

Even saying goodbye  
had become complicated.

The lockdown made everything harder.

So I kept moving.

Like on autopilot.

I did what had to be done.

But inside…

I was fading.

I didn’t cry.  
Not yet.

Weeks went by.

And one day…

without warning…

reality caught up with me.

I picked up my phone.

Out of habit.

Like every day.

I wanted to call her. 
Talk to her.  
Tell her about my day.

Like before.

I called her…

And then…

everything stopped.

She will never answer again.

Never.

That moment…  
hit me completely.

As if everything I had held back…  
for weeks…  
exploded all at once.

I collapsed.

Completely.

Broken.  
Lost.  
Empty.

A pain I didn’t even know was possible.  
A pain that takes over everything.

That takes your breath away.  
That makes you lose your footing.

I felt alone.  
Deeply alone.

My mother wasn’t just my mother.

She was everything to me.

She was part of my everyday life.

I talked to her almost every day.

Sometimes about nothing.  
Sometimes about everything.

She knew my voice.

Even when I said I was okay…  
she knew when I wasn’t.

It was simple.  
Natural.  
Obvious.

She was there.

Always.

And without her…

there was a silence  
I didn’t know how to live with.

So the emotions took over.

And inside…

anger began to rise.

At people.  
Their words.  
Their reactions.

Sometimes their silence.

Some wanted to help…  
but didn’t understand.

And it hurt.

But most of all…

I was angry at God.

Because I trusted Him.  
Because I had prayed.  
Because I believed.

And yet…

God did not heal her.

I didn’t understand.

And I didn’t want to understand.

I kept praying.  
I kept going to church.

But deep inside…

nothing changed.

Nothing.

One Sunday…  
at church…  
they announced deaths.

Elderly people.

70 years old.
80 years old. 
90 years old. 
And more.

And my mother…

57.

I couldn’t accept it.

I walked out.

Angry.  
Crying.

I shouted at God.

I didn’t understand.

Why her?  
Why now?  
Why so soon?

And still…

silence.

Days passed.  
Weeks too.

And without even realizing it…

I fell.

Slowly.  
Silently.

Into depression.

And in the middle of that night…

I still couldn’t see any light.

“My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?
why art thou so far from helping me, and from the words of my roaring?“
— Psalm 22:2 (KJV)

✦ Danielle | Germany ✦

Danielle | Germany

The pain was deep. But God was closer.

I never thought a single moment could shake
my life so deeply.

When my 22-year-old cousin and her baby passed away
during childbirth,
something deep inside me broke.

The pain didn’t come gently.
It hit me all at once — 
overwhelming .

It felt like the ground beneath my feet was suddenly gone.
Everything that had held me was gone.

I didn’t know what to hold on to anymore.

I felt empty.
Completely empty.

And I couldn’t make sense of life anymore.

In that darkness,
I found myself asking questions with no answers.

Why?
What happened?

And yet — right there,
in the middle of my pain — 
something began.

God led me to a sermon.

And one question pierced straight into my heart.

John the Baptist,
sitting in prison,
full of doubt,
sent a question to Jesus:

“Are You the one who is to come,
or should we expect someone else?”

It felt as if those words were coming
straight from my own heart.

I kept listening.

And then something happened that I will never forget.

Women stood up.
One after another.

Not perfect.
Not staged.

But real.

Living testimonies of what God had done in their lives.

And as I watched them…
something shifted inside of me.

A quiet thought suddenly became loud:

If God could do that for them…
then He can do it for me too.

In that very moment –
right in the middle of my grief –

a seed of hope was planted
in my heart.

Soft.
But real.

And right there,
God placed a desire within me:

To create a place
where such testimonies can be gathered.

A place where people can see
that God is still working today.

A place of hope.

Today I know:

God is present even in the pain.

And even when everything falls apart,
He can bring something new out of it.

“The Lord is nigh unto them that are of a broken heart;
and saveth such as be of a contrite spirit.”
— Psalm 34:18 (KJV)

✦ Danielle | Germany ✦

Danielle | Germany

Where I broke down, God did not let me fall.

Everything came crashing down inside me.
And right at that moment, God carried me.

Pain.
Overwhelming.
Exhaustion.

I was sitting in the doctor’s office.
Everything was quiet.
Too quiet.

Then he asked a simple question:

“How have you been since our last appointment?”

Just a normal question.

And yet…
something inside me cracked open.

Suddenly, everything came up.

The death of my mother.
The depression that followed.
The herniated disc.
Long COVID — with effects that are still there today.
And now… I was told I needed surgery.

I heard myself talking.
Word after word.

And while I was speaking, I realized it myself:

This is too much.

My doctor’s expression changed.
He didn’t say anything.

But his eyes…
were full of compassion.

And in that moment, I realized:

I can’t do this anymore.

When I left the office,
I couldn’t hold it together anymore.

Everything broke down.

I cried.
I couldn’t stop.

And inside, I cried out to God:

“I can’t carry this anymore.”

I was exhausted.
Empty.
At the end of my strength.

But right there — 
in the middle of that breakdown — 
God spoke.

Not loudly.
But clearly.

The Holy Spirit reminded me of words
I had received before:

“Be patient.”
“Hold on to hope.”
“I will heal you.”

And suddenly…
something shifted.

Not my circumstances.

But my perspective.

I began to see:

God had been there the whole time.

In every pain.
In every diagnosis.
In every moment I thought I couldn’t go on.

He had been carrying me.

All along.

And even though I am still waiting for my full miracle,
I know today:

I am not alone.

And I never will be.

Because God is faithful — 
not only at the end,

but in the middle of the process.

“My grace is sufficient for thee:
for my strength is made perfect in weakness.”
— 2 Corinthians 12:9 (KJV)

✦ Danielle | Germany ✦

Danielle | Germany

My body broke. But not my identity.

A few years ago, my life changed — 
in a single moment.

Without warning.

It started with Long COVID —
a condition that completely changed my life.

Then came the diagnosis: ME/CFS.
A condition I had never even heard of before.

And suddenly, it became my reality.

My body stopped cooperating.

Things that once felt ordinary became impossible

Work?
No longer possible.

Daily life?
Severely limited.

My world kept getting smaller…
until all that remained was isolation.

And suddenly,
I found myself living a life I had never chosen.

There were moments when I asked myself:

“What is left of me…
when so much is taken away?”

But right in that season,
God began to show me something —
something that changed my life.

Not about my circumstances.

But about my identity.

Because even though everything had changed…
one thing remained the same:

God.

His presence.
His faithfulness.
His love.

And slowly,
I began to understand:

I am not what has happened to me.

I am not my illness.
I am not my limitations.

I am who my Heavenly Father says I am.

His beloved daughter.

Precious in His sight.
And someone in Whom He delights.

Even though I am still waiting for my miracle,
I know that His love for me never changes.

Because every single day, I already experience:

His presence.
His strength.
His grace.

He gives me the strength to keep going — 
even on the days when I have none left.

And that is why I see myself differently today.

Not as a victim of my circumstances.

But as His daughter.

Because I know:

The battle does not define me.

But the One beside me does.

And even though I am still waiting on my healing…

I have already found something
that illness can never take away from me:

My identity in God.

“Behold, what manner of love the Father hath bestowed upon us,
that we should be called the sons of God.”
— 1 John 3:1 (KJV)

✦ Danielle | Germany ✦