Open Hands, Held Hearts

Trusting the Goodness of God When Life Doesn't Make Sense

Introduction

Good morning!

What a tremendous privilege it is to be here with all of you today. It is especially meaningful because I have the honor of being here with my daughter, Elizabeth. I cannot begin to tell you what a gift this is.

If you had asked me years ago if I thought one day we would be standing together in Germany, serving the Lord side by side, I would have said, "Not in my wildest dreams."

One of the greatest gifts God has ever given me was the opportunity for Elizabeth and me to serve together at our home church. Every morning we would drive to church together, spend the entire day working together, and then drive home together. You might think that was too much time together—but not for us! Elizabeth is one of my very best friends. We loved every minute of it.

Then COVID came.

Like many churches, we had to find creative ways to care for people. So we started baking. We baked bread, cookies, and treats, and we delivered them to people's homes. We would leave them on their front porch, pray over them, and remind them that they were loved and that they weren't alone.

We baked so much...we actually broke my oven! (Pause for laughter.)

Those are some of my favorite memories because ministry wasn't just something we did—it was something we shared together.

I remember one particular evening as we were driving home from church. Elizabeth was talking about Germany. She was sharing her hopes, her dreams, and wondering how God might use her there.

As I listened, the Holy Spirit spoke so clearly to my heart.

He said, "Enjoy this time together. She is leaving soon."

I didn't know what that meant.

But four months later...

she was here.

God had called her to Germany.

Today, before I say anything else, I simply want to thank you.

Thank you for loving my daughter. for welcoming her, and for believing in the call God has placed on her life. As her mother, I can honestly tell you that the peace I have knowing she is here can only come from God.

By nature, I am a protective mother. I like to know my children are safe. I like to fix things. I like to make sure everyone is okay. So for me to have peace while my daughter lives thousands of miles away is nothing short of the grace of God.

But it wasn't always that way.

In fact, there was a time when I lived with overwhelming fear.

There was a season when I wondered if Elizabeth would even live long enough to become an adult.

There was a season when I questioned everything I thought I knew about trust.

That season began when Elizabeth was eight years old.

Section One: The Day Everything Changed

For me, that moment came when Elizabeth was eight years old. She was a cheerful, precious little girl with a beautiful smile and a love for life. My mom used to tease me that she was my Barbie doll. began noticing that she fell more than other children and had difficulty getting up from the floor. Like any parents, we started asking questions, scheduling appointments, and praying that whatever was wrong would be something simple and treatable.

Then one day my husband received the phone call.

The doctor confirmed what they had feared.

"It is muscular dystrophy."

In that instant, I literally felt as though the enemy had taken a two-by-four and struck me across the head. The weight of those words completely overwhelmed me. I fell to my knees and screamed. I have never experienced pain like that before.

The doctors began explaining what this diagnosis could mean. They talked about muscle weakness, wheelchairs, heart complications, and even the possibility of a heart transplant. Then they told us something that made the uncertainty even more frightening. They said, "We really don't know much about girls with this disease. Most of our research has been done on boys."

They could not tell us what Elizabeth's future would look like. They could not tell us how quickly the disease would progress. They could not tell us how long she would live.

As a mother, my mind immediately filled in all the unanswered questions. Fear painted the worst possible picture. That phone call marked the beginning of what would become a ten-year journey through depression.

Section Two: The Blinders Came Off

For the next ten years, I was not simply living with a diagnosis. I was living under the constant shadow of losing my daughter. I was preparing myself for her death. Looking back now, I realize what a heartbreaking way that was to live.

Every birthday felt uncertain. Every doctor's appointment filled me with fear. Instead of celebrating the present, I found myself grieving a future that had not even happened. Fear stole moments that God intended me to enjoy.

Although I loved Jesus with all my heart, fear had become louder than my faith.

It was during that season that I felt God asking me one simple but life-changing question:

"Ambre, do you really trust Me?"

That was the day the blinders came off.

Until then, I had believed all the right things about God. I had taught Bible studies, prayed with people, and encouraged others to trust Him. I knew the Scriptures, but now the rubber met the road. My faith could no longer be something I simply talked about. It had to become something I actually lived.

Did I really believe that God was good when my circumstances did not feel good?

Did I really believe He was faithful when I could not understand what He was doing?

Did I really believe His promises were true when everything around me felt uncertain?

Those questions could no longer be answered with words. They would have to be answered with my life.

Section Three: My Battle Cry

It was during that difficult season that I found myself returning again and again to one passage of Scripture. Psalm 121 became my battle cry. It was not simply my favorite Psalm. It became the truth that carried me through the darkest season of my life.

Over and over again I would read these words:

"I lift up my eyes to the mountains—where does my help come from? My help comes from the Lord, the Maker of heaven and earth."

Those verses became more than words on a page. They became the anchor for my soul.

One day I realized something I had never noticed before. David was not saying that his help came from the mountains. He was asking a question.

"Where does my help come from?"

That became my question too.

Would my help come from the doctors?

Would it come from medical research?

Would it come from knowing what the future held?

No.

My help came from the Lord.

The Maker of heaven and earth.

The One who created Elizabeth.

The One who loved her even more than I did.

The One who already knew every day of her life before she ever lived one of them.

For ten years, every time fear whispered another lie, I came back to Psalm 121. It became my battle cry—not because it removed the battle, but because it reminded me who was with me in the middle of it.

Section Four: The Dark Night of the Soul

As I look back on those years, I now realize I was walking through what the sixteenth-century Christian monk St. John of the Cross described as "the dark night of the soul." It is a phrase that has helped countless believers give words to a season when God seems silent, our faith is tested, and we wonder where He is in the middle of our pain.

Although the phrase comes from St. John of the Cross, the experience is found throughout Scripture.

King David knew what it felt like when he cried,

"How long, Lord? Will You forget me forever? How long will You hide Your face from me?" (Psalm 13:1)

Job knew it as he sat in the ashes trying to understand his suffering.

Elijah knew it when he sat under the broom tree, exhausted and ready to give up.

Jeremiah knew it as he wept over God's people.

Even Jesus experienced the agony of Gethsemane and later cried from the cross,

"My God, my God, why have You forsaken me?"

The dark night of the soul is not the absence of faith.

It is often where faith is forged.

It wasn't that I had stopped loving God.

It wasn't that I had stopped believing His promises.

It wasn't that I had walked away from Him.

It was that everything I believed about God was being tested by the reality of my circumstances.

The dark night of the soul is that place where God seems silent.

Your prayers feel like they only reach the ceiling.

The Scriptures you've known your whole life suddenly become difficult to hold on to.

You continue showing up.

You continue serving.

You continue worshiping.

But inside, you are exhausted.

That was me.

I still loved Jesus.

I still served in ministry.

I still taught Bible studies.

I still prayed with people.

But every morning I woke up carrying the weight of fear.

Every doctor's appointment reminded me of what could happen.

Every milestone made me wonder if it would be her last.

I wasn't angry with God.

I was afraid.

Fear had become louder than my faith.

Yet even in that darkness, God had not abandoned me.

I couldn't always feel Him.

I couldn't always hear Him.

But He had never stopped holding me.

Sometimes we mistake God's silence for His absence.

But silence is not the same as absence.

Looking back now, I can see that during those years God was doing one of His deepest works in my life.

He was stripping away every false place of security.

He was teaching me that my hope could not rest in doctors, medical research, test results, or knowing what the future would hold.

My hope had to rest in Him alone.

That is why Psalm 121 became my battle cry.

When I couldn't see the road ahead, I lifted up my eyes.

When fear became overwhelming, I lifted up my eyes.

When I didn't know how to pray, I lifted up my eyes.

Not because the mountains had the answer.

But because the Lord did.

"I lift up my eyes to the mountains—where does my help come from? My help comes from the Lord, the Maker of heaven and earth." (Psalm 121:1–2)

Looking back now, I realize that God never wasted the dark night.

It was there that He transformed my faith from something I believed in my mind into something I lived with my whole heart.

Section Five: God Met Me on the Kitchen Floor

There is something about suffering that strips away everything that isn't real.

It exposes our fears, our weaknesses, and even the places where we have unknowingly placed our security. I wish I could tell you that after the diagnosis everything got easier, but it didn't. In many ways, the battle had just begun.

For the next ten years I walked through a season of depression. I loved Jesus. I continued serving in ministry. I continued praying with people and encouraging them. From the outside, most people would never have known the battle I was fighting on the inside.

But fear had become my constant companion.

Every doctor's appointment brought new anxiety.

Every cold or illness made me wonder if this was the beginning of something worse.

Every milestone reminded me of everything the doctors had told us she might never experience.

I was exhausted.

I was emotionally drained.

I was trying so hard to be strong.

Then one night, I couldn't sleep.

Have you ever had one of those nights when your mind simply will not turn off? Every fear becomes louder in the darkness. Every unanswered question seems bigger. Every "what if" begins to take over.

That was me.

So, like every good Greek girl, I got up at two o'clock in the morning and started scrubbing my kitchen floor.

As I scrubbed, I cried.

As I cried, I prayed.

Finally, I reached the end of myself.

I remember saying, "God, I can't do this anymore. I need something to get me through this. I need You to take this pain away."

I wasn't looking for a sermon.

I wasn't looking for a conference.

I wasn't looking for another Bible study.

I was simply desperate for God.

And right there, on my kitchen floor, the Holy Spirit met me.

Not in an audible voice, but in that unmistakable way that only God can speak to your heart.

He whispered, "I am what you need. I will get you through."

Do you notice what He didn't say?

He didn't promise that Elizabeth would be healed that night.

He didn't explain why this had happened.

He didn't tell me what the future would hold.

He simply promised Himself.

Looking back now, I realize that was exactly what I needed.

Because before God changed my circumstances, He wanted to change my heart.

I had been asking Him to remove the storm, but instead He became my anchor in the middle of it.

Section Six: The God Who Never Sleeps

After that night, Psalm 121 became more than my favorite passage of Scripture.

It became my battle cry.

Every time fear tried to overwhelm me, I returned to those words:

"I lift up my eyes to the mountains—where does my help come from? My help comes from the Lord, the Maker of heaven and earth."

I began reading the entire Psalm over and over again.

Then one day another verse captured my attention.

"He who watches over you will not slumber; indeed, He who watches over Israel will neither slumber nor sleep."

That verse became incredibly personal to me.

There were countless nights when I couldn't sleep.

I would lie awake thinking about Elizabeth.

I would wonder what her future would be.

I would imagine conversations I hoped I would never have to have.

I would cry until there were no tears left.

But then I remembered...

Even though I wasn't sleeping...

God wasn't sleeping either.

While I was lying awake worrying...

God was awake watching over my daughter.

While I was exhausted...

He was never tired.

While my strength was failing...

His strength never failed.

That changed everything.

I realized that the safest place for Elizabeth was never in my hands.

The safest place for her had always been in His.

Section Seven: Learning to Live with Open Hands

God slowly began teaching me a lesson that I am still learning today.

I realized that I had been holding Elizabeth with tightly closed hands.

Not because I didn't trust God.

But because I loved her so deeply.

As mothers, we want to protect our children.

We want to fix what is broken.

We want to remove every hurt.

But there are some things we simply cannot fix.

There are some burdens that only God can carry.

The Lord reminded me of Abraham in Genesis 22.

God gave Abraham the son he had prayed for.

Then one day God asked Abraham to place Isaac on the altar.

I don't believe the greatest test for Abraham was climbing the mountain.

I think the greatest test was opening his hands.

Would he trust the Giver more than the gift?

As I read that story, I realized God was asking me the very same question.

"Ambre, will you trust Me with what you love most?"

He wasn't asking me to stop loving Elizabeth.

He was asking me to trust Him with her.

There is a big difference.

Surrender is not giving up.

Surrender is placing into God's hands what was never ours to control in the first place.

Little by little, day after day, appointment after appointment, prayer after prayer, I began opening my hands.

Not because the fear disappeared.

But because I was discovering that God's grip on Elizabeth was stronger than mine could ever be.

That is what faith began to look like for me.

Not having all the answers.

Not pretending everything was okay.

But choosing, every single day, to place my daughter into the hands of a God who loved her even more than I did.