10/21/2026
Hello Beloved,
Isaiah 61 begins in the places where life has been broken open: ashes, mourning, heaviness, captivity, and wounds that need tending. Yet it does not leave us there. It speaks of a God who enters those places with comfort, freedom, and restoration. As I read these words after the past few days, I recognize something of my own recovery within them—not as a finished story, but as a tender beginning.
Beauty for ashes. The oil of joy for mourning. The garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness.
These promises meet me gently in recovery, reminding me that God is present not only in restoration but also in the slow, tender work of healing. He binds up the brokenhearted. He proclaims liberty to the captives. He comforts those who mourn.
On my hospital handout, I wrote, “Freed on the third day.” As I continue to recover, those words have become a prayer for the places within me that still need His tender care. They remind me that freedom can unfold gradually as He patiently brings light and wholeness to what has been wounded.
I am bringing Him my weariness, my unanswered questions, and the hurts I sometimes struggle to put into words. I am also learning to receive care, allow myself to rest, and give healing the time it needs. Some days, recovery looks like the cool weight of a glass of water in my hands, the quiet relief of settling into bed, or taking a few careful steps and noticing that they come a little more easily than before. In this season, even these quiet acts of surrender feel like part of the restoration Isaiah describes.
“For your shame ye shall have double; and for confusion they shall rejoice in their portion: therefore in their land they shall possess the double: everlasting joy shall be unto them.”
Isaiah 61:7 KJV
That promise gives me room to hope beyond what I can see today. It helps me trust that what feels unfinished remains held within His redeeming work.
Then comes the garden. Isaiah describes what is sown springing forth, and I think of the quiet moments I spend watching my own garden grow. I notice the damp scent of soil after watering, the soft green of new leaves, and the small changes that appear when I pause long enough to look. So much happens beneath the soil before I ever see a bloom. Recovery can feel that way too: hidden, gradual, and quietly alive with promise. The garden reminds me that waiting is not the same as standing still, and that God may be nurturing new life even when I cannot yet see it.
Today, my praise is simple: Thank You, Lord, for bringing me home. Thank You for everyone who has loved me, prayed for me, and helped care for me. Help me receive Your love in the midst of this healing, trusting You with both the visible progress and the unseen work.
Lord, when I feel weary, remind me that I am not healing alone. When I feel afraid, steady me with the assurance that You are already present in tomorrow. When I cannot see what You are doing, teach me to trust the quiet work beneath the surface. Let gratitude rise in me for every breath, every kindness, every small step, and every sign of grace.
May righteousness and praise spring forth from my life, that You might be glorified. Thank You for carrying me this far, for holding me through what I could not hold myself, and for giving me hope that reaches beyond this moment. I place my recovery, my future, and my whole heart in Your hands, trusting that the God who brought me home will faithfully lead me forward.
With gratitude for yesterday, trust for today, and hope for tomorrow, I rest in You.
Love,
Shy
