Tag Archives: mental-health

When Trauma Touches Every Part of Life

Uncategorized, , , ,

Today, I sat across from people carrying stories too heavy for one heart to hold: war, abuse, abandonment, loss, betrayal. Each one unique, and yet each one echoing a truth we don’t often say out loud: trauma changes us.

It touches the way we see ourselves, the way we trust others, the way we move through the world. Sometimes it shows up as restlessness, sometimes as cynicism or withdrawal, sometimes as shame or self-doubt. Trauma doesn’t stay in the past. It tries to convince us we are still unsafe, still unworthy, still alone.

But trauma is not the end of the story.

Over and over again, I am reminded that the same human heart that absorbs unthinkable pain is also capable of deep healing. With compassion, safety, and God’s presence, the story can shift. What felt like permanent ruin can slowly become a place of new growth. The psalmist’s words ring true: “The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit” (Psalm 34:18).

I can’t share the details of the lives I encounter. Those stories are sacred, and privacy is part of the safety each person deserves. But I can tell you this: people are finding courage to face what they’ve endured. They are discovering that their worth was never erased by what happened to them. They are learning that God’s love meets them not in some future perfect version of themselves, but right here, in the middle of the mess and the ache.

For those who feel weary, weighed down by wounds no one else can see: you are not forgotten. You are not alone. Healing is possible. And even on the days when hope feels faint, God has not turned away.

As a community of faith, may we be people who refuse to look away from suffering. May we create spaces of gentleness and belonging, where survivors can breathe, tell the truth, and remember that their story isn’t finished yet.

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

Uncategorized, , , ,

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

Uncategorized, , , ,

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.

When Trauma Becomes Testimony: How Childhood Wounds Shape Our Hearts—and How Faith Heals

Uncategorized, , , ,

Recent insights from Neuroscience News reveal that childhood trauma doesn’t just leave invisible scars—it actually rewires the brain, triggering chronic inflammation that reshapes its structure and function over a lifetime. As believers, these findings don’t just inform our understanding—they invite a prayerful response to suffering, hope, and redemption.


Childhood trauma doesn’t just hurt emotionally—it shapes how the brain and body function at the most foundational levels. According to recent research highlighted in Neuroscience News, early adversity can leave behind more than just painful memories. It can biologically reprogram how the brain’s immune system functions, setting the stage for inflammation that lingers for years—sometimes decades.

Neuroinflammation: When the Brain’s Alarm Won’t Turn Off
Our brains are equipped with microglia—tiny immune cells that serve as the nervous system’s “first responders.” In a healthy system, these cells activate when we’re sick or injured, helping the brain recover. But when a child experiences abuse, neglect, household instability, or chronic fear, those microglia can become chronically activated.

This is sometimes called “neuroimmune priming.” It means the brain becomes stuck in a hyper-alert state, constantly bracing for danger, even long after the threat is gone. Over time, this leads to chronic inflammation in areas of the brain critical for emotional regulation, memory, and relational trust—like the amygdala, hippocampus, and prefrontal cortex.

In biblical terms, it’s like the body becomes a land under siege, with every gate guarded and every door bolted. Safety feels foreign because the internal alarm never truly shuts off.

Genetic and Epigenetic Impact
This kind of early stress also affects gene expression. Even if a child was born with healthy brain wiring, trauma can flip certain switches “on” or “off”—changing how genes responsible for stress regulation and emotional balance behave. This is known as epigenetic change, and it helps explain why some people struggle with emotional dysregulation, depression, or autoimmune conditions even when their environment has improved.

Researchers are now identifying biomarkers—biological signatures of trauma-related inflammation—in the blood and brain imaging of trauma survivors. This holds promise for earlier diagnosis and more targeted treatment in the future.

Long-Term Consequences: Emotional, Physical & Spiritual
Children whose brains were shaped by early adversity may grow up more likely to experience:

Anxiety or hypervigilance

Chronic shame or self-loathing

Depression or emotional numbness

Disrupted sleep and appetite

Increased risk of autoimmune illness, heart disease, and other physical conditions

Difficulty with trust, connection, and a sense of self-worth

But here’s the part that matters most for those of us walking with Christ: none of this is destiny. The brain—though deeply affected by trauma—is also incredibly resilient. Neuroplasticity means healing is possible. The same inflammation that was once destructive can be reversed through safety, connection, and care.

As research continues to affirm what many of us already know in our spirits—that trauma affects every part of a person—it also confirms the deep wisdom of a holistic gospel: that God came to heal not only souls, but bodies, minds, and relationships too.

Faith’s Response: From Woundedness to Wholeness
Naming the Wound with Compassion
Scripture frequently reminds us that God gathers our tears (Psalm 56:8). Acknowledging the biological reality of trauma gives language to the invisible, offering a bridge from suffering to prayer.

  1. Spiritual Practices as Soothing Balm
    • Prayer, lament, and scripture meditation are not only spiritual acts—they’re healing interventions. By activating the parasympathetic nervous system, they can actually lower inflammation and calm the brain’s stress circuits.
      Romans 8:11 reminds us that the Spirit who raised Christ lives in us—bringing not only spiritual revival, but potential neurobiological renewal.
  2. Building Safe Spiritual Communities
    • Trauma distorts relational wiring—making community feel threatening. Yet small groups, trauma‑informed churches, and safe listening partnerships create relational “safe zones” where trust can be rewired through consistent love and grace.
  3. Partnering with Professional Care
    • The discovery of inflammation biomarkers pushes us to incorporate mental‑health care into our pastoral work. Faith and psychotherapy aren’t competitors; they’re collaborators in bringing holistic healing.
  4. Embracing Transformation—not just Coping
    • The most hopeful part of this science? The brain remains plastic (malleable), and inflammation is reversible. Just as Paul speaks of being “transformed by the renewing of your mind” (Rom 12:2), God invites us into permanent renewal—soul, mind, and neurons aligned in healing.

This science shows us that what Jesus called shalom—total flourishing—isn’t sentimental, but rooted in deep biological and spiritual transformation. In that truth, we can move forward with faith: that wounds can heal, hope can flourish, and the renewing Spirit can reshape more than our souls—He can change our very wiring.

When the Body Breaks: How Faith Calls Us to Respond

Uncategorized, , , ,

The University of Glasgow recently published sobering findings in BMJ Mental Health: among 632 women aged 40–59, 14% had endured physical intimate partner violence (IPV). Even decades after the abuse—on average, 27 years later—they showed significantly higher rates of traumatic brain injury (TBI), depression, anxiety, sleep disorders, and PTSD. These are the silent wounds that last much longer than bruises—hidden in the mind, body, and spirit. And they call each one of us, as Christians, into compassionate, active response.

  1. The Heart of the Matter: Brain Trauma as Emotional Legacy

Far from fleeting, these injuries echo through time and health. Those affected often share histories of repeated head blows and even TBI, with “higher lifetime and ongoing diagnoses” of mental health struggles: anxiety, depression, PTSD—all without relief years later.

Beyond Glasgow, neuropathology studies of over 80 women reveal white matter damage, vascular injury, higher risk of dementia, cardiovascular disease, and cerebrovascular issues—all stemming from IPV-related brain trauma. The scientific truth is clear: these are far-reaching, lifelong scars.

  1. Biblically Called to Notice and Offer Touch

“When you see the hurt of the broken, you are called to be the hands of Jesus.”

Scripture calls the Church to lament with those who lament (Romans 12:15), to bind up the brokenhearted (Isaiah 61:1), and to act justly, love mercy, and walk humbly with God (Micah 6:8). Yet too often, domestic violence is met with silence or dismissed as a “private matter”—leaving survivors feeling unseen and unsupported.

As followers of Christ, we must resist complacency. Real care means going beyond words to tangible support and resources for safety, healing, and reclaiming dignity.

  1. Practical Compassion: Church as Sanctuary and Strength

Here’s how our faith communities can respond:

Raise awareness. Teach about IPV as a sin that corrupts God’s image in us. Use sermons, small groups, and Bible studies like “The Church’s Call to Refuge” to bring the issue into light.

Equip leaders. Train pastors, counselors, and volunteers to recognize and respond with sensitivity, not silence. Many churches still give outdated guidance asking women to “endure in submission”
—we must change that.

Create tangible support. Offer safe conversations, connections to counseling, help accessing mental health and TBI treatment, and go-to resources like the National Domestic Violence Hotline.

Partner care. Collaborate with local shelters, medical professionals, trauma-informed therapists, and legal advocates to offer holistic care.

  1. Educate Faithfully: Remembering the Lifelong Implications

The Glasgow study reminds us: abuse leaves far more than emotional traces—it leaves enduring brain injury, even into mid-life. That means healing might include neurological support, mental health care, and medical follow-up—even decades later.

As Christ‑followers, we believe healing takes place in the whole person—body, mind, and soul. We must help survivors name the full impact of their pain and access the necessary care.

Jesus calls us to more than sympathy—He calls us to solidarity. We must refuse to ignore or minimize violence in homes among our parishioners. Instead, let our churches be safe spaces where women feel heard, valued, and guided toward healing.

May we be quick to listen, eager to protect, and faithful in action. For as James 1:27 reminds us, true religion that pleases God is this: caring for orphans and widows in their distress—and keeping ourselves from being polluted by the world. Let’s let this study spark both awareness and advocacy in our churches.

The Chemistry of Kindness: What Science and Scripture Agree On

Uncategorized, , , ,

Have you ever done something kind for someone—a thoughtful text, a meal dropped off, a moment of listening—and walked away feeling unexpectedly joyful? Like something inside you softened or lit up?

That’s not just a warm fuzzy feeling. It’s biology.
And it’s biblical.

Researchers have discovered that when we perform even one act of kindness, our brains release a cocktail of feel-good chemicals—dopamine, oxytocin, serotonin—all associated with pleasure, connection, and well-being. In fact, the release of oxytocin in particular (often called the “love hormone”) is the same chemical surge we experience when we fall in love. That means holding the door for someone or offering a word of encouragement can light up your brain the same way a romantic connection does.

But we didn’t need neuroscience to tell us that kindness is powerful. Scripture has been saying it all along.

“A generous person will prosper; whoever refreshes others will be refreshed.” — Proverbs 11:25

“It is more blessed to give than to receive.” — Acts 20:35

God designed our bodies and souls to thrive when we pour love out toward others. In a world obsessed with self-promotion and self-protection, this is quietly radical. Kindness is not weakness. It’s powerful, transformative, and contagious.

When we love well—through a listening ear, a kind gesture, or an undeserved grace—we don’t just make someone else’s life better. We imprint love into our own nervous system. We feel more connected, more at peace, and more alive. That’s not by accident. That’s design.

It’s divine design.

And the beautiful part? You don’t have to wait for a special moment. A single act of kindness today—holding someone’s hand through grief, sending a kind message, letting someone go first in line—can become a vessel of holy healing. Not just for them, but for you too.

Because love, when given away, doesn’t run out.
It multiplies.

When Science Catches Up to Scripture: The Sacred Design of Our Minds and Bodies

Uncategorized, , , ,

For centuries, people of faith have held fast to the truths woven throughout Scripture—promises of peace, instruction for living, and invitations to healing. And in recent decades, as science has uncovered more about how our brains and bodies function, we find ourselves nodding with quiet awe. Again and again, research is confirming what the Bible has told us all along: we are fearfully and wonderfully made.

In many ways, modern neuroscience, psychology, and biology are simply catching up to the wisdom of God’s Word.

Take, for example, the way trauma and generational pain are passed down through families. Long before epigenetics became a field of study, the prophet Habakkuk (and others like Jeremiah and Moses) spoke of generational consequences—how patterns of suffering and struggle could ripple through lineages. Today, science shows us that trauma can leave a biological imprint, altering gene expression and nervous system sensitivity across generations. But here’s the grace: healing can also be passed down. When we pursue restoration, we’re not just changing our lives—we’re influencing the lives of those who come after us.

Or consider Jesus’ words in Matthew 6:34:
“Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.”
In a world consumed by anxiety, this wisdom speaks directly to the practice of mindfulness. Science now confirms what Jesus taught so simply: staying in the present reduces stress, improves mental health, and increases emotional regulation. The call to live one day at a time isn’t just spiritual—it’s physiological.

Then there’s Philippians 4, one of the most referenced passages in times of unrest:
“Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God… whatever is true, whatever is noble… think about such things.”
It’s a divine formula for nervous system regulation. Studies show that gratitude rewires the brain, shifting us from a threat-based survival mode to a state of peace and connection. Cognitive behavioral therapy teaches us to notice negative thought patterns and replace them with truth—something Paul wrote about long before psychology gave it a name.

And what about Sabbath? In Exodus 20, God commands rest—not as a luxury, but as a rhythm of life. Science now shows that regular rest reduces inflammation, enhances immunity, balances hormones, and prevents burnout. God wasn’t giving us a rule to restrict us; He was giving us a gift to restore us.

Even the practice of breath—the very first thing God gave Adam—is now studied as a tool for calming the vagus nerve, grounding the body, and reducing symptoms of anxiety and trauma. Psalm 150 says, “Let everything that has breath praise the Lord.” Today we know that deep, intentional breathing anchors us in safety and presence. And when paired with praise, it becomes both a physical and spiritual lifeline.

We are not bodies that sometimes have spiritual moments. We are embodied souls—crafted with care by a Creator who understands every neural pathway, every hormonal response, every cellular need. And Scripture, far from being outdated, speaks to all of it.

So when science unveils a new insight about the brain or the nervous system or the impact of community on healing, I don’t see a contradiction. I see confirmation. God, in His kindness, authored both the Scriptures and the systems within us. And slowly, beautifully, science is beginning to testify to what faith has always known:

We were made with purpose.
We heal in relationship.
We need rest, presence, gratitude, and truth.
And we are held—body, mind, and spirit—by a God who designed it all.

Take a moment today to notice the harmony between your faith and your body.
Where have you felt anxiety give way to peace through prayer or presence?
Where have you sensed your breath slow as you whispered a psalm or sat in stillness?
Where has gratitude softened the edges of fear?

Let these moments remind you:
Your body is not working against you. It’s inviting you into alignment—with God, with truth, with the way you were always meant to live.

As you move through your day, consider this sacred question:
Where is God already ministering to your nervous system—through silence, song, connection, or rest?

Let your healing be both biological and biblical.
Let your body become a sanctuary of grace.
And let your life tell the story: science may be catching up, but God has always known the way.

You Can’t Build What You Won’t Own

Uncategorized, , , ,

There’s a sobering truth that Scripture and life experience agree on: you can’t build something real with someone who refuses to take responsibility. You can extend grace, offer forgiveness, and hold space for growth—but if a person continually hides behind blame, defensiveness, or denial, intimacy will always be out of reach.

And here’s the deeper layer: the same is true within ourselves.

We often think about accountability as something that matters in relationships with others, and it does. Trust cannot thrive where ownership is absent. If someone refuses to acknowledge harm they’ve caused, refuses to say, “I was wrong,” or continually spins excuses instead of showing humility, what can you actually build with them? Not much that’s healthy. Not much that’s whole. As Proverbs 28:13 says, “Whoever conceals their sins does not prosper, but the one who confesses and renounces them finds mercy.”

But what about our own hearts? What about the ways we spin stories to protect our egos? The times we shift blame or minimize our choices because honesty feels too exposing?

The truth is—you can’t build a healthy relationship with yourself if you’re unwilling to take accountability. You can’t grow toward healing or wholeness while clinging to justifications for behavior that dishonors your values or wounds those around you. You can’t fully receive the mercy of God while refusing to face the places where you’ve missed the mark.

In Psalm 51, after the weight of his own failure caught up with him, David prayed: “You desire truth in the inward being; therefore teach me wisdom in my secret heart.” (v.6)

That’s the place where real healing begins—not in performance, not in image, not in curated explanations, but in truth. Deep, raw, humbling truth. The kind that doesn’t try to be impressive, just honest. The kind that says, I did that. I hurt someone. I crossed a line. I’ve avoided looking at this—but I’m done running.

There is so much grace available when we come clean. Not shame. Not condemnation. Grace. But that grace doesn’t bypass the process of taking ownership. Jesus said, “The truth will set you free,” (John 8:32) but He never promised that it wouldn’t hurt a little first.

If you’ve been trying to build connection with someone who won’t take responsibility, it’s okay to name that. It’s okay to stop trying to build something that keeps crumbling under the weight of their denial. You are not unloving for requiring accountability. You are not unforgiving for drawing boundaries. Accountability is not punishment—it’s the soil of restoration.

And if you feel the Spirit gently pressing on your heart today—inviting you to look at something you’ve been hiding from—don’t run. There is healing on the other side of that honesty. Not perfection, but peace. Not shame, but freedom.

Because you can’t build what you won’t own.
But the moment you do?
God meets you there—with mercy in His hands and a new foundation beneath your feet.

More Than What You Produce: Breaking Free from Hustle Culture

Uncategorized, , , ,

In the U.S., hustle is a badge of honor. We measure success in late nights, early mornings, jam-packed calendars, and multi-tasking prowess. “Busy” is worn like a trophy, and rest can feel like a guilty indulgence. Productivity isn’t just a priority—it’s become a measure of identity.

And many of us—especially those who care deeply, serve faithfully, or long to make a difference—get caught in this current without even realizing it. We answer emails at stoplights, fill our weekends with catch-up tasks, and wake up wondering if we’ve done enough.

Somewhere along the way, we started believing a dangerous lie:
That our worth is tied to our output.
That rest must be earned.
That slowing down is failure.
That being needed is the same thing as being loved.

But friend, God never designed us to live this way.

From the very beginning, we see a different rhythm. In the creation story, God speaks the world into being in six days—and on the seventh, He rests. Not because He’s tired or limited, but because He is showing us something profound:
Rest is holy.
It isn’t a reward for hard work—it’s part of the work.
It isn’t weakness—it’s wisdom.

God built Sabbath into the very fabric of time—not just for a day off, but as a spiritual practice of trust. It’s a declaration that we are not God, and we don’t have to be. That the world keeps spinning even when we pause. That we are held, even when we’re not striving.

But hustle culture tells us otherwise. It whispers:

“You’ll fall behind.”
“You’re only as good as your performance.”
“If you stop, people will forget you.”
“You have to earn your place.”

And those whispers can get tangled up with our deepest wounds—childhood experiences of conditional love, adult seasons of invisibility, fear of failure, or old church teachings that confused busyness with godliness. For many of us, it’s not just about doing more—it’s about trying to be enough.

But hear this:
Your value has never been up for negotiation.

You are not valuable because of what you produce.
You are valuable because you are created.
Because you bear the image of a God who delights in being, not just doing.

Jesus didn’t live a hustle-paced life. He moved slowly enough to notice people, to touch the sick, to bless children, to stop for the woman at the well. He rested. He withdrew. He even napped in a storm.

He knew His identity wasn’t tied to crowds, miracles, or outcomes.
It was rooted in this truth:

“This is my Son, whom I love; with Him I am well pleased.” (Matthew 3:17)

Before He had preached a single sermon, healed a single person, or completed His mission—He was already beloved.

And so are you.

What would it look like to live from that place?

To unhook your worth from your to-do list.
To stop measuring your days in output and start noticing your soul.
To say no without shame.
To rest without guilt.
To believe that being fully human is not a flaw to overcome—but a gift to embrace.

In Christ, you are already chosen, already loved, already worthy—not because you got it all done, but because He did.

So if you’re tired, friend—really tired—consider this an invitation. Not just to take a break, but to step into a deeper kind of freedom. A counter-cultural, gospel-shaped life where your value is not earned, but received.

“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.” (Matthew 11:28)

This isn’t permission to quit everything. It’s a reminder that you don’t have to prove your worth by doing everything.

You are not behind.
You are not failing.
You are not forgotten.
You are beloved.

Maybe the holiest thing you can do this week isn’t to hustle harder.
Maybe it’s to breathe.
To pause.
To delight in something unproductive.
To believe, deep down, that God delights in you.

Not for what you do—but simply for who you are.

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

Uncategorized, , , ,

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.