The Valley of the Shadow

My Grandpa Edwin lived like a weaver or tailor bird: quiet, faithful, instinctively anchored in love.  When I was nine on a trip to India, I became obsessed with a tailor bird nest near our old house and boldly announced I’d catch the mother and bring her to Canada to my Grandparents. Grandpa didn’t mock me or crush the wonder. He simply reminded me, gently but firmly, that the bird had a God-given task: to stay and incubate her eggs. The next day Grandpa Edwin staged a whole “bird-catching” moment—white car, cardboard box, fridge room, dramatic suspense. Inside wasn’t a real bird at all, but a little decorative one with eggs, arranged like a nest. In one gentle act he protected the living creature’s calling  and  protected a child’s imagination. That was Grandpa’s gift: he met a need without harm, built joy without stealing what was sacred, and showed me what Micah calls the quiet way of God. Now that I’m walking through TBI and PCS recovery, I understand that kind of me...

 The tailor bird doesn’t force a home out of brute strength. It stitches. Leaf to leaf, strand by strand, it makes shelter from what’s already there. When I was nine in India, I became fascinated by a tailor bird nesting near our old house, stitching green leaves together with unbelievable precision. I sat on the divan and told my Grandparents about it, then announced—with the full confidence of a child—that I was going to catch the mother bird and bring her back to Canada. Some days, my symptoms feel like frayed edges—fatigue that arrives too early, fog that blurs simple thoughts, strain that gathers behind my eyes, overwhelm that floods my nervous system without warning. I can still “function,” but it costs more than people can see. And when the day ends, I’m left holding loose threads: the grief of what I couldn’t finish, the fear that this is as good as it gets, the temptation to shame myself for needing rest. But the tailor bird doesn’t panic when the materials are fragile. It...

 Both weaver birds and tailor birds don’t build with one dramatic motion, they build by instinct.  The weaver bird works in loops—threading, tightening, pausing, testing the tension, then weaving again. Strand by strand, it makes a home that can hold. My Aunt Dr. Hereford reminded me of how this bird uses instinct to build a place of safety and security for its young. This week the weaver bird at work has an image has been sitting with me in this season of post-concussion life, because healing after TBI has felt exactly like that: not a lightning bolt, but a careful construction—small supports, steady adjustments, and the humility to rest when the work becomes too much. Some days my eyes feel like they’re doing double duty—burning dryness, focus that takes effort, near tasks that cost more than they should, screens that drain me faster than expected. Even when I can complete something, I’m learning that “possible” isn’t the same as “sustainable.” When strain shows up, it isn’...

Post MVA, I’m learning that “seeing” is not only about what lands on the retina, but about what my whole self can take in without strain, post MVA. The phrase "Open my Eyes, that I may see!" has played over and over in my since realizing I have Post-Trauma Vision Syndrome. I clearly need our Master Physician to give me clarity, courage, and compassion for my own limits. Open the eyes of my heart, Lord—not just so I can look at my life, but so I can truly see what you want to do with it. This season in the Valley has taught me how easily fear, fatigue, and grief can dim the soul’s vision even when the world around me is bright. Some days, the hardest part isn’t pain—it’s the constant effort of ordinary life. Reading can feel like wading through fog. Screens can drain me faster than I can explain. Concentration slips, not dramatically, but steadily, like trying to hold water in my hands. I’ve had to grieve the gap between what I want to do and what my body can sustain, and I’v...

After publishing my recent reflection,  Footprints in the Sand , I completed a prayer walk as a form of regulated, low-stimulation activity—something my recovery from traumatic brain injury (TBI) requires as much as my spiritual life does. I needed a setting where my nervous system could settle, where I could stop performing competence, and simply be present with the Holy Spirit. Standing along the Burrard Inlet, I noticed the familiar pattern: when my body is quiet, the deeper layers surface. Alongside neurological symptoms, I carry moral injury and relational grief connected to church trauma—particularly experiences tied to leadership contexts in Saanich and Victoria—and the uncomfortable awareness that I may also have contributed to harm. That mixture produces a specific kind of internal arousal: not dramatic, but persistent, with shame, vigilance, and sorrow competing for oxygen. I chose a quiet stretch of beach and watched my own footprints form and disappear. Only one set was...

During these months dealing with my TBI, I’m learning lowly, stubbornly, and sometimes tearfully that discipleship isn’t measured by efficiency. This week, the poem Footprints in the Sand continues to find me again. For the first time in Vancouver, full of sunshine and the start of flowers, I slowly believe there is hope. The hope of restoration and renewal is slowly rising. A restoration to not who Joshua was, but to a new version of Joshua. I know the Lord is creating and refining a better version, a version who will use his journey of TBI (Training Betterment Internally) to wherever the Lord leads these sets of footprints. "I don’t understand why, when I needed You the most, You would leave me?" I’ve asked that question in more ways than I can count, sometimes out loud, sometimes silently, sometimes with tears streaming down my face. Most days my body, soul, and heart feel unfamiliar and my mind feels slower. It’s easy to interpret that as distance. There are times, I say...

During these months dealing with my TBI, I’m learning lowly, stubbornly, and sometimes tearfully that discipleship isn’t measured by efficiency. This week, the poem Footprints in the Sand keeps finding me again. Not as a cliché, but as a quiet mirror of what my life is. The poem dares to say what I often don’t want to admit: the moments that felt most abandoned and alone may have been the moments I was most carried. It also brings back a theme that I have ruminated on since seeing the good, bad, and the ugly side of the church for the last 20 years. If we are supposed to love like Jesus, why do we cause so much destruction, pain, and hurt? Why do we cause so many to reject the Gospel and choose to live without the Church and Jesus?                                         During this season, I’ve learned what it means to move carefully, to measure distance differently, ...

On Saturday, I discovered Jesus, Keep Me Near the Cross through my mom. It wasn’t during a concert or a worship service. It was quiet and serene, the way sacred things often arrive. She handed me the bright red Baptist hymnal, worn soft at the edges, and suggested we transition from “Be Still my Soul” to this one on Sunday. As our family grieves the loss of two family members, it seemed fitting to meditate on these words.  This verse above meets in the Valley, reminding me that God does not stand at a distance from sorrow — He draws near, especially when loss feels heavy and personal.  I remember placing my fingers on the flute keys and feeling something settle in my chest before the first note even sounded. As the low melody moved through the room, I felt generations breathing with me. My mother beside me, nestled in the folds of a printed silk saree, as she played hymns at the church she married my dad at as a dedicated church pianist. My Oma and her congregation in Geneva s...