There are some things television has taught me that have nothing to do with cameras. People often ask what it’s like to film in the studio. They imagine bright lights, makeup chairs, microphones, countdowns, and teleprompters. Those things are certainly part of the process, but they’re not what stays with me when I drive home at the end of the day. Some lessons unfold in quiet moments. I’ve learned that before the floor director starts the countdown, there is often a whispered prayer. I’ve learned that God isn’t nearly as interested in polished performances as He is surrendered hearts. I learned the best preparation isn’t reviewing my notes again; it’s asking the Lord to speak through me in spite of me.
Sacred and Heartbreaking. Lately, those prayers have become even more personal. A few weeks ago, my dad suffered a stroke. Today, he is under hospice care. Now our family is walking a road that feels both sacred and heartbreaking. Grief doesn’t wait until you’re alone. It shows up while you’re driving to work. It sits beside you in the makeup chair. It catches you between takes when someone asks a simple question like, “How are you doing?” Sometimes it surprises you in the middle of filming because a memory suddenly rushes in. And then, just as unexpectedly, hope shows up too.
Tears Don’t Diminish Your Faith. I’ve been thinking often about Jesus standing outside Lazarus’s tomb. Scripture tells us simply, “Jesus wept.” Those two words have comforted me more than I can explain. Our Savior wasn’t embarrassed by tears. He didn’t rush past sorrow to get to the miracle. He entered into the grief. That reminds me that my tears don’t diminish my faith. They simply reveal my love. I’m learning that grief and hope can occupy the same heart. I grieve watching my dad’s earthly journey come to this chapter. I grieve the conversations we may never have. I grieve the thought of what our family will look like without him. And yet, I have hope that is deeper than my grief.
Truth Gives Grief a Place to Rest. I know where my father’s hope has always been. I know the Savior he has trusted. I know that because of Jesus, this goodbye is not forever. That truth doesn’t erase the ache, but it gives the ache somewhere to rest. It’s funny how differently I see the studio these days. Every time I walk through those doors, I realize I have no idea what burden the person behind the camera is carrying. I don’t know what the floor director prayed about that morning. I don’t know whose marriage is struggling, whose child is hurting, or who just received difficult news. We all bring invisible stories into every room. Maybe that’s one of the biggest secrets I’ve learned while filming. The cameras capture what people say. God sees what people carry. Long before the lights come on, He’s already at work in hearts. Long after the cameras stop recording, He’s still writing stories of redemption that no audience will ever fully see. These days, before I step in front of the camera, my prayer is simpler than it’s ever been. “Lord, if someone watching is hurting, let them see You more clearly than they see me.” Because that’s what people really need. Not another perfect program. Not another polished presentation. They need Jesus.
Holding Grief in One Hand and Hope in the Other. If you’re reading this while carrying your own grief, whether it’s the illness of someone you love, the loss of a dream, or a season you never expected to walk through, I want you to know you’re not walking alone. The Lord is near to the brokenhearted. He doesn’t ask us to choose between grieving and believing. In His kindness, He allows us to do both. So today, I’m holding grief in one hand and hope in the other. Some days one feels heavier than the other. But I’m holding on to both. And most importantly, I’m holding on to Christ, who is holding on to me.
Today’s Secret from the Studio: Grief doesn’t diminish your faith. It reveals the depth of your love.
—Monica Schmelter
