Tag Archives: life

When Suffering Meets Kindness: The Sacred Space Between Frankl and Fred Rogers

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Viktor Frankl once wrote, “In some ways suffering ceases to be suffering at the moment it finds a meaning.” Fred Rogers reminded us, “Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.”

At first glance, their words come from different worlds: one forged in the fires of a concentration camp, the other spoken softly through a television set to generations of children.
And yet, both point to a sacred truth: in the midst of suffering, meaning and mercy are born when love takes shape in human form.

Frankl’s psychology teaches us that pain without purpose can crush the soul, but pain seen through the lens of meaning can refine it. We cannot always choose our suffering, but we can choose our response: to orient ourselves toward love, service, or hope.

Mr. Rogers’s theology of kindness shows what that choice can look like in daily life. When the world trembles, he said, “look for the helpers.” Look for the hands that hold, the hearts that listen, the quiet ones who refuse to turn away.

When we hold both men’s wisdom together, a fuller picture of faith emerges:

Suffering becomes a classroom for compassion. Our wounds awaken us to the pain of others and invite us to respond.

Helping becomes holy work. Each act of care participates in God’s redemptive movement through the world.

Meaning grows in relationship. We discover purpose not by escaping pain, but by walking through it together.

In this light, Frankl and Rogers are not opposites but partners in the same gospel. One calls us to find meaning within; the other calls us to express it outwardly. Together they whisper: You are never powerless. Even in the darkest night, you can choose love.

So when the headlines ache and your own heart trembles, pause and ask:
Where might God be inviting me to create meaning?
Whose suffering might I quietly hold, or gently lighten?

Because every time you choose to love in the face of pain, you fulfill both men’s vision: transforming suffering into service, and despair into the language of hope.

The Days We Don’t Count

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We live like we have time.

We scroll, we schedule, we save. We put off the hard conversations and shelve the dreams for “someday” as if someday is a guaranteed destination. But then the news breaks. A name we recognize. A story cut short. A headline that shakes us just enough to remember: we don’t know which day will be our last.

This week, the loss of Malcolm-Jamal Warner hit hard for many. He wasn’t just an actor. He was a familiar presence, a face we grew up with. And now he’s gone — too soon, too suddenly. And it makes us stop and ask: Am I living the life I want to be remembered for? Am I loving the way I was created to love?

The Psalmist wrote, “Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom” (Psalm 90:12). Not to scare us into frenzy. Not to provoke panic. But to re-center us in wisdom — the kind of wisdom that sees clearly what really matters.

Because the truth is, we don’t have forever.

But we do have today.

And today is where love becomes action. Where grace becomes visible. Where values turn into decisions. Where faith walks, not just talks.

We may not get to choose the length of our days but we absolutely get to choose their substance. Will we hoard our energy, time, and resources for our own comfort, or will we pour it out to make this world a little softer, a little safer, a little more just? Will we stay numbed and distracted, or will we wake up to the sacred responsibility we hold: to be a light in the lives of others?

God never promised us a long life. He promised us eternal life. And between now and then, He’s given us a mission that’s rooted not in fear of the end, but in love for the present.

So let’s show up for it.

Let’s stop assuming there will always be more time.
Let’s forgive faster, listen longer, reach wider.
Let’s put down our pride, pick up our cross, and serve somebody.
Let’s make peace with our limitations, and use what we do have — our words, our presence, our hands — to bring healing.

Let our legacy be this: that we did not waste the time we were given.

Because while we don’t know how many days we’ll get, we do know what we’re here for:

To love God.
To love people.
To make the broken places a little more whole.

Even if the world forgets our name, may they remember our impact.

One day at a time. One act of love at a time.

I’m Tired, Lord — But Mostly I’m Tired of People Being Ugly

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There’s a line from a movie that echoes in my soul lately:
“I’m tired, boss… tired of all the pain I feel and hear in the world every day… there’s too much of it. It’s like pieces of glass in my head all the time.”

Can I confess something to you, friend?
I’m tired too.

Not just the “need-more-sleep” kind of tired. But soul-tired. Tired in my bones.
Tired of watching people speak with venom instead of care.
Tired of injustice wrapped in religious language.
Tired of cruelty masquerading as boldness.
Tired of the ache I see in the eyes of the kind-hearted who keep getting trampled by the sharp edges of other people’s pride.

But mostly? I’m tired of people being ugly.
Not ugly in appearance. Ugly in action.
Ugly in the way they dismiss, demean, and divide.
Ugly in how they scapegoat the vulnerable to feel powerful.

Scripture tells us that Jesus wept over Jerusalem, not because He was weak, but because He saw the hardness of people’s hearts.
He saw religious leaders burden the people with law but withhold mercy (Matthew 23:4).
He saw the temple turned into a market.
He saw the woman at the well judged and discarded.
He saw lepers outcast, children silenced, and foreigners feared.

And He didn’t just weep.
He healed.
He welcomed.
He restored.

He kept showing up with kindness anyway.

Maybe you’re reading this today and you feel it, too. The ache. The exhaustion.
You’re trying to be light in a world that seems to prefer shadows.
You’re offering dignity in spaces that reward domination.
You’re leading with grace and watching others lead with greed.

And you wonder: is it worth it?
Is being kind in a cruel world still powerful?

Beloved, hear me: Yes.
It is holy resistance.

Every act of kindness is a refusal to let darkness win.
Every time you choose empathy over ego, you echo the heart of Christ.
Every gentle word, every patient pause, every bridge you build, it matters.

Galatians 6:9 reminds us:

“Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up.”

That verse doesn’t ignore our weariness; it acknowledges it.
Doing good will wear on you. It’s costly. But it’s also kingdom-building.

So if today you’re tired, take a breath.
Cry if you need to. Step back. Be held by the One who never wearies.

And then? When you’re ready?

Let’s get back to the holy work of being kind in a world that often isn’t.
Let’s be people of gentleness in a culture of outrage.
Let’s be living, breathing reminders that God’s love is still present, even here. Even now.

Because ugliness may be loud, but kindness is still louder in the Kingdom of God.

And we? We were made for such a time as this.

Gratitude at the End of a Purpose-Filled Week

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It’s the kind of tired that settles deep, not just in your bones, but in your spirit. The kind of tired that follows a week full of pouring out, showing up, making decisions, holding space, and carrying burdens that aren’t always your own. It’s been a long week… but it hasn’t been wasted.

This is the sacred tension: exhaustion and gratitude holding hands.

Because while your body might ache and your mind may crave quiet, your heart knows something beautiful, this week mattered. The conversations, the care, the hidden sacrifices, the unseen prayers, the hard things you did anyway—they were seeds sown with purpose.

And so, we pause—not just to rest, but to give thanks.

Not just for the strength to get through, but for the privilege of being part of something bigger than ourselves. For the grace that met us in early mornings and late nights. For the people we served, the ones who surprised us, the laughter that snuck in when we needed it most, and the reminders that we are never alone.

Scripture reminds us: “Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord, not for human masters.” (Colossians 3:23)

That changes everything.

It means the spreadsheet wasn’t just a task. It was stewardship. The counseling session wasn’t just a job. It was holy ground. The meal you delivered, the hug you offered, the weary smile you gave anyway; those were offerings. Worship, in motion.

So yes, you’re tired. But let that tired be evidence of a life poured out with intention.

And as you exhale, may gratitude be your companion not just for what was accomplished, but for the One who walked with you through it all.

Take a breath. Say thank you. And let that be enough for today.

You did well, friend.

Safe, But Not Settled: Holding Heartache and Hope Across Borders

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This morning I woke up in a place where my power works, where sirens are rare, and where safety is so constant I forget to notice it. My coffee brewed without interruption. My phone didn’t buzz with emergency alerts. The people I love most are accounted for, safe and sleeping peacefully under a quiet sky. And yet—my heart is not settled.

Just days ago, I stood alongside students, friends, and fellow counselors in Ukraine—people whose lives are marked by bravery, burden, and a fierce commitment to hope. Their resilience humbles me. Their vulnerability invites me. Their suffering unsettles me in the most holy of ways.

And then, I come home. To safety. To abundance. To ease.

It’s a disorienting thing to hold two realities at once. To scroll the news and see missile attacks near where I just stood… while sitting in a quiet living room where my biggest decision is what to make for dinner. There is an ache in this returning. A tension in being safe while others remain in danger.

Sometimes I feel like I’m cheating grief by being far away.

But I am reminded—again and again—that presence is not limited by geography. That prayer is not weakened by miles. That love stretches farther than the reach of war.

Jesus Himself wept over Jerusalem, grieving a people He longed to gather under His wings like a mother hen gathers her chicks (Luke 13:34). He didn’t ignore the pain of a place just because He wasn’t in it. He entered it—with compassion, with truth, and with unwavering nearness.

So today, I choose to stay tender. I choose not to grow numb just because I am safe. I choose to carry the names and faces of my Ukrainian brothers and sisters into my prayers, my advocacy, and my daily decisions. I choose to live with open hands, asking God how I can keep showing up—even from afar.

There is no easy way to carry this tension. But perhaps we aren’t meant to resolve it. Perhaps we are simply meant to feel it—to let it soften us, deepen us, and move us toward love.

“For if one part suffers, every part suffers with it…” (1 Corinthians 12:26). And if one part heals, we all move a step closer to wholeness.

I am safe, but I am not indifferent.

I am home, but I am not done.

And though my feet may be here, part of my heart still beats on Ukrainian soil—and always will.

From Sirens to Silence: Returning from War-Torn Ukraine to the Safety of Home

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There’s a holy kind of disorientation that comes when you leave a war zone and step back into peace.

In Ukraine, the soundscape is unforgettable. It’s not just the sirens—though those pierce your chest like a cold wind—but the in-between silence that follows them. The kind of quiet that feels like holding your breath. The kind of quiet that wonders, “Will it come here next?” And when the silence is broken, it’s by news of another strike, another village leveled, another family forever changed.

You learn to move through your day holding invisible weights. Not just your own responsibilities, but the stories of those beside you. Stories of sons on the front lines, of homes destroyed twice, of trauma that doesn’t wait for a break to speak. And yet—there is laughter. There is resilience. There are old women planting tomatoes near the trenches and children playing soccer next to bomb shelters.

Somehow, hope and horror live side by side.

And then, just like that, you’re on a plane back to the United States. You land in a clean, calm airport. No soldiers, no checkpoints. You stand in line for coffee and no one is scanning the exits. Your bag rolls smoothly over polished tile instead of cobblestone. The barista asks how your day is going.

And you almost forget how to answer.

There’s this peculiar guilt that rises when safety returns too quickly. A feeling that something must be wrong with you for enjoying a warm bed when you know the person you sat across from yesterday might sleeping in a shelter with sandbags for walls. You feel joy at being home—and grief for ever having left. You feel relief—and restlessness. You carry stories that others can’t see, and it makes ordinary life feel… blurry.

I’m learning not to run from that tension.

Because Scripture doesn’t tell us to choose between joy or sorrow. It invites us to hold both. “Rejoice with those who rejoice, and weep with those who weep.” (Romans 12:15)

That’s what Jesus did. He wept at the tomb of Lazarus even though He knew resurrection was coming. He sat with the suffering and also multiplied bread at a wedding feast. He knew how to live between heaven and heartbreak.

So I’m asking myself: how do I live faithfully in between?

Here’s what I’m finding:

I breathe deeper here. Not with guilt, but with gratitude—and remembrance. Every quiet night’s sleep is a gift. Every dinner shared around a peaceful table is holy ground. I don’t want to forget that.

I keep my heart soft. I don’t numb out or move on. I name their names when I pray. I tell their stories when I speak. I don’t let convenience steal my compassion.

I let the discomfort teach me. The pull between two worlds is not a flaw—it’s an invitation. It reminds me that I belong to a global body, and that the peace I enjoy should fuel my advocacy, not silence it.

I practice presence. Not performative urgency. Not performative guilt. But true presence. I listen when someone tells their story. I show up for people who are tired. I stay grounded in what’s real, even when it hurts.

Most of all, I trust that God is near.

Near to the weary pastor still pastoring in a war zone.
Near to the widow who still sets out two plates.
Near to the child coloring in a basement lit by a generator.
And near to me, as I return to a quiet home and try to keep my heart from closing.

It’s tempting to believe that faith means we must always feel strong. But I’m learning faith can look like tears. Like trembling hands still reaching out. Like choosing to stay tender when it would be easier to forget.

This world is broken in ways that are too heavy for words. But the kingdom of God is here, too—in the resilience of those who remain, in the compassion of those who return, in the breath that fills our lungs even after sirens.

So I will rest. And I will remember. And I will return—whether in body or in prayer or in voice—again and again.

Because love doesn’t look away.

And neither will I.

The Kind of Difference We Make

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“You cannot get through a single day without having an impact on the world around you. What you do makes a difference, and you have to decide what kind of difference you want to make.” — Jane Goodall

It’s easy to believe that our lives are small. That our choices slip quietly through the cracks of the day, unnoticed and unseen. But Jane Goodall’s words call us back to something truer: whether we intend to or not, we leave a mark. Every day. Every one of us.

That mark might look like the smile we offer a stranger—or the one we withhold. It could be the gentle way we greet our children, or the edge in our tone when we feel overwhelmed and under-slept. It might show up in the way we speak about people who are different than us, the way we show up (or don’t) for those on the margins, the way we care for creation, or the way we care for ourselves.

We’re always in motion, always rippling outward.

Some days, I find that thought heavy—like the weight of responsibility is too much. Other days, it feels like a gift: the holy reminder that my life is not meaningless. That even the unseen moments, the quiet kindnesses, the small repairs I offer in my relationships, matter.

We all shape the world with our presence. With our purchases. With our posts. With our prayers. With our patterns.

And if we’re going to make a difference anyway—why not choose the kind that leans toward healing?

What if we asked ourselves at the start of each day:

  • What kind of difference do I want to make today?
  • What would it look like to leave people more whole, not less?
  • How can I be part of mending what’s been broken—whether in my family, my community, or my own heart?

We don’t need a grand platform or a perfect plan. Just the willingness to be intentional. To be kind when it costs something. To be present when it would be easier to disengage. To be a little braver, a little softer, a little more loving.

This isn’t about perfection. It’s about participation.

You matter. You always have.
And today—like every day—you’re already making a difference.
May it be the kind that brings a bit more light into the world.

When the World Breaks and We Still Breathe

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Some questions don’t have clean answers.
Why do bad things happen?
Why do children suffer?
Why are we here?

These aren’t just philosophical musings. – they’re wilderness cries They’re cries from hospital rooms, quiet bedsides, and the tearful silence of those who’ve seen too much too young. They rise from the rubble of warzones and the ache of abandoned hearts. They come from the therapist’s chair, too—from little voices asking questions no child should have to form.

“Why did this happen to me?”
“What did I do wrong?”
“Why did God let it happen?”

And if we’re honest, we’ve asked them, too.

The Ache of Injustice

It’s one thing to wrestle with suffering in theory. It’s another to look into the eyes of a child who’s been harmed and try to hold their pain with dignity and hope. There’s a kind of heartbreak that makes the world tilt sideways, where even the most well-intentioned theology can feel hollow.

We want answers.
We want justice.
We want to believe that life makes sense—that there is order, purpose, and meaning.

But sometimes, all we have is presence.

What to Do With the Hurt

When children are wounded by abuse, neglect, violence, or loss, our first task isn’t to explain their pain away. It’s to honor it. To hold space for the heartbreak. To say with our eyes, our hands, our breath: You matter. You are not alone. What happened to you was not your fault.

We become meaning-makers by how we show up—not just by what we say.

  • We hold their trembling stories with reverence.
  • We mirror back the truth of their worth when shame whispers otherwise.
  • We become safe, predictable, and kind—until their bodies begin to believe safety is possible again.

And slowly, healing comes. Not always with fanfare. Not in a straight line. But it comes—in laughter that returns, in eyes that meet yours, in the fierce little declarations like, “I made a new friend today.” That, too, is a kind of resurrection.

Why Are We Here?

Existentialists have long asked the question: What is the meaning of life?

Some would say, “There isn’t one”—at least not an inherent one. But maybe that’s the wrong question.

Maybe it’s not about finding some prewritten meaning. Maybe it’s about making it.

Maybe we’re here to love.
To see each other.
To suffer with and for one another.
To be the balm in someone else’s wound.
To choose kindness even when life feels cruel.

As a person of faith, I believe we are part of a much larger story—one that includes pain but isn’t defined by it. I believe in a God who suffers with us. A God who weeps, not because He is powerless, but because love always joins the hurting. And I believe we are here to reflect that kind of love—to be image-bearers of mercy, even in a fractured world.

Holding the Questions

I don’t have all the answers. None of us do.

But I do know this: When we stop pretending we have to tie it all up in a neat bow, we make room for something better—something real. We make space for healing. For wonder. For solidarity. For hope.

Even amid the ache, life still calls us to show up.

To hold the questions tenderly.
To care for the brokenhearted.
To find meaning in how we love.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s the holiest work of all.

The Sunshine Where Virtue Grows

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“Kindness is the sunshine in which virtue grows.” — Robert Green Ingersoll

There’s something quietly profound about the way kindness works. It’s not flashy or forceful. It doesn’t demand applause. It doesn’t parade itself as power. And yet, kindness has a way of transforming the very soil of our lives—softening what’s hardened, nourishing what’s withered, and drawing out the beauty of things buried deep.

Robert Green Ingersoll’s words remind me that kindness isn’t just an isolated act—it’s a kind of atmosphere. The sunshine in which virtue grows.

We live in a world where virtue is often reduced to performance or principle—something to be proven, defended, or displayed. But real virtue, the kind that lasts and bears fruit, is relational. It grows best in warmth. It grows when people are safe to be human. When mistakes are met with grace. When pain is met with compassion. When we are given room to become.

Without kindness, virtue withers. It becomes brittle, harsh, even prideful. But with kindness? With kindness, honesty becomes healing. Courage becomes contagious. Humility becomes strength.

In my work—sitting with people in the ache of trauma, grief, and unmet longing—I’ve learned that few things are more healing than simple kindness. The kind that doesn’t try to fix or rush or preach. The kind that sits beside you in silence. That looks you in the eye and says, “You matter.” That believes in your goodness even when you can’t see it for yourself.

Kindness is not weakness. It’s not passivity. It’s not naïve. Kindness is a choice. A strength. A discipline. And perhaps, most importantly, a witness—a quiet protest against the cruelty of a world that too often teaches us to compete, harden, and hide.

If you’ve ever bloomed under someone’s kindness, you know this truth firsthand. You know how it loosens shame’s grip. How it opens your heart. How it changes your story. And maybe—just maybe—you’ve also seen how offering kindness, even in small ways, has the power to shift a room, mend a heart, or grow something sacred in someone else.

So today, may we remember:
The sunshine of kindness is not wasted.
It may not always be returned. It may not always be seen.
But still, it nourishes. Still, it matters.
And in time, it grows virtue—in us, and through us.

Let’s be the ones who bring the sunshine.
Let’s be the ones who make it easier for others to grow.

Bold love disarms evil through generosity.

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When Love Looks Like Strength — and Feels Like Kindness

We live in a world where loud often wins.
Where whoever shouts the longest or posts the most outrage gets the final word.
Where we confuse sarcasm with strength, and power with harshness.

But lately, I’ve been wondering…
What if true strength doesn’t look like control, but like compassion?

What if the fiercest kind of love is the kind that doesn’t shout to be heard—but speaks life anyway?
What if the most courageous thing we can do in a culture of criticism… is to choose kindness?

Bold love disarms evil through generosity.
Tender love surprises hardness with kindness.

That phrase has stayed with me.

As a counselor—and just as a human trying to love well—I’ve seen how easy it is to react instead of respond. To mirror someone’s bitterness instead of bringing in warmth. To defend instead of delight. To protect yourself instead of pursuing someone else’s good.

But bold, Christlike love doesn’t behave that way.

It doesn’t need to overpower or prove itself.
It is secure enough to be generous—even when misunderstood.
It is holy enough to be kind—even to those who aren’t.

Because real love—gospel love—has both weight and gentleness.
It is both lion and lamb.
Strength and stillness.
Power and peace.

This kind of love doesn’t ignore harm.
But it doesn’t repay it, either.

It confronts evil—not by mimicking it, but by offering a better way.
It doesn’t stoop to the level of the insult.
It raises the conversation entirely.

It’s the kind of love that causes those who expect retaliation to pause in surprise.

And sometimes, that pause… is where redemption begins.

It’s not weak to love gently.
It’s not naive to respond with blessing.
It’s not passive to refuse to participate in the cycle of harm.

It’s brave.

So today, may we love boldly.
May we forgive when it’s hard.
May we speak life into conversations that have gone dry with cynicism.
May we surprise someone with kindness they didn’t expect—and didn’t earn.

Because that’s what Jesus did for us.

And we’re never more like Him than when we love like that.