Speaking Terms A Faith Based Series. When Victory Still Feels Like Defeat : Still In The Picture.

Hampton Law Firm ⚖️
May 23
5 min read

Yesterday was supposed to feel like a win.

And in many ways, it was. The battle of the day was won. The thing I had prayed for, hoped for, held my breath for, happened. My three kids came home. My two girls and my little boy were back where they belong. Their feet were back in the rooms where they belong. Their voices were back in the air. Their blankets, their laughter, their little bodies curled up beside me again. After everything that has happened, after the way our world was turned upside down, having them home should have felt like pure relief.

And it did.

But it also broke me.

That is the part people do not always know how to talk about. Sometimes a good day can still be devastating. Sometimes answered prayer does not arrive wrapped in ease. Sometimes the day you survive, the day you win, the day you finally get to exhale, is also the day your body realizes how long it has been holding itself together.

Last night, I felt the weight of all of it. I was thankful. I was relieved. I was glad my three babies were home. But our home is not the same home anymore. It is missing pieces. My husband is gone. My stepson is gone. The family we knew, the one that filled these rooms, is not coming back the way it was. And even though I had my three kids with me, even though I was grateful beyond words, the grief still found me.

It found me hard.

I had to call my mom and ask her to come stay with me and the kids. I needed help. I needed another adult in the room. I needed someone to sit in the wreckage with me while I tried to be strong for the three little hearts who had already lived through too much change. And I want to say this plainly, because someone else may need permission to hear it: needing help did not make me weak. Breaking down did not make me a bad mother. Crying did not make me a bad Christian.

It made me human.

Faith is not proven by never falling apart. Faith is not pretending the couch is not soaked with tears or that your chest does not feel like it has been opened and emptied. Faith is not a perfectly posed picture, a clean house, a showered face, or a smile that convinces everyone else you are fine. Sometimes faith is calling your mom because you cannot do the night alone. Sometimes faith is whispering, “God, I still trust You,” while every part of you is shaking. Sometimes faith is staying on the couch, breathing through the pain, and letting the people who love you come close.

Last night tested my faith in a way I was not prepared for. I missed my husband. I missed my stepson. I missed our family. I missed the version of our home that existed before everything changed. And I felt guilty for grieving on a day that was also good. I felt guilty for not being able to simply celebrate. But grief does not ask permission to enter. It comes in waves, even on days marked by blessing.

This morning, my two girls saw me crying.

There was no way to hide it. I was not put together. I had been crying. I had not showered. I did not look like the version of myself I wanted them to see. I looked tired, heartbroken, and undone. And then they saw me taking a picture and trying to cut myself out of it because I did not want to be seen that way.

But they would not let me disappear.

They made me get in the next picture.

That moment said more than any sermon could have. My children did not need me polished to love me. They did not need me strong to accept me. They did not need me smiling, showered, perfect, or pretending. They saw their mom broken on the couch with her heart feeling like it had been taken out of her chest, and they still wanted me in the picture.

They chose me as I was.

Not the version of me who is fighting hard, getting things done, holding it all together, and kicking ass through the impossible. Not only the version who can pack the bags, make the calls, answer the questions, keep the schedule, and stand tall when everything inside is collapsing. They chose the crying version too. The exhausted version. The unshowered version. The version who did not feel beautiful or brave or enough.

That is true love.

And I think, in its purest form, that is also true faith.

Because maybe faith is not always the grand moment where we stand victorious with our hands raised. Maybe faith is also the quiet moment when we let ourselves be loved while we are still messy. Maybe faith is believing that God has not left the room just because the room looks different now. Maybe faith is trusting that even when our home is missing pieces, His presence is not missing from it.

My children reminded me of something sacred this morning. They reminded me that love does not require us to edit ourselves out. Love does not say, “Come back when you are better.” Love does not crop out the broken parts. Love pulls us back into the frame and says, “No, you belong here too.”

I believe God’s love is like that.

He does not only want the version of me who is strong. He does not only accept the version of me who can speak faith with confidence and smile through the storm. He wants the version of me who cries on the couch. The version who has to call her mother. The version who misses what was. The version who is grateful and devastated at the same time. The version who feels defeated even after a battle has been won.

And if my children can look at me in that state and still choose me, still love me, still want me beside them in the picture, then maybe I can believe that God is doing the same.

Maybe He is not asking me to crop out my grief before I come to Him. Maybe He is not waiting for me to clean myself up before He sits with me. Maybe He is not disappointed that a victory still hurt. Maybe He is close to the brokenhearted, especially when the brokenhearted are also trying to be thankful.

So today, I am holding both truths.

My three kids are home, and I am grateful.

Our home is changed, and I am grieving.

Yesterday brought a victory, and last night still broke me.

I love God, and my faith was tested.

I am a mother who is trying, and I am also a woman who is hurting.

None of those truths cancel out the others. They can exist in the same room. They can sit on the same couch. They can live inside the same heart.

If you are walking through something that feels like this, I want you to know that you are not failing because you are hurting. You are not faithless because you are tired. You are not ungrateful because the blessing still came with grief attached. You are not a bad mother, a bad person, or a bad Christian because the weight of it all finally brought you to your knees.

Sometimes being brought to your knees is not the end of your faith.

Sometimes it is exactly where God meets you.

And sometimes, He sends the reminder through children who climb onto the couch, sit beside their crying mama, and refuse to let her cut herself out of the picture.

Today, I am still in the picture.

Broken, loved, grieving, grateful, and held.

And for now, that is enough.

“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” — Psalm 34:18

Judith L. Hampton

Attorney At Law

Hampton Law Firm