Building your Singles Ministry/Single Parenting by Other Authors
Gift Shop Miracle: A True Story
by Gail Cawley Showalter
For five years, I had been a single mother of three and had managed to control the dilemmas we faced on my own. I made whatever choices had to be made and was determined to overcome each obstacle without depending on others. This hiccup would be just another in our day-in, day-out struggle—or so I thought. I would soon learn otherwise.
When my nine-year-old son, Damon, complained, “My stomach hurts,” I thought he had another childhood virus. He had inhaled two enormous bowls of soup, enough to cause a bellyache. I knew we were in trouble many hours later when he curled up in a tight ball, unaware of his older sister, Treva, and younger brother, Lance, playing nearby.
I scooped up his drooping body, my knees buckling with fear, and carried him to the car. His thin frame splayed out on the car seat like a worn-out stuffed toy.
I prodded and hustled the other children into the backseat and raced to the doctor’s office. I stumbled through the door, the two other children in tow. The staff saw my rag doll draped over my arms, terror etched in my face, and rushed to hold open the doors and signal me to the examining room. I had phoned my mother, and she met us at the doctor’s to take Treva and Lance home with her. “Call me,” was all she said. She held back the words that her somber eyes, cutting back over her shoulder, gave away.
“Quickly,” they said. The office staff watched us with a knowing, apprehensive expression, one I’d never seen on their faces during my many other visits to this office for earaches and sore throats.
Dr. Forsyth rushed in immediately to examine Damon. A short time later, he spoke in clipped, quick phrases.
“I think his appendix has ruptured. We must get him to the hospital right away,” Dr. Forsyth said without looking up from the report he was writing rapidly. “We must get him to the hospital right away.”
I knew this was critical. Surely, they can fix it, I thought. I can handle this--my take-charge manner taking over.
“We don’t have time to wait for an ambulance. Drive your car around to the back door. We will bring him to the car,” a grave tone in his voice. “The surgeon is waiting for you in the emergency room.”
My thoughts were on auto-replay. Appendix ruptured. Surgeons waiting. I’d heard of appendicitis. People get it all the time. I wasn’t as sure about the ‘ruptured’ part, though. I gripped the wheel, flipped on the emergency flashers, and drove as fast as was reasonably safe.
The surgeon and staff were ready and waiting for us. Dr. Adams touched Damon’s distended tummy gently as his eyes met mine. He frowned. Even this seasoned surgeon seemed surprised as he said, “His appendix has ruptured.” He turned to the staff, “Set up for surgery stat.” My heart seemed to stall; a trembling started from my gut and worked its way to my fingertips. I had no choices to make. My child’s life was totally out of my hands.
I called Damon’s dad at work. Since the divorce five years earlier, our relationship was strained at best. I left a message with an unnamed employee. “Our son, Damon, is going into surgery at Mid-Jefferson County Hospital.”
The anesthesiologist came click-clopping down the hall in his wooden shoes. He was Dutch and actually wore wooden shoes, which added to the surreal sensation of the situation. Everyone seemed like fictional characters to me. Was I watching a television drama? Was I dreaming?
This couldn’t be as bad as it appeared. I was always the one in charge. What could happen?
As they prepped Damon for surgery, I stood by helplessly, watching the medical staff scurrying around, each with specific tasks and deliberate in their actions. Damon grew sleepy from the sedatives. I yearned to reach out and hold him as I had done when he was a colicky baby. But he lay helpless and pale, nearly unconscious. The white sheets, white straps across his legs, and white uniforms created a pure atmosphere. Darkness filled my heart with denial. This couldn’t be. He was jumping, laughing, and playing yesterday. I walked beside the stretcher rolling its way to the operating room. I stood in the sterile corridor outside the entrance doors to surgery. Damon lay on the stretcher encased in crisp sheets and almost as pale as the linens that held him tightly in place with his little arms folded across his chest. He looked like a corpse. The nurse said, “Say ‘goodbye’ to your son.”
A resistance yelled from the cavern of my being.
No.
An echo came right back, Noooooo.
Followed by No choice.
The swinging doors swallowed him and left me behind. I stood absolutely alone in the endless hallway, powerless—choice-less.
Should I do something? I took long strides down the halls, searching for a phone. I couldn’t do this alone. But who would I call? There was no one. I didn’t want to hear fear in anyone else’s voice anyway. I sat in the cubicle with the phone, but called no one. I had been a single mother for a long time. Prayer came naturally, but never so desperately as now. We attended church regularly, almost as if by doing so, I could control everything in our lives. My prayers were sincere, but I expected more of myself than of my Lord.
“God, please. I need you now,” I pleaded. An unfamiliar, unexplainable peace settled over me as I slowly retraced my steps down the long hall to the waiting room.
Bob, Damon’s father, arrived. I explained that Damon had complained the night before and that I thought he had a virus. He said very little. I was grateful he didn’t blame me. Our conversations seldom came easily, often marked by differences of opinion. But now we were united in our profound desire for our son's well-being. Mother had called my older brother, and he came. The three of us sat awkwardly. Silence spoke loudly in the tiny waiting room. An hour passed.
“He is lucky to be alive,” the surgeon said. He explained, “His ruptured appendix has splattered poison throughout his abdominal cavity and resulted in peritonitis, an infection. This could have been a deadly situation.”
For several days afterward, I heard that statement repeated by every member of the hospital staff who came into the room. “He is lucky to be alive,” they told me, shaking their heads. “You do know he is lucky to be alive, don’t you?” as if they thought it hadn’t registered with me. And perhaps it hadn’t.
I never left the hospital room. I slept curled up on a two-seat sofa—when I slept. I couldn’t fix this booboo for my child. I couldn’t make the pain go away. I laid my head next to his on the hospital bed, held his hand, and hid the expression on my face. He clung to me as I clung to the hope that his body would respond to the medicines. The surgeon left the incision in his side open to drain the infection from his abdominal cavity. He wasn’t going to recover. The pain tortured his young body. He wouldn’t eat. Dark circles formed under his blue eyes.
My aunt, Villa, came to visit and asked, “What would you like if you could have anything in the world to eat?”
A faint smile crossed Damon’s pale face. “Pancakes,” he replied.
She nodded and left.
She returned in short order with a plate of homemade pancakes. And finally, Damon ate and licked the syrup from his lips.
Visitors came with gifts and get-well cards, many filled with cash, probably because they knew it would be helpful to a single mom in my situation. The room was soon adorned with computer-generated signs and helium-filled balloons. “Get Well Soon.” “We love you, Damon.”
The nurses insisted he walk. How could I force him to suffer more? His expression screamed with the acute agony every step caused.
“He must move. He must walk,” the nurses insisted. The movement would jump-start his system. I made the hard choice every time, forcing him to stand on his feeble legs and walk. Long and weary days passed before he could move without excruciating pain. He slowly seemed to improve. After five days, he was released, and we went home—too soon. Two hours later at home, he was doubled over in severe pain with urinary complications.
“Bring him back. We will take care of your son,” Dr. Forsyth told me on the phone. He spoke it like a promise. He seemed so sure. I had doubts. I was faltering as I lost control of the situation.
They readmitted him to the same bed in the same room, minus the decorations. He was given an injection for the pain. Damon lay as fragile and still as a sleeping kitten. Specialists insisted that more tests were necessary.
My heart wavered, and a lump formed in my throat. They wheeled him off on a stretcher down the hall into another of the secret corridors of the hospital for an ultrasound. The ultrasound revealed a foreboding image. The poison had spread. Globs of puss like hail stones were stuck throughout his lower abdominal cavity. Soon, tubes were hung, and needles carried powerful antibiotics into his bruised arms.
I watched the drip, drip, drip of the I.V., willing the mysterious liquid to cleanse the poison from my boy’s body. Silence fell. I used the little strength I had to lift a cup to Damon’s lips. What next? Will he heal? Is there permanent damage? All thoughts I dared not speak aloud. Waiting and hoping. I felt physically weary and emotionally spent, no longer the mom in control. Fear had taken hold, and fatigue was its partner. Tears welled behind my eyelids. My dear friend, Tappy, had come to give me moral support. She curled her arm around my waist and said, “Come with me.” She took me to the tiny hospital chapel and led me to the front pew, slid her arm around my shoulder, and prayed. She prayed for Damon’s recovery, then for my strength to return.
A force welled up from within me, and words spilled from my mouth. I said aloud, “I am like the tree that grows by the river of waters.”
“I am like the tree that grows by the living water. I may bend, but I will not break.” I wasn’t thinking. The words flowed from me on their own. They came without any effort on my part, as if from a source beyond me. You’ve carried me through before, Lord. I trust you are with me now.
My spirit revived. Hope entered, and fear left. Tappy went home, and I went back to my son’s room to remain for a few more days. When I slept, I kept one hand resting on Damon. He relied on me and knew I was there for him. He knew I would not leave. After a few days, the medicines took effect. Before long, Damon was pushing his IV cart up and down the halls. His bare bottom, blinking from behind his hospital gown, gave the nurses something to smile about. At last, my child was improving. At last, he was well enough to leave the hospital for good.
Mother came to drive us home. As I prepared for our final departure, Damon whispered in her ear. Then he turned to me and said, “We’ll be right back.” He pulled her by the hand out the door towards the tiny gift shop that usually carried only candy, stuffed toys, and cards.
When Damon came back, he wore a wide grin, which was a gift to me in itself. He used nearly all the cash he received to buy me a present. Neither he nor my mother knew the significance of this unlikely gift. He held out a box for me. I knew that the Lord had heard my words in the chapel and that I wasn’t the one in control when I opened the box to find the real verification that my prayer had been heard—a golden shimmering tree.
He is like a tree planted by streams of water, which yields its fruit in season and whose leaf does not wither. Whatever he does prospers. —(Psalms 1:3 NIV)
About Gail: I raised three children as a single mother before I remarried. I have experienced the potholes, pests, and perils of being the sole head of household. I was an educator in both regular and special education for twenty years. I am the founder of Single Moms EmpowerEd, a nonprofit organization that supports single mothers pursuing degrees that lead to employment. I’m also a Certified Professional Coach, and my stories have been published in several books and magazines. My book, Living, Learning, Loving, is available on Barnes & Noble and Amazon.
https://www.gailshowalter.com
www.gailshowalterblog.com
When my nine-year-old son, Damon, complained, “My stomach hurts,” I thought he had another childhood virus. He had inhaled two enormous bowls of soup, enough to cause a bellyache. I knew we were in trouble many hours later when he curled up in a tight ball, unaware of his older sister, Treva, and younger brother, Lance, playing nearby.
I scooped up his drooping body, my knees buckling with fear, and carried him to the car. His thin frame splayed out on the car seat like a worn-out stuffed toy.
I prodded and hustled the other children into the backseat and raced to the doctor’s office. I stumbled through the door, the two other children in tow. The staff saw my rag doll draped over my arms, terror etched in my face, and rushed to hold open the doors and signal me to the examining room. I had phoned my mother, and she met us at the doctor’s to take Treva and Lance home with her. “Call me,” was all she said. She held back the words that her somber eyes, cutting back over her shoulder, gave away.
“Quickly,” they said. The office staff watched us with a knowing, apprehensive expression, one I’d never seen on their faces during my many other visits to this office for earaches and sore throats.
Dr. Forsyth rushed in immediately to examine Damon. A short time later, he spoke in clipped, quick phrases.
“I think his appendix has ruptured. We must get him to the hospital right away,” Dr. Forsyth said without looking up from the report he was writing rapidly. “We must get him to the hospital right away.”
I knew this was critical. Surely, they can fix it, I thought. I can handle this--my take-charge manner taking over.
“We don’t have time to wait for an ambulance. Drive your car around to the back door. We will bring him to the car,” a grave tone in his voice. “The surgeon is waiting for you in the emergency room.”
My thoughts were on auto-replay. Appendix ruptured. Surgeons waiting. I’d heard of appendicitis. People get it all the time. I wasn’t as sure about the ‘ruptured’ part, though. I gripped the wheel, flipped on the emergency flashers, and drove as fast as was reasonably safe.
The surgeon and staff were ready and waiting for us. Dr. Adams touched Damon’s distended tummy gently as his eyes met mine. He frowned. Even this seasoned surgeon seemed surprised as he said, “His appendix has ruptured.” He turned to the staff, “Set up for surgery stat.” My heart seemed to stall; a trembling started from my gut and worked its way to my fingertips. I had no choices to make. My child’s life was totally out of my hands.
I called Damon’s dad at work. Since the divorce five years earlier, our relationship was strained at best. I left a message with an unnamed employee. “Our son, Damon, is going into surgery at Mid-Jefferson County Hospital.”
The anesthesiologist came click-clopping down the hall in his wooden shoes. He was Dutch and actually wore wooden shoes, which added to the surreal sensation of the situation. Everyone seemed like fictional characters to me. Was I watching a television drama? Was I dreaming?
This couldn’t be as bad as it appeared. I was always the one in charge. What could happen?
As they prepped Damon for surgery, I stood by helplessly, watching the medical staff scurrying around, each with specific tasks and deliberate in their actions. Damon grew sleepy from the sedatives. I yearned to reach out and hold him as I had done when he was a colicky baby. But he lay helpless and pale, nearly unconscious. The white sheets, white straps across his legs, and white uniforms created a pure atmosphere. Darkness filled my heart with denial. This couldn’t be. He was jumping, laughing, and playing yesterday. I walked beside the stretcher rolling its way to the operating room. I stood in the sterile corridor outside the entrance doors to surgery. Damon lay on the stretcher encased in crisp sheets and almost as pale as the linens that held him tightly in place with his little arms folded across his chest. He looked like a corpse. The nurse said, “Say ‘goodbye’ to your son.”
A resistance yelled from the cavern of my being.
No.
An echo came right back, Noooooo.
Followed by No choice.
The swinging doors swallowed him and left me behind. I stood absolutely alone in the endless hallway, powerless—choice-less.
Should I do something? I took long strides down the halls, searching for a phone. I couldn’t do this alone. But who would I call? There was no one. I didn’t want to hear fear in anyone else’s voice anyway. I sat in the cubicle with the phone, but called no one. I had been a single mother for a long time. Prayer came naturally, but never so desperately as now. We attended church regularly, almost as if by doing so, I could control everything in our lives. My prayers were sincere, but I expected more of myself than of my Lord.
“God, please. I need you now,” I pleaded. An unfamiliar, unexplainable peace settled over me as I slowly retraced my steps down the long hall to the waiting room.
Bob, Damon’s father, arrived. I explained that Damon had complained the night before and that I thought he had a virus. He said very little. I was grateful he didn’t blame me. Our conversations seldom came easily, often marked by differences of opinion. But now we were united in our profound desire for our son's well-being. Mother had called my older brother, and he came. The three of us sat awkwardly. Silence spoke loudly in the tiny waiting room. An hour passed.
“He is lucky to be alive,” the surgeon said. He explained, “His ruptured appendix has splattered poison throughout his abdominal cavity and resulted in peritonitis, an infection. This could have been a deadly situation.”
For several days afterward, I heard that statement repeated by every member of the hospital staff who came into the room. “He is lucky to be alive,” they told me, shaking their heads. “You do know he is lucky to be alive, don’t you?” as if they thought it hadn’t registered with me. And perhaps it hadn’t.
I never left the hospital room. I slept curled up on a two-seat sofa—when I slept. I couldn’t fix this booboo for my child. I couldn’t make the pain go away. I laid my head next to his on the hospital bed, held his hand, and hid the expression on my face. He clung to me as I clung to the hope that his body would respond to the medicines. The surgeon left the incision in his side open to drain the infection from his abdominal cavity. He wasn’t going to recover. The pain tortured his young body. He wouldn’t eat. Dark circles formed under his blue eyes.
My aunt, Villa, came to visit and asked, “What would you like if you could have anything in the world to eat?”
A faint smile crossed Damon’s pale face. “Pancakes,” he replied.
She nodded and left.
She returned in short order with a plate of homemade pancakes. And finally, Damon ate and licked the syrup from his lips.
Visitors came with gifts and get-well cards, many filled with cash, probably because they knew it would be helpful to a single mom in my situation. The room was soon adorned with computer-generated signs and helium-filled balloons. “Get Well Soon.” “We love you, Damon.”
The nurses insisted he walk. How could I force him to suffer more? His expression screamed with the acute agony every step caused.
“He must move. He must walk,” the nurses insisted. The movement would jump-start his system. I made the hard choice every time, forcing him to stand on his feeble legs and walk. Long and weary days passed before he could move without excruciating pain. He slowly seemed to improve. After five days, he was released, and we went home—too soon. Two hours later at home, he was doubled over in severe pain with urinary complications.
“Bring him back. We will take care of your son,” Dr. Forsyth told me on the phone. He spoke it like a promise. He seemed so sure. I had doubts. I was faltering as I lost control of the situation.
They readmitted him to the same bed in the same room, minus the decorations. He was given an injection for the pain. Damon lay as fragile and still as a sleeping kitten. Specialists insisted that more tests were necessary.
My heart wavered, and a lump formed in my throat. They wheeled him off on a stretcher down the hall into another of the secret corridors of the hospital for an ultrasound. The ultrasound revealed a foreboding image. The poison had spread. Globs of puss like hail stones were stuck throughout his lower abdominal cavity. Soon, tubes were hung, and needles carried powerful antibiotics into his bruised arms.
I watched the drip, drip, drip of the I.V., willing the mysterious liquid to cleanse the poison from my boy’s body. Silence fell. I used the little strength I had to lift a cup to Damon’s lips. What next? Will he heal? Is there permanent damage? All thoughts I dared not speak aloud. Waiting and hoping. I felt physically weary and emotionally spent, no longer the mom in control. Fear had taken hold, and fatigue was its partner. Tears welled behind my eyelids. My dear friend, Tappy, had come to give me moral support. She curled her arm around my waist and said, “Come with me.” She took me to the tiny hospital chapel and led me to the front pew, slid her arm around my shoulder, and prayed. She prayed for Damon’s recovery, then for my strength to return.
A force welled up from within me, and words spilled from my mouth. I said aloud, “I am like the tree that grows by the river of waters.”
“I am like the tree that grows by the living water. I may bend, but I will not break.” I wasn’t thinking. The words flowed from me on their own. They came without any effort on my part, as if from a source beyond me. You’ve carried me through before, Lord. I trust you are with me now.
My spirit revived. Hope entered, and fear left. Tappy went home, and I went back to my son’s room to remain for a few more days. When I slept, I kept one hand resting on Damon. He relied on me and knew I was there for him. He knew I would not leave. After a few days, the medicines took effect. Before long, Damon was pushing his IV cart up and down the halls. His bare bottom, blinking from behind his hospital gown, gave the nurses something to smile about. At last, my child was improving. At last, he was well enough to leave the hospital for good.
Mother came to drive us home. As I prepared for our final departure, Damon whispered in her ear. Then he turned to me and said, “We’ll be right back.” He pulled her by the hand out the door towards the tiny gift shop that usually carried only candy, stuffed toys, and cards.
When Damon came back, he wore a wide grin, which was a gift to me in itself. He used nearly all the cash he received to buy me a present. Neither he nor my mother knew the significance of this unlikely gift. He held out a box for me. I knew that the Lord had heard my words in the chapel and that I wasn’t the one in control when I opened the box to find the real verification that my prayer had been heard—a golden shimmering tree.
He is like a tree planted by streams of water, which yields its fruit in season and whose leaf does not wither. Whatever he does prospers. —(Psalms 1:3 NIV)
About Gail: I raised three children as a single mother before I remarried. I have experienced the potholes, pests, and perils of being the sole head of household. I was an educator in both regular and special education for twenty years. I am the founder of Single Moms EmpowerEd, a nonprofit organization that supports single mothers pursuing degrees that lead to employment. I’m also a Certified Professional Coach, and my stories have been published in several books and magazines. My book, Living, Learning, Loving, is available on Barnes & Noble and Amazon.
https://www.gailshowalter.com
www.gailshowalterblog.com
Held Together: Stories of Single Parents, Struggle, and Grace
by Kris Swiatocho, Director, The Singles Network Ministries
Single parenthood is often described in terms of strength and sacrifice—but those words can feel too neat for a life that is anything but. Behind every single parent is a story layered with exhaustion, courage, doubt, and, for many, a quiet reliance on faith. These are not polished testimonies; they are real lives, still unfolding. And in each one, there are moments where God shows up—not always dramatically, but faithfully.
A Childhood Redefined: When Absence and Fear Collide
I grew up with what could only be described as a single mother, even though my parents were technically married for many years. My father was rarely home, sometimes gone for up to two years at a time. My mother once told me that in 15 years of marriage, they were only physically together for about five. Most of those years were when I was very young.
When he was home, his presence did not bring stability—it brought fear. The physical and emotional abuse created an environment where his absence felt safer than his return. As a child, that kind of reality reshapes your understanding of what family is supposed to be. Home wasn’t predictable. Love wasn’t secure.
Eventually, my mother made the difficult and courageous decision to divorce him. That decision, while necessary, opened the door to a new set of challenges. Suddenly, she wasn’t just protecting us—she was solely responsible for everything. Financial strain became constant. The absence of a father was no longer occasional; it was permanent.
But something else began to change during that time. My mother turned back to her faith with a renewed seriousness. It wasn’t superficial or routine—it was survival. In her
weakest moments, she leaned into her relationship with Jesus in a way that reshaped our home.
Over time, she would say something that stayed with me: “God became your real father.”
It wasn’t just a comforting phrase. It showed up in how she raised us—with patience she didn’t naturally have, with hope when circumstances didn’t justify it, and with a sense that we were not abandoned, even when it felt that way. That shift didn’t erase the hardship, but it redirected our future.
Elisa: Finding Daily Bread
Elisa never imagined raising three children alone. When her husband left, he didn’t just walk out of the marriage—he left behind unpaid bills, a half-empty fridge, and a silence that echoed through their small apartment. For months, Elisa lived in survival mode. She worked long shifts cleaning offices at night, slept when she could, and stretched every dollar.
There were days she questioned everything, including her faith. “I prayed, but it felt like my words hit the ceiling,” she once said.
One evening, after realizing she had no food left for dinner, Elisa sat at the kitchen table and cried. Her youngest son climbed into her lap and whispered, “Mama, let’s pray.” Reluctantly, Elisa agreed. It wasn’t a long or eloquent prayer—just a simple plea for help.
The next morning, there was a knock at the door. A neighbor she barely knew stood there with bags of groceries. “I felt like I should bring you this,” the woman said. “I don’t know why.”
Elisa calls that moment her turning point. “God didn’t fix everything overnight,” she explains. “But He showed me I wasn’t invisible.”
How can you help? Ask God to open your eyes to the single parents in your church who may be quietly struggling—to put food on the table, pay the light bill, or provide clothing for their children. Step in where you can. Sometimes the greatest needs are the least visible. Not only will you be helping meet practical needs, but you will also become the hands and feet of Jesus in their lives. As Scripture reminds us, “Let us not love with words or speech but with actions and in truth” (1 John 3:18). In serving them, you reflect Christ’s love in a real and tangible way.
David: Learning to Be Both Father and Mother
David became a single parent after his wife passed away unexpectedly. Left to raise his six-year-old daughter, he struggled not only with grief but with roles he never expected to fill. From braiding hair for school (badly, at first) to navigating emotional conversations he didn’t feel equipped for, David often felt like he was failing.
“I kept thinking, ‘She would have done this better,’” he admitted.
In his lowest moments, David found himself sitting in his car after work, unable to go inside because the weight of responsibility felt too heavy. One day, instead of sitting in silence, he turned on a sermon podcast. The speaker talked about God being “a father to the fatherless” and a source of strength in weakness.
That message stayed with him. David began to pray—not for perfection, but for help in the small things. Over time, he noticed subtle changes. He became more patient. He learned to listen. He stopped measuring himself against what he wasn’t and started embracing what he could become.
“God didn’t replace what I lost,” David says. “But He walked with me in learning how to live again.”
How can you help? Be intentional. Check in, offer practical help (meals, childcare, errands), and simply be present. Small, consistent support makes a big difference. Pray for their strength, patience, and peace.
Isaiah 41:10 “Do not fear, for I am with you… I will strengthen you and help you.”
Aisha: Rebuilding After Escape
Aisha’s story is one of courage born from necessity. She fled an abusive relationship with her two children, leaving behind everything familiar. For a while, they lived in a shelter. Safety came at the cost of stability, and the future felt uncertain.
Aisha wrestled deeply with her faith. “I kept asking, ‘Where was God when I needed Him most?’” she recalls.
It was a counselor at the shelter who gently encouraged her to see her survival differently—not as abandonment, but as protection. Over time, Aisha began to reframe her story. She started attending a small prayer group organized by other women in similar situations.
One evening, during a quiet moment of reflection, Aisha felt something she hadn’t experienced in years: peace. Not the absence of problems, but a sense that she and her children were held in something greater than their circumstances.
Today, Aisha has a modest apartment and a steady job. Life is still challenging, but she describes her faith as “restored, not perfect.”
“God didn’t stop the storm,” she says. “But He gave me the strength to walk out of it.”
How you can help: Aisha’s story reminds us that people rebuilding after trauma need both safety and steady support. You can help by offering compassion without judgment, listening to their story, and supporting their practical needs, such as housing, childcare, or community connections. Even small acts of kindness can help restore a sense of stability and hope. Pray that they continue to find strength, healing, and peace as they rebuild.
Psalm 34:18 “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”
Joan: Holding a Family Together
After her daughter’s sudden struggle with addiction, Maria stepped in to raise her two young grandchildren. In her late 60s, she never imagined starting over with school drop-offs, homework, and restless nights. Her energy wasn’t what it used to be, and finances became tight with only a fixed income. Some days, the emotional weight felt even heavier—explaining hard truths to her grandchildren while carrying her own grief and worry for her daughter.
“I love them more than anything,” Joan says, “but there are nights I wonder if I’m strong enough for this.”
Yet, through the exhaustion, Joan found quiet strength in her faith. She began praying for endurance each morning, trusting that she wasn’t carrying this responsibility alone.
How you can help: Support grandparents like Joan by offering practical help—meals, transportation, or time to rest. Include them in the community, listen to their challenges, and remind them they’re not alone. Pray for their strength, provision, and renewed energy.
Isaiah 40:29 “He gives strength to the weary and increases the power of the weak.”
Grace in the Ordinary
These stories are different, yet they share a common thread: the presence of God not as a distant rescuer, but as a steady companion. For single parents, faith often doesn’t remove the hardship—it reshapes how they endure it.
There are still sleepless nights, financial worries, and moments of doubt. But there are also small miracles: a timely phone call, unexpected kindness, a child’s laughter breaking through a hard day. These moments, while easy to overlook, become anchors.
Single parents often carry more than their share. They are providers, nurturers, protectors, and decision-makers, all at once. The weight can feel overwhelming. And yet, in the middle of that weight, many discover a strength they didn’t know they had—one they believe comes from God.
A Quiet Kind of Faith
What stands out in these stories is not dramatic transformation, but quiet perseverance. Faith, for these parents, is not always loud or certain. It is often a whisper in the dark, a prayer spoken through tears, a decision to keep going one more day.
God’s help doesn’t always look like a sudden solution. Sometimes, it looks like endurance. Sometimes, it looks like a community. Sometimes, it looks like a child’s simple trust, reminding a parent to hope again.
In a world that often celebrates independence, these stories remind us of something deeper: that even in our most isolated moments, we are not meant to carry everything alone.
And for many single parents, that truth is not just comforting—it is sustaining.
What is God asking you to do? Stop right now and pray!
A Childhood Redefined: When Absence and Fear Collide
I grew up with what could only be described as a single mother, even though my parents were technically married for many years. My father was rarely home, sometimes gone for up to two years at a time. My mother once told me that in 15 years of marriage, they were only physically together for about five. Most of those years were when I was very young.
When he was home, his presence did not bring stability—it brought fear. The physical and emotional abuse created an environment where his absence felt safer than his return. As a child, that kind of reality reshapes your understanding of what family is supposed to be. Home wasn’t predictable. Love wasn’t secure.
Eventually, my mother made the difficult and courageous decision to divorce him. That decision, while necessary, opened the door to a new set of challenges. Suddenly, she wasn’t just protecting us—she was solely responsible for everything. Financial strain became constant. The absence of a father was no longer occasional; it was permanent.
But something else began to change during that time. My mother turned back to her faith with a renewed seriousness. It wasn’t superficial or routine—it was survival. In her
weakest moments, she leaned into her relationship with Jesus in a way that reshaped our home.
Over time, she would say something that stayed with me: “God became your real father.”
It wasn’t just a comforting phrase. It showed up in how she raised us—with patience she didn’t naturally have, with hope when circumstances didn’t justify it, and with a sense that we were not abandoned, even when it felt that way. That shift didn’t erase the hardship, but it redirected our future.
Elisa: Finding Daily Bread
Elisa never imagined raising three children alone. When her husband left, he didn’t just walk out of the marriage—he left behind unpaid bills, a half-empty fridge, and a silence that echoed through their small apartment. For months, Elisa lived in survival mode. She worked long shifts cleaning offices at night, slept when she could, and stretched every dollar.
There were days she questioned everything, including her faith. “I prayed, but it felt like my words hit the ceiling,” she once said.
One evening, after realizing she had no food left for dinner, Elisa sat at the kitchen table and cried. Her youngest son climbed into her lap and whispered, “Mama, let’s pray.” Reluctantly, Elisa agreed. It wasn’t a long or eloquent prayer—just a simple plea for help.
The next morning, there was a knock at the door. A neighbor she barely knew stood there with bags of groceries. “I felt like I should bring you this,” the woman said. “I don’t know why.”
Elisa calls that moment her turning point. “God didn’t fix everything overnight,” she explains. “But He showed me I wasn’t invisible.”
How can you help? Ask God to open your eyes to the single parents in your church who may be quietly struggling—to put food on the table, pay the light bill, or provide clothing for their children. Step in where you can. Sometimes the greatest needs are the least visible. Not only will you be helping meet practical needs, but you will also become the hands and feet of Jesus in their lives. As Scripture reminds us, “Let us not love with words or speech but with actions and in truth” (1 John 3:18). In serving them, you reflect Christ’s love in a real and tangible way.
David: Learning to Be Both Father and Mother
David became a single parent after his wife passed away unexpectedly. Left to raise his six-year-old daughter, he struggled not only with grief but with roles he never expected to fill. From braiding hair for school (badly, at first) to navigating emotional conversations he didn’t feel equipped for, David often felt like he was failing.
“I kept thinking, ‘She would have done this better,’” he admitted.
In his lowest moments, David found himself sitting in his car after work, unable to go inside because the weight of responsibility felt too heavy. One day, instead of sitting in silence, he turned on a sermon podcast. The speaker talked about God being “a father to the fatherless” and a source of strength in weakness.
That message stayed with him. David began to pray—not for perfection, but for help in the small things. Over time, he noticed subtle changes. He became more patient. He learned to listen. He stopped measuring himself against what he wasn’t and started embracing what he could become.
“God didn’t replace what I lost,” David says. “But He walked with me in learning how to live again.”
How can you help? Be intentional. Check in, offer practical help (meals, childcare, errands), and simply be present. Small, consistent support makes a big difference. Pray for their strength, patience, and peace.
Isaiah 41:10 “Do not fear, for I am with you… I will strengthen you and help you.”
Aisha: Rebuilding After Escape
Aisha’s story is one of courage born from necessity. She fled an abusive relationship with her two children, leaving behind everything familiar. For a while, they lived in a shelter. Safety came at the cost of stability, and the future felt uncertain.
Aisha wrestled deeply with her faith. “I kept asking, ‘Where was God when I needed Him most?’” she recalls.
It was a counselor at the shelter who gently encouraged her to see her survival differently—not as abandonment, but as protection. Over time, Aisha began to reframe her story. She started attending a small prayer group organized by other women in similar situations.
One evening, during a quiet moment of reflection, Aisha felt something she hadn’t experienced in years: peace. Not the absence of problems, but a sense that she and her children were held in something greater than their circumstances.
Today, Aisha has a modest apartment and a steady job. Life is still challenging, but she describes her faith as “restored, not perfect.”
“God didn’t stop the storm,” she says. “But He gave me the strength to walk out of it.”
How you can help: Aisha’s story reminds us that people rebuilding after trauma need both safety and steady support. You can help by offering compassion without judgment, listening to their story, and supporting their practical needs, such as housing, childcare, or community connections. Even small acts of kindness can help restore a sense of stability and hope. Pray that they continue to find strength, healing, and peace as they rebuild.
Psalm 34:18 “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”
Joan: Holding a Family Together
After her daughter’s sudden struggle with addiction, Maria stepped in to raise her two young grandchildren. In her late 60s, she never imagined starting over with school drop-offs, homework, and restless nights. Her energy wasn’t what it used to be, and finances became tight with only a fixed income. Some days, the emotional weight felt even heavier—explaining hard truths to her grandchildren while carrying her own grief and worry for her daughter.
“I love them more than anything,” Joan says, “but there are nights I wonder if I’m strong enough for this.”
Yet, through the exhaustion, Joan found quiet strength in her faith. She began praying for endurance each morning, trusting that she wasn’t carrying this responsibility alone.
How you can help: Support grandparents like Joan by offering practical help—meals, transportation, or time to rest. Include them in the community, listen to their challenges, and remind them they’re not alone. Pray for their strength, provision, and renewed energy.
Isaiah 40:29 “He gives strength to the weary and increases the power of the weak.”
Grace in the Ordinary
These stories are different, yet they share a common thread: the presence of God not as a distant rescuer, but as a steady companion. For single parents, faith often doesn’t remove the hardship—it reshapes how they endure it.
There are still sleepless nights, financial worries, and moments of doubt. But there are also small miracles: a timely phone call, unexpected kindness, a child’s laughter breaking through a hard day. These moments, while easy to overlook, become anchors.
Single parents often carry more than their share. They are providers, nurturers, protectors, and decision-makers, all at once. The weight can feel overwhelming. And yet, in the middle of that weight, many discover a strength they didn’t know they had—one they believe comes from God.
A Quiet Kind of Faith
What stands out in these stories is not dramatic transformation, but quiet perseverance. Faith, for these parents, is not always loud or certain. It is often a whisper in the dark, a prayer spoken through tears, a decision to keep going one more day.
God’s help doesn’t always look like a sudden solution. Sometimes, it looks like endurance. Sometimes, it looks like a community. Sometimes, it looks like a child’s simple trust, reminding a parent to hope again.
In a world that often celebrates independence, these stories remind us of something deeper: that even in our most isolated moments, we are not meant to carry everything alone.
And for many single parents, that truth is not just comforting—it is sustaining.
What is God asking you to do? Stop right now and pray!
Single Parenting
I never planned to be a single parent. Like most people, you get married to stay married. You buy a home, start planning a family, and live life. Then, things change, and you find yourself alone, raising kids without much support. You can choose to stay angry or seek the help you need to navigate this new life. I am thankful for Kris and The Singles Network Ministries. The website is so full of excellent articles and resources. I am also grateful for the additional links to ministries focusing on single parents. With God's help and others, just one day at a time. |
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