Perspective

I’m not sure how I got connected to this alert system, but every so often, an unexpected notification pops up on my phone: a burglary has been reported just a few miles from where I live. Recently, these notifications have become even more unsettling, with reports of domestic violence now appearing alongside the burglaries.

At first, I was startled—almost disoriented—to realize such terrible things were happening so close to my own home. Instinctively, I whispered a desperate prayer, declaring a hedge of protection over my house and everyone I love. As the initial shock faded and more domestic violence alerts quietly trickled in, my mind wandered into the lives that were being shattered nearby. What must those moments look like inside those homes? What is daily life like for the families living through this? How do they keep going, holding themselves together behind closed doors? Do children live there, and if so, what are they witnessing? What scars are being carved into their young hearts? I thought about the officers who respond—how they must witness scenes of heartbreak and sometimes have to physically separate family members in crisis. Do the neighbors know? Have they tried to help, or do they look away, unsure what to do? So many haunting questions, and so few answers.

My heart ached with sadness for these unseen neighbors. After that initial wave of sorrow, I found myself praying for them—asking for comfort, safety, and healing for people I would likely never meet. Then I began to wonder: How many others are silently enduring unimaginable hardships this holiday season, hidden behind polite smiles or quiet houses? Who else is just going through the motions, their emotions raging beneath the surface, struggling to keep it all together? In some strange way, these sobering alerts put my own burdens in perspective. Just recently, we learned that my daughter will need surgery—a procedure almost identical to the one my son endured only six months ago. For him, it was his left knee; for her, it’s the right. Honestly, I’m still reeling from the news, praying for a miracle even as I process the shock. My heart feels like it’s been wrung out, over and over. It seems almost surreal: just as my oldest is finally regaining strength and confidence in his knee, my daughter faces the same painful journey. Life’s symmetry, in this case, feels more like a cruel twist.

As I had told my son in the days following his diagnosis, I repeated the same words to my daughter: It’s okay to be upset, to grieve the loss of your ACL, to feel sad and frustrated. But you can’t let yourself stay trapped in disappointment forever. I realized I needed to hear those words, too. No, I’m not the one physically injured, but witnessing the pain and struggle of someone you love is its own kind of suffering—a helpless ache that lingers. If I could, I would trade my strong, healthy knees for hers in a heartbeat, just to spare her this ordeal.

But even as the weight of these burdens threatens to overwhelm me, I remind myself to be thankful. I hold onto my faith, believing that God is still in charge and will guide my daughter through a full recovery. I have to cling to that hope, not just for myself, but so I can encourage her to do the same. And I have to remember: there are others enduring far deeper pain and hardship than our family is facing right now. If we keep praying for them, our hearts will shift from dwelling on our own troubles to sending hope and compassion out into the world.

As we gather for Thanksgiving, I hope you find moments of genuine peace—both in the company of others and in your own quiet reflections. May gratitude guide your perspective, and may you recognize the strength and hope that persist, even in life’s most challenging seasons. Let’s look for ways to lift one another up and share compassion, remembering that kindness, empathy, and faith can help us all carry on.