Strength in the Hollow: A Wife and Mother’s Journey from Mountains to Missoon

There is a particular loneliness that accompanies chronic illness. Autoimmune disease does not arrive loudly with a single diagnosis and a tidy treatment plan. It lingers, shifts, flares, quiets, then rises again. It inhabits the body like an uninvited tenant, rearranging strength, stamina, and expectation without permission.

Marriage continues. Motherhood continues. Laundry continues. Faith must continue.

I once lived beneath the vast skies of Colorado Springs, where mountains stood like sentinels and the air felt expansive with possibility. Life moved with familiar rhythms, accessible doctors, and the comfort of proximity to resources. God began whispering long before we packed a single box. Obedience rarely feels convenient when first spoken.

The call led our family to one of the most impoverished regions in Virginia, tucked into the quiet folds of Southwest Virginia. Poverty here is not always loud. It rests in worn porches, in limited access to healthcare, in generational hardship that shapes the posture of entire communities. Faithfulness here looks different. It feels stripped down and honest.

Autoimmune disease followed me across state lines.

Morning stiffness greets me before sunlight. Fatigue often settles into my bones before the day has properly begun. A mother’s responsibilities do not diminish simply because her immune system has turned against her. Proverbs 31:17 speaks of a woman who “girds her loins with strength, and strengthens her arms.” Some days that strength feels spiritual before it feels physical.

Scripture meets me in the weakness.

“My grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness” (2 Corinthians 12:9). Weakness ceases to be an embarrassment and becomes an altar. Christ’s power rests upon fragile flesh. Isaiah 40:29 promises, “He giveth power to the faint; and to them that have no might he increaseth strength.” Faintness has become familiar territory. So has His sustaining hand.

Chronic illness teaches dependence in ways comfort never could. Psalm 73:26 declares, “My flesh and my heart faileth: but God is the strength of my heart, and my portion for ever.” Flesh fails. Faith must not.

Marriage deepens under this weight. A godly husband becomes living proof of Ecclesiastes 4:9–10: “Two are better than one… For if they fall, the one will lift up his fellow.” There are days when lifting looks like prayer whispered over inflammation. There are nights when it looks like carrying what I physically cannot. Covenant love refines itself in hospital rooms, in pharmacy lines, in silent car rides home after difficult appointments.

Motherhood refines itself as well. Children watch closely. They observe perseverance more than they hear sermons. Deuteronomy 6:6–7 commands that God’s words be diligently taught to our children in daily life. Illness has become part of that daily teaching. They witness Psalm 34:19 lived out: “Many are the afflictions of the righteous: but the Lord delivereth him out of them all.”

Relocation intensified every limitation. Access to specialists became scarce. Resources grew thinner. The poverty around us mirrored the physical depletion within me. Matthew 25:40 echoes continually in my heart: “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.” Serving in a region of tangible need while carrying invisible illness presses the soul into deeper surrender.

Romans 8:18 reframes perspective: “For I reckon that the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory which shall be revealed in us.” Present suffering feels heavy. Eternal glory outweighs it still.

Obedience rarely unfolds without cost. Abraham left familiarity not knowing his destination (Hebrews 11:8). Our move carried similar uncertainty. Provision appeared step by step, never all at once. Philippians 4:19 remains both anchor and assurance: “My God shall supply all your need according to his riches in glory by Christ Jesus.” Supply sometimes arrives as stamina for one more hour. Supply sometimes arrives as unexpected community in a rural valley.

Chronic illness strips away self-sufficiency. John 15:5 reminds me, “Without me ye can do nothing.” Independence dissolves. Dependence strengthens.

There are afternoons when fatigue whispers discouragement. Galatians 6:9 counters that whisper: “Let us not be weary in well doing: for in due season we shall reap, if we faint not.” Weariness does not nullify calling. It refines it.

The Psalms have become medicine. Psalm 46:1 declares, “God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.” Present help means He does not observe from a distance. Psalm 121:1–2 lifts my eyes beyond mountain ranges, beyond rural highways, beyond medical charts: “My help cometh from the Lord, which made heaven and earth.”

Living with autoimmune disease while mothering and ministering in an impoverished region has revealed a paradox. Weakness has become the doorway to intimacy with Christ. Limitation has become the tutor of endurance. James 1:2–4 instructs believers to count trials as joy, knowing that the testing of faith produces patience and maturity. Joy here is not frivolous. Joy here is forged.

Faithfulness in small, unseen places carries eternal weight. 1 Corinthians 15:58 assures, “Be ye stedfast, unmoveable, always abounding in the work of the Lord, forasmuch as ye know that your labour is not in vain in the Lord.” No prayer over aching joints is wasted. No tear shed in exhaustion goes unnoticed (Psalm 56:8).

Southwest Virginia has become holy ground. Chronic illness has become unexpected sanctuary. Marriage has become stronger than steel. Motherhood has become sacred stewardship. Calling has become clearer than comfort ever allowed.

Life looks different than it once did beneath Colorado skies. God remains the same.

Jesus Christ is “the same yesterday, and to day, and for ever” (Hebrews 13:8). That constancy steadies every flare, every move, every sacrifice.

This body may wrestle. This region may struggle. This season may stretch thin.

The Lord remains faithful.