Jenna Gail Julian

Grief is the only thing I can still cherish that will forever carry pieces of those I love, especially those that now call heaven their home.

It is okay to pray to be soft, gentle, and stilled. It is okay, because the world needs more delicate fawning in each of our days, the kind that leaves hearts feeling more peaceful than they were found.

In the busyness, I have only found emptiness. But in slowness, I have only found abundance.

My story is proof that healing is true. It is possible. It shows that faith can move mountains. I say this with such heartfelt clarity because I now trust that hope can always be found, even in wake of the wilderness. 

On my birthday this year, I am choosing to rejoice.

I am struggling. I am struggling because there are so many moments I wonder, “Why is my body, my home, at war with me?” 

There are mornings I wake up dreaming about my sweet, sweet memories, leading me to wonder why they are now just memories alone.

I hope that I was always meant to hold onto this faith in each step I take. And I’d like to think that it is always there and never leaves me, especially during times when my grasp on hope seems loose. 

I have to have faith that things will get better, even in the clouds and dismay and wonder and questions… because all of this makes me dream of new hopes that bring life to a love that I have lost and found and lost and found again. 

And now, after what seems like a lifetime veiling this story with a strength I trust can only come from grace, I am trying to honor it the only way I know how — through words and verse, patience and gentleness. 

This year, winter seems new.

I say with honest certainty that writing has given me more than I have ever naturally been able to give to myself.