When God Doesn't Answer the Prayer You Keep Praying

What do you do when you've prayed the same prayer for years... and nothing seems to change?

In this deeply personal episode, I share some of the most difficult seasons of my life—from years of infertility to losing two men I dearly loved—and what those experiences taught me about trusting God's character when His answers looked very different than I expected.

This isn't a conversation about having all the answers.

It's a conversation about learning to trust the One who does.

If you've ever wondered whether God hears your prayers, if you've wrestled with delayed dreams, or if you're carrying grief that still feels heavy, I hope this episode reminds you that you're not walking through it alone.

Continue the conversation and explore free resources at:

https://healerhopegiver.com

Extended Show Notes

We all have prayers that seem to linger.

Some are whispered for months.

Others for decades.

In Episode 34, I share the deeply personal journey of praying for a child through years of infertility, learning to surrender my plans to God's will, walking through the loss of my father-in-law during COVID restrictions, saying goodbye to my dad while holding his hand, and discovering that God's faithfulness often becomes clearest when we look backward instead of forward.

Together we'll explore:

• trusting God during seasons of waiting

• surrender without giving up hope

• why God's character matters more than immediate answers

• finding peace when life unfolds differently than expected

• recognizing God's quiet mercies

• continuing to pray with honesty

Whether you're waiting for healing, reconciliation, direction, provision, or simply enough strength for tomorrow, this episode is an invitation to keep bringing your whole heart to God.

Visit https://healerhopegiver.com for additional resources and to continue the conversation.

Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:18

Hey friends, have you ever prayed the same prayer over and over and over again until you eventually stopped wondering if God was listening? Not because you stopped believing, not because you stopped trusting him, you just ran out of new ways to ask. I think every one of us has a prayer like that. Maybe yours has been for healing or for marriage, for a prodigal child, for a job, for freedom from anxiety, for someone that you love. Mine was for a baby. John and I wanted to be parents almost from the very moment that we got married. Like so many young couples, we assumed it would happen when it was supposed to happen. Then months passed, and then more months, and then doctors' appointments, tests, treatments, medications, hope, disappointment, repeat. And if you've ever walked through infertility, you know that rhythm. The calendar starts revolving around appointments and testing instead of anniversaries. Your emotions begin following the calendar too. Hope followed by disappointment. Hope followed by disappointment again and again and again. One of the hardest parts wasn't just wondering if we'd ever had children. It was wondering why. Why us? Why this? Why would something that seemed to come so naturally to so many people feel completely out of reach for us? I wish I could tell you I handled those years perfectly. I didn't. There were tears, questions, moments I didn't understand what God was doing, moments when I wondered if he was doing anything at all, and yet I kept praying. Because what else do you do when the deepest desire of your heart feels completely beyond your control? You pray. Even when your prayers start sounding exactly like yesterday's prayers. I think that's one of the hardest parts of waiting. Not the waiting itself, the wondering. Is God listening? Does he care? Or am I asking for something outside of his will? Or maybe is he simply asking me to trust him longer than I expected? I didn't know it then, but those questions would become some of the most important questions of my faith. Because eventually I would discover that God's answers don't always arrive in the packages that we expect. And sometimes we don't even recognize his answer until years later. Infertility has a strange way of changing how you measure time. Most people measure it by birthdays, anniversaries, holidays, vacations. When you're walking through infertility, you start measuring life by cycles, doctor's appointments, lab work, medications, waiting, hope, disappointment, and then you do it all again, month after month. Your calendar begins revolving around one question. Maybe this is the time. I don't remember every point appointment anymore. I don't remember every medication or every test, but I remember the feeling. Hope has a way of showing up every single month, even when the experience tells you to guard your heart. You start thinking, maybe this is finally going to be the time. Then it isn't. And somehow you gather enough courage to hope again and start all over. I think one of the bravest things people living through infertility do is they keep hoping. Even when hope has disappointed them over and over again. There were moments when it seemed like everyone around us was announcing a pregnancy. Baby showers became regular events. Friends were decorating nurseries and picking out names and sharing ultrasound pictures, and every single one of those babies was a gift. I never wanted someone else's joy to become my sadness. I was really, truly excited for them. But two things can be true at the same time. I could celebrate their miracle while quietly grieving the one that I was still praying for. I don't think enough people say that out loud. That sometimes we think grief has to mean that we're jealous. It doesn't. Sometimes grief is simply love with nowhere to go. I already loved children. I wanted to be a mom. That desire wasn't created by infertility. Infertility simply made me aware of how deeply it was already true and there. John and I prayed faithfully, earnestly, sometimes together, sometimes separately, sometimes with confidence and sometimes through tears. There wasn't one dramatic prayer that changed everything. There were hundreds, maybe thousands even. Most of them sounded almost like God, please. And looking back now, I smile a little because I think I expected prayer to feel more dramatic than it actually does. Instead, it often feels remarkably ordinary. A whispered prayer while driving, a conversation before falling asleep, a tearful moment after another disappointment, a quiet, Lord, I just don't understand. I wasn't trying to manipulate God. I wasn't trying to earn an answer. I was simply bringing him the deepest desire of my heart. Again, and then again and again. God already knows what we're asking. He already knows what we're longing for. Somewhere along the way, those repeated prayers begin changing something else. Not because God finally hears them, but because we begin hearing our own hearts differently. I didn't realize it then. But while I thought I was waiting for God to answer my prayer, God was quietly preparing me for a conversation I never expected to have. It wasn't one doctor's appointment that changed everything. It wasn't one conversation. It wasn't one disappointment. It was a prayer that slowly began changing. There was a season during those years that I don't think I'll ever forget. In 2004, my parents adopted my brother, Josh, from Guatemala, and my sister Gabby as well. But um I'm referring to a trip that we took um in 2004. But the whole family was excited. We packed our bags, Lynn and I, and traveled there to bring Josh home. At the time, I thought the trip was about Josh. Looking back now, I realized God was quietly doing something in my heart too. We spent time at the orphanage where Josh had been living. And I wish I could tell you that I remember every detail, but I don't. What I remember are the little faces, the tiny toddlers looking around with those curious expressions that children have, almost as though they were trying to understand why all these strangers had suddenly walked into their world. Some of them were playing together, some quietly watched the room, some reached little hands toward whoever happened to walk by, and my heart just kept breaking. I wanted to bring every one of them home. Not because I thought that was realistic, and not because I suddenly came up with some grand plan, simply because I'd spent years praying to become somebody's mom. Infertility changes the way you see children. You don't just see little boys and girls, you see every prayer you've been carrying, you see every birthday you've imagined, every bedtime story you'd hoped you'd read, every hug you've wondered if you'll ever get to give. Those children weren't just children to me that week. They were reminders of the deepest desire I had been carrying with to God for years. Meeting Josh was everything I hoped it had it would be. He was so precious, tiny, curious, and like so many little children whose worlds suddenly changed, he didn't always know what to do with all of it. Everything was different. A new family, a new language, a new food, new routines, even simply things that, you know, even simple things felt overwhelming. I remember one bath in particular. He became so upset that he got a bloody nose. As hard as it was to watch, it also reminded me that every change, even a good one, can still feel frightening when you're little. There was another little detail that stayed with me all these years. Josh had only recently started wearing shoes, and I can still hear the sound of his little feet pounding against the floor as he walked. It's funny what our minds hold on to. Not the schedules, not the every conversation, just the little sounds and images, little moments, little pieces of a story that somehow stay with us forever. Bringing Josh home was one of the happiest experiences our family had shared, but it also uncovered an ache inside me that I couldn't ignore anymore. Standing in that orphanage watching those little children, I realized just how deeply I wanted to be somebody's mom. I didn't resent my parents, I wasn't questioning their decision, I was overjoyed for Josh, I was overjoyed for our whole family, but two things can be true at the same time. I could celebrate what God was doing in someone else's story while quietly grieving what hadn't yet happened in mine. And I think that's true of so many areas of life. Sometimes we assume that if we're hurting, we must be jealous. I don't think that's always true. Sometimes grief is simply love with nowhere to go. Then it was time to come home. And Lynn and Josh were flying on to Michigan, and I was flying back to Houston. I can still picture the airport. I remember standing there watching Josh get pushed away in his stroller to the gate for the next flight, and I watched until I couldn't see them anymore, until that little stroller disappeared into the crowd, and just like that, my heart broke all over again. Not because I wasn't thrilled for Josh and my family. I absolutely was. He was finally getting to go home. I just cried because I wasn't. Not yet. Standing there in that airport, I remember quietly asking God, Lord, when will it be our turn? And at the time I thought it was I was simply grieving the end of an incredible trip. But looking back now, I realized I was grieving something much deeper. I was grieving another reminder that the prayer I'd been praying faithfully still seemed unanswered. I didn't know it then, but God wasn't ignoring my prayers. He wasn't asking me to stop bringing him the deepest desire of my heart. He was inviting me to trust him in a chapter where I couldn't yet see what he was writing. And if I'm honest, that was much harder than I ever expected it to be. The years kept passing, the doctor's appointments continued, the treatments continued, the prayers continued, until one day, without even realizing it, I found myself praying something I never thought I'd have the courage to say. Somewhere along the way, the prayer I had been praying for years began to change. Not because I stopped wanting to be a mom, because I absolutely hadn't. Not because I'd lost faith, I hadn't done that either. It changed because I slowly realized I was asking God to fit my life into my plan instead of asking him to help me trust his. There wasn't one dramatic moment that brought me there. It was more like a series of small heartbreaks that finally became too heavy to carry the same way. One of those moments happened in my doctor's office. After years of treatments, appointments, medications, and trying what felt like every possible solution, our doctor sat with us and was incredibly honest. They simply couldn't figure out how to get my body to produce a viable egg for the next stage of treatment. There was one medication left, one last attempt, a Hail Mary, if you will. Not because anyone was confident that it would work, simply because it was the only thing we hadn't tried. We filled the prescription. I remember leaving the doctor's office with a tiny bit of hope that we had become so familiar with. Maybe this would finally be the answer. John and I were gonna drive to his parents' house that weekend and I took the first dose in the car. Within minutes, my vision disappeared. It didn't go black, it was stranger than that. Everything was still there, I just couldn't make any of it out. I couldn't focus, I couldn't see, and I remember the fear that rushed over both of us. Right there in the car, we looked at each other and knew this was over. Not because the doctor said so, and not because we wanted it to be, but because my body had answered that question for us. There wouldn't be another dose, there wouldn't be another attempt, there wouldn't be another medication. The treatments were finished. And I wish I could tell you that that was the hardest day, but it wasn't. Mother's Day was harder. If you've ever walked through infertility, you may not realize how complicated Mother's Day can feel. Churches do exactly what they should do. They celebrate mothers. They recognize the women who have poured themselves into their families. They dedicate babies. Sometimes there are pregnancy announcements. Children line up to hand flowers to their moms. None of those things are wrong. In fact, they're incredibly beautiful. But when you're quietly wondering if you'll ever be one of those women, the celebration carries a different kind of ache. I never sat there angry. I wasn't resentful. I wasn't wondering why someone else had received a blessing that I hadn't. I was genuinely happy for my friends that were being celebrated, but two things could be true at the same time. I could celebrate their joy while quietly crying and grieving my own unanswered prayer. And somewhere around that season, my conversations with God began sounding different. I stopped praying, God, please give me a baby. Not because I stopped wanting one, because I had begun trusting Him more than I trusted my own picture of how life was supposed to unfold. So my prayer became, God, if motherhood isn't your plan for me, please take this desire away. I know that sounds like a heartbreaking prayer, and honestly it was. Because I wasn't offering God something that I didn't care about. I was laying the deepest desire of my heart on his altar. I wasn't telling him I no longer wanted to be a mom. I was telling him that if his plan was different than mine, I wanted his plan more. And that may have been the hardest prayer I've ever prayed. But looking back now, I realized something. Surrender isn't giving up. Surrender is trusting that God who wrote your story loves you enough to write a better ending than you could have imagined for yourself. At the time, I thought I was placing motherhood into God's hands. I had no idea. He was already holding the answer. I just couldn't see it yet. Years later, I would find myself praying another impossible prayer, not for a baby this time, but for the lives of two men that I loved dearly. And once again, God's answer would look very different than the one I had imagined. As the years passed, I realized something. Infertility wasn't the last time I found myself praying impossible prayers. Years later, life had moved into a completely different season. I wasn't praying to become a mom anymore. I was praying for healing. Not once, but twice. Both prayers were filled with faith. Both were prayed by families who loved deeply, and both were answered in ways I never could have imagined. The first one was for my father-in-law Jimmy. Jimmy spent his career in law enforcement. He was one of those studied people that you could always count on. He loved his family deeply, and he loved Jesus deeply. He was the kind of man who quietly showed up for people over and over again. When he first became sick, none of us imagined where the next few weeks would lead. His doctor believed he was dealing with an infection from a wound on his foot and encouraged him to go to an emergency room. He and Betty both tested positive for COVID that night. She was sick too, but not nearly as sick as Jimmy. They admitted him and they sent her home. And that began one of the hardest seasons our family has walked through. Jimmy and Betty had been married for almost sixty years. I honestly don't know that they had spent more than a couple of nights apart in all of those decades, and then suddenly they spent the last five weeks of his life separated. Not because they wanted to, but because they had to. At first, we could still talk. There were text messages and phone calls, a couple of FaceTime conversations. The nurses did everything they reasonably could to help us stay connected, but parent caring for critically ill patients in the era of COVID understandably came before making sure someone's phone stayed charge. As the weeks passed, communication became harder. Every week seemed to follow the same rhythm. Early in the week, we'd hear encouraging reports, and maybe his numbers would look a little better or the oxygen wouldn't be needed as much. Maybe he was beginning to turn the corner, and then the weekend would come and there would be another setback. Hope, then disappointment, hope, then disappointment, over and over again. Eventually, the doctors told us that Jimmy needed a ventilator. One of the moments I'll never forget happened right then. Jimmy couldn't hear the doctors well enough to understand what they were asking. So John asked them to FaceTime him. He wanted to make sure that his dad understood what was happening before making a decision about being on a ventilator. Even now, when I think about that, I smile because that's exactly who John is. Even in the middle of fear and even in the middle of the grief that he was feeling, he was still trying to protect his dad. He was still trying to advocate for him in the best way he knew how, still trying to love him from 45 minutes away. That became one of the hardest parts of our entire experience, not simply because Jimmy was critically ill, but that none of us could be sitting beside him. We asked, we pleaded, we offered to sign waivers. We couldn't understand why Betty, who already had recovered from COVID herself, couldn't simply sit in the room with her husband. Not because we thought we knew more than the medical staff, but because family brings something that no one else can. They notice, they advocate, they love. We were allowed one visit. Just the biological Jimmy John and his sister Susan were allowed to go in. And they had to sit or stand in the IC room or the ICU hallway looking into his room through glass. Close enough to see him, but not close enough to hold his hand. That helplessness became difficult to describe. Then one morning, around four or five o'clock in the morning, the hospital called. They told us that the time was drawing near, and we jumped out of bed, got the kids, got dressed, and started driving 45 minutes to the hospital. And that's all that separated us from getting there. We believed we were racing there to say goodbye. We also believed we might have to make one of the hardest decisions a family can ever face. We thought we were going to drive there that day to decide whether it was time to remove him from life support. Then, somewhere along that drive, the phone rang again and Jimmy was gone. And for a long time, all I could think about was everything that we had lost: the goodbye, the hand we never got to hold, the conversations we never got to have, the chance for Betty to sit beside the man that she had loved for nearly six decades. The losses were real. They always will be. But time has also allowed me to see something I couldn't recognize in those first days. God's answer, he answered a prayer I didn't even know to pray. We never had to decide when it was time. Jimmy's body made that decision for us. That doesn't erase the grief, it doesn't erase the questions, it doesn't erase the ache of everything COVID took from so many families. But it did spare us from carrying the lifelong burden of wondering whether we had made the right decision. Sometimes God's mercies aren't the ones we're looking for in the moment. Sometimes we only recognize the Them years later. Several years passed, life moved forward, God remained faithful, and then another possible, impossible prayer found our family. This time it was my dad. Pulmonary fibrosis slowly stole his ability to breathe. Once again, we prayed for healing. Once again we believed God could do a miracle. Hospice became part of our story. By then, dad spent most of his time in a hospital bed at home. I spent Thursday sitting beside him, holding his hand, telling him I loved him. Friday a priest came and prayed over him and offered last rites. That evening our entire family gathered, twenty five family members, his best friend from college and his wife, and we prayed together. We cried together, we laughed together, we told stories. Later that night, Gabby and I climbed into bed beside him, and NCIS played on the television, his favorite show. It's funny what our hearts remember. Not the medications, not the equipment. Just one more quiet afternoon watching Dad's favorite show beside him. Monday morning his breathing had changed. The hospice nerf came to bathe him and change his sheets, but she stopped. She quietly called the main hospice nurse and we all knew. The three of us who were there simply stayed, holding his hands, talking to him and waiting with him. My two older sisters were on speaker phone. The room was incredibly quiet. There was the struggle. And then there was peace. Dad had taken his final breath. The hospice nurse wouldn't officially pronounce him gone for at least another hour, but none of us left. We stayed, holding his hand until the funeral home arrived. People sometime ask sometimes ask whether losing my dad was easier than losing Jimmy, and the answer is no, not for a second. The grief is every bit as deep, the loss is every bit as permanent. The tears are every bit as real. The goodbye was simply different. With Jimmy, love stood outside a hospital room. With dad, love was allowed to stay. I've thought about these two goodbyes many times. I don't know why they unfolded so differently, and I don't know why one family experienced one kind of goodbye and the other entirely a di entirely different way of saying goodbye. I don't pretend to have the answers that I can't possibly have, but I know this God was present in both rooms. With Jimmy, none of us could physically be there, but I could have never believed that he was alone. Christ was with him. With Dad, God gave us an incredible gift of being able to love him all the way until his final breath. The loss wasn't smaller. The love simply had room to be expressed differently. I've come to believe something I never could have understood when I was younger. Peace and pain are not opposites. Sometimes they exist at the very same moment. Looking back over infertility, hospital hallways, forty-five minute drives, the hospice room, I've stopped expecting every answer from God to look the same. Sometimes he changes the circumstances, sometimes he changes me. Sometimes he gives strength for the waiting, and sometimes he gives peace for the goodbye. Sometimes his mercy is only recognizable years later when I finally have enough perspective to see what he was quietly doing all along. And through every season, I've discovered the same truth. God has never stopped answering from a place of love. Looking back over all these years, I've started to realize something. Sometimes we spend so much time asking whether God has answered our prayers. We miss the quiet ways that He's caring for us while we wait. When I look back over the last 20-something years, I don't think the biggest miracle is that some of my prayers were answered differently than I expected. I think the biggest miracle is that through every season I've learned more and more about the heart of God. People sometimes ask me if I ever got angry with him, and the answer is absolutely. There were moments during infertility that I yelled, I cried, I asked questions I didn't have answers for. I remember wondering why I was being asked to wait. I remember while somewhere in the world there were children who were being born into abuse while all I wanted was to love and hold one myself. Those are hard questions. Real questions. Questions that don't fit neatly into Sunday school answers. But here's what I discovered. God was never intimidated by my emotions. He never pulled away because I was honest. If anything, those were some of the moments that I felt him the most closely, most intimately. Like a father sitting beside his daughter while she cried. I think sometimes we're afraid to bring our whole hearts to God, as though honesty might somehow offend him. I found the opposite to be true. One of my favorite reminders during the infertility years hung on our nursery wall. Yes, the nursery. We painted it, decorated it, filled it months before there was ever a baby, even prepared to sleep inside of it. On the wall, there were the words, every good and perfect thing comes from above. Looking back, I smile. At the time, those words felt like hope. Today, they feel like testimony. Not because everything unfolded the way I expected, because every truly good gift in my life has ultimately come from God's hands. Whether I recognized it immediately or not, people have often told me that suffering shook their faith. I've heard people say they stopped believing, or that they questioned whether God was real. I understand why people wrestle with those questions. I really do. But that hasn't been my story. Even losing my dad, something I thought might shake my faith didn't. Instead, I experienced a peace that I couldn't fully explain. Not because I wanted him to die, I certainly didn't. I wanted him healed. But as I held his hand, I also knew deep in my soul that bringing him home was the most loving thing that God could do for him. That doesn't mean I wasn't devastated. I surely was. My whole family was. It simply means that grief and peace somehow can share a room. If I could sit across the table from the younger version of myself, the woman desperately praying for a baby, I think I'd tell her something simple. Your plan isn't the whole story. God's plan or his plans have never once been smaller than yours. They've never been less loving, they've never been less beautiful. Sometimes they've taken me through valleys I never would have chosen. Sometimes they've required waiting far longer than I wanted to, because they've broken my heart before they healed it. But never, not once, have I looked back and wish God had abandoned his plan in favor of mine. There are still prayers I don't fully understand. Sometimes I look back and realize the answer was protection from something I couldn't see. Sometimes the answer was simply delayed. Sometimes the answer came in a completely different form than I had imagined. Sometimes the answer didn't make sense until years later. But that's one of the hardest parts about being human. We only see today, and God sees today, and five years from now, and fifty years from now, and all of eternity. We're trying to understand one chapter while he's writing the entire story. That's changed the way I pray. I still hope I still bring God my hopes, my dreams and my fears, the things that keep me awake at night. But now I've almost always in the same way. Lord, let your will be done. Not because I expect less from him, because I've learned to expect more, more wisdom than mine, more love than mine, more perspective than mine. I don't want to box God into my imagination anymore. I want to walk wherever he's leading. Even if it takes me places that feel impossible today. When I think about healer, hope giver, I certainly have dreams. I hope it reaches people. I hope it brings healing. I hope it gives hope to someone who's running out of it. But if God's plan includes things that honestly scare me, like speaking in front of people or traveling or places I never imagined myself to be, I want his plan more than my comfort. Because he's earned my trust, not by giving me everything I've ever asked for, but by faithfully walking beside me through every chapter of my story. As I'm recording this today, there are still prayers I'm waiting on. There are still people that I love walking through valleys that haven't reached their ending. This isn't a conversation I'm having because all my questions have been answered. It's a conversation I'm having because I've learned something I hope that I'll never forget. Sometimes we don't recognize God's faithfulness while we're living inside the story. Sometimes we only recognize it when we look back and realize he's never left our side. He was there in the doctor's office. He was there in the orphanage. He was there on the 45 minute drive to the hospital. He was there beside my dad's hospice bed. He was there through every tear, every prayer, and every unanswered question, and he's there today, whether I can see the whole story or not. And maybe that's the invitation for all of us, not to understand every answer, but to keep trusting the one who has never stopped writing the story. Maybe today you're carrying a prayer that feels a lot like mine once did. Maybe you've prayed it so many times that you don't even know what else to say. Maybe you're asking God to heal someone you love. Maybe you're praying for a child or a marriage or a job or freedom from anxiety, reconciliation, direction, or maybe you're simply praying for enough strength to make it through tomorrow. Can I tell you something I wish had someone had reminded me years ago? Don't stop bringing your heart to God. Bring all of it. The polished prayers, the desperate prayers, the angry, exhausted prayers, the prayers that don't even sound like prayers anymore. He can handle every single one of them. I've discovered that some of the sweetest moments of intimacy I've ever experienced with God didn't happen when I had everything figured out. They happened when I was sitting on the floor asking him questions I didn't understand. He never once asked me to clean up my emotions before coming to him. He simply asked me to come. And maybe your story won't unfold exactly like mine did. I can't promise that. I can't promise that every illness will be healed on this side of heaven. I can't promise that every marriage will be restored. I can't promise that every prodigal will come home, or that every longing will be filled in the way that you hope. Scripture doesn't make those promises, so neither will I. But I can promise you this, God is still writing. The chapter you're living in today is not the whole story. There may be mercies you don't recognize until years from now. There may be answers that arrive wearing completely different clothes than the ones you expected. There may be moments when you look back and realize, oh, that's what you were doing there. And there may also be prayers that won't make complete sense until you get to heaven, and that's okay. Because our hope has never rested in understanding every answer. Our hope rests in knowing the one who hears every prayer. I've learned something over these last 20 years, or maybe more. God has never once asked me to understand his entire plan. He's only ever asked me to trust him with my very next step. That's something I can do. One prayer at a time, one day at a time, one act of surrender at a time. And if today that's all you can do too, I think that's enough. If today's conversation stirred something in your heart, don't rush past it. Download the free episode reflection to spend a little more time with God, process the prayers that you've been carrying, and gently explore what trust looks like in this season. And if you're walking through a longer season of waiting, this conversation is only the beginning. Over the next several weeks, we will continue exploring what it means to trust God when life doesn't unfold the way we expected. Those conversations will eventually become a companion resource designed to help you hold on to hope while you wait. Thank you for spending this time with me today. These conversations are never just about telling my story. They're about helping us to discover God's faithfulness in the middle of your own. If today's episode encouraged you, I would love for you to share it with someone who's carrying a prayer that feels unanswered. Sometimes the greatest gift we can give another person isn't an explanation. It's the reminder that they're not walking through it alone. If you'd like to continue the conversation, you'll find every episode, every resource, and every next step at healerhopegiver.com. Next week we're going to stay with this story because it isn't where it ends. There's another chapter I can't wait to share with you. Until then, keep bringing your whole heart to God. Even when the answers don't look the way you expected.