Jesus, keep me near the Cross!
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 singing in tongues, as the Pentecostal movement spread across Europe. The Baptist hymnal on the black stand brought me to the moment I returned to a Baptist Union Church, with a call to serve after 30 years away. An image radiant in love came to mind of my sweet and tender Pastor Sherrolyn Riley in her brown ministerial robes at the pulpit of United Baptist Church of Mahone Bay. The faint sounds of Glorious Things of Thee are Spoken resonated from the organ as she led her flock in a tune that has meant so much to my Hanseatic family of Sievers, as it speaks to the German national anthem about unity. Faith passed down through simple pages and familiar harmonies. Suddenly I wasn’t just playing a hymn — I was standing inside a prayer that had been waiting for me long before I knew I would need it.
Post-concussion syndrome has stripped life down to its quietest elements. My thinking slows. Sounds overwhelm me. Conversations exhaust me. I lose words mid-sentence. I forget things I once held easily. There are days when my nervous system feels like it’s constantly bracing for impact when I drive, and nights when sleep comes in fragments. Healing does not move in straight lines. Some mornings bring clarity; others arrive heavy with fog. Clinically, this is expected. Spiritually, it has undone me and made me kneel at the Cross of Jesus Christ, to ask - Here I am, how can I be used in this form of brokeness? I am learning that recovery is not about becoming who I was — it is about surrendering to who I am becoming. Near the cross, I am discovering that weakness is not something God tolerates. It is something our Lord inhabits.
The verse from 2 Corinthians has given me language to what I am living: that the Cross is not only a place of redemption, but of divine companionship in weakness — where God’s strength does not replace fragility, but dwells within it. Alongside the neurological injury lives another wound that is harder to measure: church trauma. There is a special kind of grief when members of the Body of Christ, of the Church that dedicated and christened me - build places that harm and hurt me. I have been misunderstood. My medical reality has been spiritualized away. My slowing down has been treated like disengagement. Some spaces expected me to push through. Others quietly withdrew once I could no longer perform. The pressure to remain visible while my body, heart, and soul begged for rest nearly broke me. Church trauma rarely arrives dramatically — it comes through silence, dismissal, ghosting, unmet accommodations, and the quiet implication that there is no place for you at our Church. Carrying that while living with post-concussion syndrome has been unbearable at times. There are days I wonder if I will ever have the stamina and strength to serve again.
Living life with a TBI means accepting rides, quiet rooms, repeated explanations, slower expectations, and gentler rhythms. Receiving care has become holy work. It takes courage to let others see limitation without dressing it up as strength. It takes humility to admit dependence. Every act of kindness has felt like oxygen. Every prayer, every message, every gentle check-in has reminded me that God often answers us through human hands. Near the cross, independence dissolves into interdependence, and pride softens into gratitude.
I remember the days I worked 16 hours, with a body going through cancer treatments. I miss the sustained focus, the sharp memory, the ease of multitasking. Some days I barely recognize the person I’ve become. I can only pray that slowly, something deeper is taking root. Christ does not measure me by productivity. He does not love me for what I produce. He calls me beloved while I am tired, confused, and healing. Near the cross, I am relearning that I belong even when I cannot keep up. That identity does not come from performance. That worth is not earned through endurance.
Being an Ambassador for Christ is now quieter, smaller, and slower. It happens in listening instead of leading, in writing rather than speaking, in prayer whispered through exhaustion, in compassion shaped by lived fragility. Some days faith looks like staying. Other days faith looks like leaving unsafe spaces. Some days faith looks like resting instead of striving. Jesus himself was misunderstood by religious systems, abandoned by friends, and wounded by institutions meant to uphold goodness. Ministry did not protect him from suffering, it led our Lord into it. That realization has reframed everything for me. Near the cross, I am learning that calling is not something I perform. It is something God continues to form in me while I heal.
In the midst of all this, I received gentle medical news that felt like mercy. At my hospital follow-up for anterior uveitis, the inflammation had significantly improved — now rated at 0.5 on a four-step scale, down from 3.5 ten days ago and 3.0 five days ago. The inflammatory activity has decreased, intraocular pressure is within the normal range, and no new abnormalities were found. It is a very good response to ongoing therapy. Healing arriving quietly, from a surgeon who treated me like a colleague, not a patient. I hold this progress tenderly, aware that recovery comes one fragile step at a time. Matthew 11:28 is an invitation holds my exhaustion with tenderness, reminding me that rest itself is sacred, and that belonging to Christ does not require capacity — only coming. I am profoundly grateful for every prayer, every word of encouragement, every expression of TLC that has carried me here.
So I return to that hymn, to my mom, to her dedicated covenant attitude and voluntary service behind the scenes as a Sunday School teacher, a pastor’s wife, a church pianist, and more. On days, I have the strength to open the Baptist hymnal. Hymn #453 will be a simple melody that now holds my whole story. Jesus, keep me near the cross — not so I can be strong, but so I can be honest. Honest about how I placed medicine and ministry above those who needed me, above the ones that loved me unconditionally and carried me - silently - till they couldn't bear it anymore and left. Jesus, keep me near the cross, not so I can perform, but so I can remain. Keep me near the cross, that in prayer and training betterment internally - I may repair what was broken - in me and in others.
Near the cross, I am learning that God does not rush healing. He stays. He sits with me in cognitive fog and spiritual disappointment. He meets me in grief and neurological fatigue. He holds me when returning to ministry feels impossible and church feels unsafe, due to a few who have harmed me perhaps repair. Thank you to everyone who has walked beside me with patience and gentleness. Your presence is part of my recovery. This valley is sacred ground and even here — especially here — I am trying to find space in my heart to love like Jesus. I hope this duet will keep you near the Cross too.
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