When You’re Out of Options (But Not Out of Jesus)
Mark Week 7 — October 19, 2025
from Travis Young’s “Just Believe” – Frontier Church
Some weeks the gap between Sunday and Monday feels like a canyon.
On Sunday we sing “Way Maker.” On Monday the MRI calls back. On Tuesday the bills stack
up. By Wednesday you’re staring at the ceiling at 2 a.m., negotiating with God for a miracle you
can’t manufacture.
If that’s you, this one’s for you.
Mark 5 tells two stories braided together: a respected dad whose little girl is dying, and a woman
who has bled for twelve years. Different addresses. Same ache. Both stand at the edge of
impossibility—and that’s where Jesus meets them.
But this isn’t a post about ancient miracles. It’s about you, in the middle of your week, trying to
hold it together with thin prayers and tired hope.
Here are four gentle invitations I sensed as we sat with the Lord together on Sunday.
1) You don’t have to be strong to reach for Jesus.
The woman didn’t roar; she reached. No speech. No spotlight. Just a trembling hand through the
crowd and a whisper of faith: “If I touch even His clothes, I will be made well.”
Maybe you don’t feel spiritual enough. Maybe your faith feels like a frayed string. Jesus isn’t
grading your technique; He’s honoring your reach. If all you can manage today is a “Help me,”
that’s enough to touch heaven.
A practice for today:
Put your hand out—literally. Whisper the name of Jesus. Name the wound. Ask for His nearness.
Don’t try to fix it in the same breath—just reach.
2) When fear is loud, borrow Jesus’ words.
Jairus hears the sentence every parent dreads: “Your daughter is dead. Why bother the Teacher
any longer?” Before the grief closes in, Jesus speaks first: “Do not be afraid. Only believe.”
Those words hit like oxygen in a room short on air. They aren’t denial; they are defiance—the
kind that looks fear in the face and refuses to let it be the final narrator of your story.
A practice for this week:
Every time the “what-ifs” start spiraling, say out loud, “Jesus, I choose to believe You here.”
You’re not pretending the waves aren’t real. You’re remembering Who is in the boat.
3) Faith isn’t fast—but God is faithful.
Both stories move slowly. Crowds delay Jesus. Messengers interrupt. People laugh at Him.
Sound familiar? Waiting is not wasted time in God’s economy. It’s the classroom where trust
grows deep roots.
We want microwaves; Jesus tends to use ovens. And yet, in both homes—the woman’s heart and
Jairus’ house—He gets the final word.
A practice for the wait:
Make a “Remember List.” Write three moments God showed up for you in the past. Keep it on
your phone. When the delay makes you dizzy, read it out loud. Your history with God is a
weapon against despair.
4) Your healing is for you—but it isn’t just for you.
After the miracle, Jesus says something surprising. To the woman: “Go in peace.” To the parents:
“Give her something to eat.” To the roomful of mockers: silence. To you and me: carry this into
your street.
Miracles don’t always look like resurrections. Sometimes it’s a sudden freedom. Sometimes it’s
steady strength. Sometimes it’s the grace to endure with uncommon peace. Whatever it is, let it
spill. Be the person who prays in hospital halls, brings a meal, sends the text, chooses hope, and
says, “I’ll go with you.”
A practice for mission:
Ask God for one name. One. Send a text today: “Hey, you’ve been on my heart. How can I pray
specifically this week?” Then actually pray—and follow up.
For the one who feels late
You might be thinking, “Okay, Pastor, but my situation is past the point.” Jairus thought that too.
The house was already humming with mourners. But in a whisper only a child and a Savior
could share, Jesus said, “Talitha koum—Little girl, get up.”
We can’t promise the when or the how. But we can promise this: Jesus does some of His best
work when the room has already started planning the funeral. Even when outcomes don’t
look like we begged for, He always brings life—sometimes to bodies, always to hearts.
A simple prayer for the edge of impossibility
Jesus, I am at my limit.
I reach for You with the faith I have, not the faith I wish I had.
Speak peace to my fear.
Sit down beside my situation and take it by the hand.
Where You say “rise,” help me rise.
Where You ask me to wait, hold me steady.
And when You move, let Your life in me overflow to someone else.
Amen.
—Dr. Travis Young
Frontier Church
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