Jehovah-Roi: The God Who Saw Me When I Couldn’t Speak

By Brandy Grillo

What if the deepest wounds are not the ones that make the most noise, but the ones we learn to live with—never realizing we haven’t truly grieved them yet?

Healing takes many forms. Some are loud and unmistakable; others arrive quietly, almost unnoticed. Since 2019, when I gave my life to Jesus, I have lived in a continual renewal of my mind and a cleansing of my heart. Jesus has gently, but thoroughly, dug into the deepest places of my inner life. Even when I resisted the healing He was leading me into, He remained patient, tender, and faithful.

Now, in 2026, I can see that one of the most significant healing moments came through obedience, when God called me to share my testimony by writing a book. Within its pages, I addressed many parts of my story, including abortion. I use this word in the plural because I have had more than one.

While writing about them, I felt pain, but it was brief, contained, and familiar. I believed I had already grieved.

I hadn’t.

October of 2025 changed that… forever.

I share more details about when and how my abortions took place in my memoir, Addicted to Pain. This blog is not meant to revisit those moments in depth.

The topic of abortion has the power to awaken deep emotions in the mind and heart, often long after we believe the chapter has closed. For seventeen years, I buried the pain through addictions—to substances, to things, and to people. I was in survival mode, and in survival, there is rarely time or space to grieve.

The woman I am now is different. As my life came into order, the burial changed. The grief was no longer numbed by chaos, but quietly covered by obedience, progress, and time. I truly believed it was gone. I had no idea it was still harbored inside of me.

Then something shifted.

Conversations about pregnancy began to sting—stories of women choosing life where I once hadn’t. Providers at work announced pregnancies. None of this had ever affected me before, but now it did. What once passed me by without emotion suddenly reached places I didn’t know were still tender.

What I did not realize was that Jesus was not finished meeting me there. These moments were not random. They were an invitation. What had been buried was beginning to surface.

I found myself waking up crying over the loss of the lives that were taken because of my decision to have abortions. This continued for weeks, from the moment I woke to the moment I went to bed. The pain felt immediate, as though it had just happened, even though each loss was years behind me. Guilt and regret settled over me like a dark shadow. No sunlight seemed able to reach me.

I would sit down to pray, but no words came—only tears. I was caught in them, drowning in a grief I didn’t know how to name. The crying was not quiet. It came from deep within, an uncontrollable, guttural wail that soaked through tissue after tissue, dissolving them as quickly as they were lifted to my face.

Even in that place, Jesus began to work on my heart—slowly, gently, and not in the way I expected. I kept going to Him, even when I had no words. I would sit in silence, praying only in my mind, asking Him to come near me and help me climb out of the pit I had somehow fallen into.

I was confused. Just one month earlier, I had experienced such a mountaintop moment. Wasn’t I supposed to be living there for a while—beaming, celebrating, resting in the victory? Instead, I felt buried beneath a silent grief.

That was when I felt led to look up an abortion helpline—something I was not happy about. I didn’t believe I needed help. I had Jesus. But the urge would not go away.

One night, in the depths of despair, the weight of realizing the children I could have had—and the permanence of what could never be changed—became overwhelming. I was angry with my past self and devastated by the finality of it all.

I searched abortion helpline, and one result immediately caught my attention. As I read through the page, wiping tears from my face, I noticed a form inviting me to be contacted. I hesitated. Then I felt a gentle whisper urging me forward. This was the direction.

I filled out the form and sat staring at my laptop, my cursor hovering over the submit button. All I had to do was click it. I paused, pondered, and sent up a silent prayer. Then I clicked submit and took a deep breath.

Anxiety flooded my mind, but I clung to the truth that God is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit. If He had led me here, then there had to be a reason.

The next day, I received a gentle text—one that celebrated my courage for asking for help and explained the process moving forward. I learned they were a Christian-based organization that helps women find local resources. I had no idea.

Over the next two weeks, I spoke with strangers who cared deeply about my well-being in this area of my life—more than I was prepared for. Yet with each conversation came a growing sense of peace. I was no longer alone. I was supported.

I could feel it. I was on the path God had chosen for me. That path led me to a group called An Even Place.

As I continued seeking support, I began to gain clarity—not only about the grief I was carrying, but about who I once was and why I had chosen abortion again and again. My beliefs were shifting, and that realization was painful in itself.

My abortions were not the result of a single tragic circumstance. They came from a heart shaped by pride and fear. Coming to terms with that truth was devastating. I no longer agreed with the reasons I once used to justify my choices, and I could not change what had already been done. That grief was crushing.

In the midst of the mental noise that had followed me for weeks, I spoke with my mother and my cousin. Those conversations helped me remember things I had forgotten—the environments I was in, the mindset I lived with, and the person I had become during that season of my life. (I share more of this in my memoir.)

Not long after, I received a phone call from a woman whose voice carried both grace and calm. We spoke for about thirty minutes as she explained the support options available to me, including group therapy. I felt hopeful, but also skeptical. I asked how much it would cost, assuming it would be far beyond what I could afford. Her answer stopped me: nothing. The services were free, offered through a nonprofit Christian organization.

I began to cry—not from relief alone, but from the overwhelming realization of God’s presence. That He would make provision for His daughters even after what I had done, after what felt unforgivable, was both beautiful and difficult to fully understand.

She went on to share how much the organization had grown to support women from all walks of life, firmly rooted in Jesus as the healer. She even shared her own testimony with me.

By the end of the call, something had shifted in my heart. Though I had repented before, this was different. This was repentance accompanied by transformation. I knew it.

In December, I attended my first online meeting. There were about ten women—different ages, backgrounds, and stages of healing—but we all shared one thing in common: abortion. The meeting was phenomenal.

I am set to begin the next phase of classes at the end of this month, meeting once a week for several weeks, and I plan to continue with the longer program as well through An Even Place.

One of the hardest truths to grasp is that abortion is an abomination—not because God condemns women, but because it places human will above God’s authority over life. Yet even there, He moves toward us with healing. God chooses to heal, not just in me, but in countless women. There are no words sufficient to explain how that feels in my spirit. It is holy. It is humbling. It is overwhelming.

This journey has strengthened something I truly believe: no one is ever too far gone. That is what makes Jesus so incomprehensibly grand. Even when I was His enemy, He loved me.

The Bible tells us, “But God demonstrates His own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us.” (Romans 5:8)

In January, I came home from work to find a mysterious package waiting for me on my table. I hadn’t ordered anything. Inside was a card, a journal, a pen, and an ESV Bible. I had wanted that version of the Word for years but never asked for it—never bought it. I still had the Bible my church gave me in 2019, so I left the desire unspoken.

As I opened the box, I broke down crying.

Jehovah-Roi, the God who sees and hears, has met me again. After everything. After several abortions. After years of silence and buried grief. He still came through for me.

The Bible was customized, filled with highlighted Scriptures, verse stickers, and intentional markings—evidence that someone had spent time praying and preparing it. The card inside was simple: a sister in Houston letting me know I was being prayed for.

Seen.
Heard.
Remembered.

This is the God I now know. The One who sees what we hide. The One who hears the prayers we cannot form. The One who heals what we believed was unforgivable.