Trigger Warning: This story contains mentions of domestic abuse and suicide. Reader discretion is advised.
I am not a cryer.
I used to be. But for the past six years, tears have been rare for me—an occasional, quiet cry every few months, always hidden, always private. I don’t like people seeing me vulnerable. I built walls around my heart, and they were tall, thick, and strong.
After four years in an abusive marriage—during which I birthed three children and fostered five more—I learned to protect myself fiercely. I would stand in my kitchen after arguments with my husband, barely able to breathe, and whisper to myself: “Build the wall, but don’t let your heart harden.”
I knew that once my heart hardened, bitterness and anger would take over, and joy would have no space to live. So each morning, I chose joy. I cuddled my babies, treasured their giggles, and tried to transform the hell I was living in into something beautiful.
My marriage, though, unraveled slowly but surely. It felt like watching someone pull at a loose thread on a delicate, hand-knit sweater—the one I had spent years imagining, stitching together with forced smiles and endless apologies. And as I sat in the front room staring at the custom bookcases I had dreamed of since I was a child, I thought, “I can’t do this anymore. I need out… but can I leave a house behind?”
One day, I sat in my mentor Marla’s office and inhaled sharply when she said, “You need to ask the Lord if He has released you from the covenant you entered into when you married.” When Marla speaks, you listen—because her words are either hilarious or soaked in wisdom.
At my next therapy session, I heard God speak clearly: yes, He had released me. After all, a one-sided covenant is no covenant at all. As I drove home, tears streamed down my face as I poured my heart out to Him. I asked if He trusted me. I told Him I was ready for the battle, willing to fight for my marriage—but His answer came softly and tenderly: I had already been fighting for four years, and it was okay to stop.
I said goodbye to childhood dreams, teenage fantasies, every longing that once felt permanent. I let go of friends who didn’t understand, my dream house, my car, the illusion of a life I had tried to build in those four years. And I didn’t even miss him—my world had become infinitely safer without him in it.
Five months later, I found myself in a Pediatric Intensive Care Unit waiting room, arms wrapped around my brother and parents, with pastors seated quietly behind us. Rain poured in the night outside, and I began to sing. My mom joined me, and together we prayed and sang while my sweet sixteen-year-old sister, Krissie, fought for her life beyond those double doors.
She had attempted to take her own life, leaving her brain without oxygen for an unknown stretch of time. Those first 72 hours are critical after oxygen deprivation, and during that time, hundreds of people visited the hospital. Friends and family drove all night to be near us, and thousands of prayers rose into the heavens—whispered, shouted, cried, and sung.
But when those hours passed, we had to say goodbye to Krissie. Her brain had gone too long without oxygen.
Kristel Renee Hope.
Her name alone felt like a miracle—she was named for three great aunts, and the word Hope fit her perfectly. Doctors told my mom she would never have children, but even as a teen, she dreamed of adoption. She prayed for future children she could call her own. She experienced miracles twice with me and my brother KJ, and a third miracle came four years after KJ’s birth, when we adopted Krissie into our family. She was born into two families, and I had prayed for a sister all my life. God answered.
The night I learned of her suicide attempt, I circled my kitchen island, whispering, “I prayed for her! God, I prayed for her!” My anger surged—not at her, not at God, but at a broken world and an enemy who temporarily thinks he wins. I wanted to run, to hit the trees outside. But I stayed. I circled the island, repeating my prayer, and then I went to the hospital to be with my family.
Sometimes, God answers prayers in unexpected ways. When I was seven, I prayed for a baby sister. God didn’t open my mom’s womb—she’d had a hysterectomy—but He delivered my prayer through a story of redemption.
Krissie didn’t live to see this side of heaven. But even in her death, her life saved others. She was O-blood type, so her organs and blood could help anyone in need. Her heart, kidneys, liver, corneas, bone marrow, and skin grafts went on to save lives. Her last act of love reflected her passion for helping others as a future paramedic and world traveler.
On April 23, the morning after what would have been her seventeenth birthday, we said goodbye to her body. Family and friends followed as we walked down the PICU halls. Nurses, technicians, and doctors lined the halls in respect, tears on their faces. The double doors opened, and she was gone—but her spirit had already left days before. Holding her earthly body had been a comfort.
Kristel Renee Hope Stahl.
When I say her name now, I don’t see the hospital bed or the funeral. I see her radiant smile, her infectious laugh, the soft roll of her eyes at me and my “mom fashion,” the tiny hands, the pixie nose, the wind in her hair, the curls in her sandy-colored hair. I see her spunky walk and gentle, bird-loving soul.
I prayed as a little girl, and God answered. He transformed those prayers into reality, breathing life into her body and into our family.
I cry more these days. I’m healing. Therapy, family, friends, and God have helped me rebuild. The walls I once built around my heart have been removed, stone by stone.
Through tears, I have found hope.
Hope that my story isn’t over.
Hope that my pain isn’t wasted.
Hope that grief over losing my marriage and my sister won’t always sting so sharply.
Hope that I will see Krissie again, because this earth is not our home.
Hope that her story continues, even beyond her life.
Hope that is living and breathing because Jesus is living and breathing.
I share this story with tears on my cheeks because I am healing. And maybe…just maybe…I am a cryer again.
