There are valleys you prepare for. And there are valleys that arrive without warning.

Last Saturday night, my husband and my youngest son got into an argument. It escalated quickly. In the heat of the moment, my husband told him to leave. So he quickly packed one single suitcase. And just like that within minutes my whole life was shattered.

Our son is 20 years old. He works 12-hour shifts as a corrections officer. He is a responsible, hardworking and a happy-go-lucky soul. I was not prepared for this kind of silence in my home. I was not prepared for the speed of it. And I definitely was not prepared for the unbelievable heartache it has caused.

For years, Joseph had been my steady place in a life that had seen its share of chaos. His laughter filled rooms that once held tension. His presence softened hard seasons. And suddenly, he wasn’t there.

This week, I cried harder than I have in a very long time. This entire week felt heavy. I found myself worrying about “tomorrow.” About his future. About whether I had stewarded him well enough. About whether I had done enough as his mother. The fear of tomorrow can feel louder than the pain of today.

On Friday morning, before my high school bus route, I sat alone on that empty bus and sobbed. Loudly. Uncontrolled. My heart felt like it was being physically torn open.

And in that moment of overwhelming despair, I cried out loud: “God pleaseeeee help me.” Not polished. Not poetic. Just desperate. And He heard me.

The night before — Thursday evening — Joseph had asked if I would wash his clothes. He had only taken what he could fit into that one suitcase, and he was working long shifts. Of course I said yes. Being a mom doesn’t end when your child walks out the door. When I unzipped his suitcase, the very first thing sitting on top of his clothes was his Bible. In his rushed, emotional state — he grabbed his Bible! I didn’t fully process it in that moment.

But later, after everything else, as that Bible laid on top of those unfolded clothes in a suitcase…God was unfolding part of His plan to me, I told Joseph: “When I opened your suitcase… your Bible was right on top.” He said, “Of course I took it. And I’ve been reading it too. ”And in that moment, my heart was cared for again.

And something inside of me settled. Joseph does not belong to me. He belongs to the Lord first. God entrusted him to me to steward for a season. To raise. To guide. To pray over. To love. But he was never mine to control. He was always God’s.

And the same God who heard me sobbing on an empty bus is the same God who watches over my son in his own apartment, during his 12-hour shifts, in the quiet of his own prayers.

But God was not done caring for me.

That Friday afternoon as I was picking the high schoolers up to take them home, a quiet 10th-grade girl who has never spoken to me all year ( I believe she may be mute) tapped me on the shoulder as she boarded my bus. She communicates by writing in a notebook. She had written: “Are you okay? How are you doing today?”

I told her the truth. I told her it had been a very difficult week. I am not ok and that my heart was broken. She turned the page around again. “You are very strong and brave. Don’t give up.” I began to cry and thanked her. I asked if I could hug her. And she wrapped her arms around me. God sent a messenger with a notebook.

And then — as if to show me He was working from every direction — a woman who owns another balloon business reached out to me. Not to compete but to encourage.

She told me she admired my work. She told me she appreciated my openness about my faith.
She said it would be a dream to collaborate someday.

In a week where I felt like everything was unraveling, God reminded me:

You are not alone.
You are not forgotten.
I am still establishing the work of your hands.
And I am holding your son.

Jeremiah 29:11 is not just a verse I’ve designed into balloon garlands for 18-year-old birthdays.

“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, to give you a future and a hope.”

That promise was never just for clients. It is for me. It is for Joseph. It is for you. And then — as if God wanted to underline everything He had already been whispering to my heart — I received a simple text message from New Creation Farm, a Christian farm where I buy our meats. They often send discounts and scripture. The scripture they sent was Matthew 6:25–26. It is the passage where Jesus tells us not to worry about tomorrow… where He reminds us to look at the birds of the air. They do not store up or plan their futures, yet the Father feeds them — and we are worth far more than they are. All week I had been afraid of tomorrow. And there it was again. A gentle reminder: You are not responsible for holding what I already hold. This valley did not surprise God. Joseph’s future is not uncertain to Him. My tears were not ignored. God unfolded reassurance slowly. And through it all, Psalm 23 began to echo in my spirit:

“The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.
He makes me lie down in green pastures.
He leads me beside still waters.
He restores my soul.
He leads me in paths of righteousness for His name’s sake.
Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil, for You are with me;
Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me.”

This was not a green pasture week. This was a valley week. And Psalm 23 does not promise we will avoid valleys. It promises we will walk through them.

Even though I walk through the valley…

Not run.
Not escape.
Not control.

Walk.

With The Shepherd. He was with me on that empty bus. He was with Joseph in his apartment search, and in finding a place to lay his head night by night. He was with us in the silence.

“He restores my soul.”

Not all at once.
Not instantly.
But faithfully.

The Bible on top of a suitcase. A quiet girl with a notebook. A Christian business owner offering collaboration instead of competition. A son saying, “Of course I took my Bible.”

Layer by layer, He showed me: I have him. And I have you.

If you are in a valley right now — crying in your car, sitting on your bathroom floor, holding it together in public while unraveling in private —Please hear me.

Jesus walks through the valley with us.

He does not stand at the top shouting instructions. He walks beside us.

And when we cry out — even in ugly, desperate sobs — He hears. He sends help.

Sometimes in the form of a silent girl with a notebook. Sometimes in the form of encouragement from someone who understands your work. Sometimes in the form of a Bible sitting on top of a suitcase.

I am still standing.

Not because I am strong.

But because He is faithful.

And that is enough.

Lord,

For the woman reading this who feels like she cannot take one more step —
meet her in her valley.

Remind her that her tears are seen.
That her children belong to You first.
That her future is not fragile in Your hands.

Give her peace about tomorrow.
Give her courage for today.
Send her small confirmations that You are near.

And when she cries out —
answer her in Your perfect timing.

In Jesus’ precious name,
Amen.