What I’m learning is this: sometimes life asks us to carry more than one kind of weight at the same time. Grief in one hand. Illness in the other. And somehow, the work still expects you to show up—to advocate, to prepare, to stand in court with a steady voice even when your body and your spirit feel anything but steady.
I’ve been navigating that tension lately.
Over the past several weeks, grief has come in waves while illness has insisted on slowing me down in ways I didn’t choose.
Trying to balance a caseload while my heart is still catching up to loss.
Trying to manage hearings while my body keeps reminding me it needs rest.
Trying to be present for clients while I’m still figuring out how to be present for myself.
And in the middle of all of that, I heard a fellow defense attorney reflect on a recent acquittal.
He said he never prays for a particular outcome—only that justice be done. Then he added that, in his case, the acquittal was the just result.
It was simple.
Uncomplicated.
Unadorned.
And it stayed with me longer than I expected.
Not because I disagreed, but because I realized how much of my own prayer life lately had become about endurance. Strength. Healing. Getting through the next hearing. I hadn’t stopped to pray simply for justice—not directly, not intentionally, not with the quiet confidence that trusts God to handle the outcome while I remain faithful to the work He’s given me.
His words made me pause.
Because when you’re carrying grief and illness, justice stops being a distant principle and becomes something you feel in your bones. It becomes a question you ask yourself quietly:
Can I still show up the way my clients deserve?
Can I still hold the line?
Can I still be who I said I would be, even when I’m hurting?
The truth is, justice work is human work.
It’s carried in bodies that get tired.
In hearts that break.
In spirits that need time to heal.
And as a person of faith, I don’t pray for wins.
I don’t pray for perfect days.
I don’t pray for everything to go my way.
I pray for the grace to practice law with clean hands and an open heart.
To tell the truth.
To extend mercy where I can.
To have the wisdom to know the difference between fighting faithfully for my clients and trying to control the outcome.
Isaiah doesn’t tell us to guarantee outcomes. He tells us to “seek justice” and to “correct oppression” (Isaiah 1:17). That’s work. It’s daily. It’s often imperfect. And it begins long before a judge announces a ruling.
I’ve spent years thinking about what that means for my clients.
I’m learning it also means extending that same grace to the person carrying the briefcase.
Justice isn’t only about outcomes. It’s about how we show up—how we carry the work, how we honor the people entrusted to us, and how we remain faithful when we don’t have the strength we wish we had.
Justice be done—in the courtroom, yes. But also in me.
On (In)justice 