The Lord Was Near

One evening, I was standing at the changing table in our bathroom, getting my oldest daughter ready for bed.

Then, unexpectedly, she pointed behind me.

“There’s Jesus!”

I turned around, startled. “What are you talking about?”

She calmly and firmly repeated: “There’s Jesus.”

I couldn’t see what she said she saw, and I can’t tell you with certainty exactly what happened in that moment.

But I remember the extraordinary peace and strength I experienced during that season.

Something inside me was beginning to change.

I had known Jesus for years. I knew Scripture. I believed in God. But I was beginning to understand His presence in a way that felt deeply personal.

The following day, I woke from a mid-afternoon nap and experienced something I can only describe as a vision.

I saw a wooden cross. Jesus stood before it. His hands were bound. I saw the crown of thorns, the sweat on His forehead, and His blood-stained face.

But there was one detail I couldn’t stop thinking about.

His hands.

Although they were bound, He held them outward in surrender. He wasn’t resisting. He stood there willingly.

I was overwhelmed.

I thanked Him for what I had seen, but I was left with questions. Why were His hands bound? And why had I seen Jesus suffering rather than in His risen glory?

That same week, our pastor preached about the Lordship of Christ and spoke about Jesus being bound—and about the freedom that became ours through what Christ willingly endured.

I sat there stunned. Our pastor didn’t know what I had experienced.

But what affected me most wasn’t simply the similarity between the message and what I had seen.

Our difficult season didn’t immediately end.

My husband was unexpectedly laid off. My parents were walking through divorce. My brother was in and out of the hospital with Schizophrenia. I was grieving the loss of a sibling relationship. There was a fire that destroyed the barn at the family farm where I grew up; every animal was lost.

These were days filled with uncertainty and heartbreak.

And during that season, my daughter told me something else I will never forget. She said she saw Jesus crying in our living room.

Again, I can only faithfully share what my daughter told me.

But her words brought me back to one of the shortest—and perhaps most tender—verses in Scripture:

“Jesus wept.”

The God of the universe is not indifferent to our pain. He captures our tears. He draws near to the brokenhearted. He grieves with us when we hurt and rejoices with us in our victories.

Eventually, something began stirring in my heart.

I couldn’t stop thinking about everything God had been teaching me about His nearness.

I wanted other women to know Him this way.

Not merely to know about Jesus.

I wanted them to seek Him. To encounter Him through His Word. To know His character. To recognize His presence in the ordinary rhythms of their lives.

And one night when I couldn’t sleep, the idea began forming: a podcast, a ministry, a place where people could discover that Heaven isn’t far away.

And slowly, Heaven Meets Home was born.