Chapter One: Valley & Stone 4 of 5

THE VALLEY OF POWERLESSNESS

From the upstairs window of our house in Sisters, Oregon, I watched my mom walking across the stretch of grass toward the car. My little sister’s small hand was tucked tightly in hers. She couldn’t have been more than two or three years old. I remember her white sweater against the gray of the day, the kind of sweater that looked soft but thin against the mountain air.

No one told me to stay upstairs. I don’t remember being sent away. I just remember that I was there, separated by height and distance, looking down at something I couldn’t reach. The distance growing between us as they walked.

At the time, I didn’t have language for why my chest felt tight. I just knew something wasn’t right. If my memory serves me correctly, my sister’s face was swollen. I believe she had the mumps, or something like it. Her fever had climbed high enough that fear hovered in the house. Not loud panic. Just the kind that sits heavy in the air when adults are trying not to alarm the children.

I remember watching until they reached the car. Watching my mom open the door. Watching my sister disappear inside. And then they drove away.

What I didn’t know then was how deeply that posture would imprint on me. Standing at windows. Watching people I love leave. Holding my breath until they return.

And I stayed at the window. I couldn’t go with them. I couldn’t lower her fever. I couldn’t make her safe. All I could do was watch the people I loved move beyond my reach.

Looking back, I see how early that feeling settled into me. The powerlessness. The awareness that harm could touch someone I loved and I would have no power to stop it. For a child, powerlessness doesn’t have vocabulary. It just sits in the body.

THE STONE OF GRACE - The God Who Holds What I Cannot

For a long time, I didn’t realize how much that upstairs window shaped me. I thought it was just a childhood memory. A sister sick. A mom doing what moms do. A car driving away. But when I began paying attention to my patterns as an adult, I saw something familiar.

I don’t struggle to love people. I struggle not to carry responsibility for outcomes that aren’t mine. That feeling at the window followed me into adulthood. When someone I love is hurting, my instinct isn’t just compassion. It’s urgency. I want to fix it. I want to intervene. I want to stand between them and whatever might harm them. And when I can’t, something inside me tightens.

It wasn’t until I was sitting with Psalm 121 that God began connecting those dots.

“I lift up my eyes to the hills. From where does my help come? My help comes from the Lord… He who keeps you will not slumber… The Lord will keep your going out and your coming in from this time forth and forevermore.”

That Psalm isn’t sentimental. It’s corrective. It doesn’t say I keep. It doesn’t say I guard. It doesn’t say I prevent harm. It says He does.

Standing at that upstairs window, I wasn’t failing my sister by not fixing her fever. I was a child. The responsibility was never mine. But somewhere along the way, I picked up a quiet belief that love meant control. That vigilance meant protection. That if I watched closely enough, I could keep people safe.

Psalm 121 dismantled that gently. The One who keeps Israel doesn’t sleep. The One who watches over doesn’t grow anxious. The One who guards doesn’t need my reinforcement. He was watching my sister long before I was standing at that window. And He watches the people I love now with the same steadiness.

That truth didn’t make me passive. It made me freer. I can love without assuming sovereignty. I can care deeply without assuming control. I can pray instead of panic. Even in my leadership today, I feel the old instinct rise. When women in our home face court dates, medical scares, or relapse risk, I feel that window again. That urge to carry what isn’t mine to carry. But I return to the Stone. I am not the keeper. He is!

The valley taught me what powerlessness feels like. The Stone taught me who actually holds power. And that difference has reshaped the way I live.

←Previous Section| Back to Table of Contents| Next Section →