There are days when I have to brace myself before opening the headlines.

It’s as if the world is groaning—under the weight of war, injustice, corruption, and grief—and all of it somehow ends up in the palm of my hand, glowing from a screen, demanding to be read. A missile hits a city. A child is harmed. A leader lies. A people are displaced. Another story of abuse, betrayal, loss.

And sometimes I wonder: Is there any part of this world that isn’t unraveling?

There’s a particular kind of soul-tiredness that comes from hearing hard news day after day. It wears on your compassion. It pulls your focus. It makes you question if anything you’re doing is enough—or if it even matters at all.

But here’s the thing I’m learning, slowly: our hearts were never meant to carry everything, all at once. We were created as image-bearers, yes—but not as omniscient or omnipotent ones. That’s God’s role, not ours.

Even Jesus, in His earthly body, stepped away from the crowds. He withdrew to quiet places. He rested, He wept, and He prayed.

So maybe part of following Jesus in a world that’s aching is learning how to live with both eyes wide open and heart firmly rooted. We can grieve deeply without being undone. We can be present to pain without drowning in it. We can speak truth without being consumed by despair.

Because even in the flood of heartbreak, God has not left the building. He is still Emmanuel—God with us. Still the One who collects every tear. Still the Redeemer, still the Restorer, still the Risen One who defeated death and says, “Behold, I am making all things new.”

So when the news feels like too much, we can:

• Pause and breathe. Not as an escape, but as an act of trust.
• Lament. Cry out like the psalmists did. “How long, O Lord?” is a holy question.
• Light candles. Pray names out loud. Send money or meals or letters.
• Hold tight to what is still good and still beautiful.
• Remind each other that love is not lost.
• Keep planting seeds of peace in our little corners of the world.

And maybe, most of all, we can remember that Jesus does not look away. He sees it all. And He sees you, too—your tender heart, your exhaustion, your fierce love, your quiet prayers.

He is not overwhelmed, even when we are.

So take heart, weary one. You were never meant to carry the whole world. But you are invited to carry hope.

Even here. Even now.