Bruised Faith

Faith That Won’t Stay Down

Dear Friend,

My first clinical posting came with mixed emotions. Not exactly mixed—because if I’m honest, the dominant feelings were anxiety and fear. Suddenly, nursing moved from theory to real human lives. It was no longer something I studied, wrote exams about, or imagined from the safety of classrooms. Human lives were now involved. My choices mattered. My presence mattered. My mistakes mattered. My life was deeply, personally involved.

The instructions and warnings we received before stepping into the ward only intensified what I already felt. Every word seemed like a reminder of how easily things could go wrong. And yet, beneath the anxiety, there was a quiet spark of excitement. The thought of finally applying all the pharmacology I had memorized from textbooks was thrilling—at least it meant none of it was for nothing. The idea that I could be part of someone’s healing, comfort, or recovery made me feel proud, hopeful, and strangely honored.

Leaving my small bubble of comfort was more sobering than I imagined. In school, everything felt manageable—support everywhere, familiar faces, predictable routines. But in the clinical space, it became painfully clear that people are carrying far more than we can imagine—sometimes more than we can bear to look at. There were moments I tried to put myself in a patient’s shoes, and even imagining their journey felt overwhelming. I wondered how they managed to walk in those shoes every single day.

In those moments, I felt a quiet temptation to emotionally detach—to hide behind professionalism so I wouldn’t feel too much. But not wanting to feel too much is never an excuse to withhold empathy. I learned that even the smallest act of kindness eases burdens more than we realize. Please, don’t hold back your compassion. Offer what you can, whenever you can.

This posting also taught me something far more personal, something I wasn’t expecting. I discovered that my faith had been bruised.

I met a woman battling cancer, and my first response wasn’t faith. It wasn’t hope. It wasn’t prayer. It was pity. And that frightened me. I began asking myself difficult questions: Do I still believe that Jesus heals? Why didn’t I think to pray?

I realized I had stopped praying for specific things. I avoided requests that required a stretch of faith. Instead, I prayed safe, vague prayers—prayers that didn’t risk disappointment. On the outside, everything seemed fine. But inwardly, my faith was limping. Hope deferred truly makes the heart weary.

But God, in His kindness, exposed my heart before it bled out completely.

I didn’t want to expect too much anymore. I didn’t want to be “disappointed”. And I realized I wasn’t alone. Many of us are living this way—moving through life with cautious faith. Not stirred by promises like we once were. Not as excited by prophecy. Afraid to hope for something tangible because heartbreak feels too costly.

The truth is, we won’t always have perfect explanations for what we experience. We pray for healing and still lose someone. We fast, believe, hope—and the outcome breaks our hearts. Why? We may never fully understand on this side of eternity. But one day, when we see Christ face to face, everything will make sense. That future understanding is a stronger comfort than any answer we could hold onto now.

In the midst of all this, God whispered something to me: Try again. Pray again. Believe again. Lay hands on the sick again. Let your faith stretch again.

As I returned to the healing miracles of Jesus, something in me began to heal too. I realized that a missed expectation is not proof that God has stopped working. Just because I didn’t see the miracle the way I hoped doesn’t mean He has stopped being a miraculous God. My faith is not anchored in outcomes, but in His unchanging nature.

Healing a limping faith takes time, honesty, and surrender. Let God walk you through it. It may be uncomfortable. It may expose wounds you’ve avoided. It may confront quiet disappointments you’ve learned to live with. But it will strengthen you. And along the way, look closely—you'll find miracles hidden in your story.

Sometimes our hardest experiences introduce us to new dimensions of who God is. I knew Him as a Healer—and I still do—but now I also know Him as a Comforter. And knowing Him in both ways has made my relationship with Him richer and more beautiful.

God’s plan goes far beyond healing our present sickness. His greater promise is a glorified body—free from decay, weakness, pain, and tears—where death is swallowed up in life and we dwell forever in His presence. I long for that day. I hope you do too.

So, my friend, go again.

Hope again.

Pray again.

Believe again.

Step out again.

Let God rebuild what life has bruised. There is beauty along the way—even in the stretching, even in the waiting, even in the unanswered questions.

May your hands never grow weary of serving.

May your heart never grow cold to compassion.

And may your faith, though tested, rise stronger each time it is pressed.

We may not always see healing the way we desire here on earth, but we hold fast to a greater hope—one that cannot fail. A day is coming when pain will have no voice, sickness will have no power, and death will be no more. Until then, we walk by faith, love boldly, and trust the God who holds both our present and our eternity.

FAITH LOOKS GOOD ON YOU!

With love,❤️

Folashade.