Tag Archives: writing

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.

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.

When the World Feels Too Big and I Feel Too Small

Uncategorized, , , ,

Some days, the world just feels like too much.
Too much war.
Too much grief.
Too much injustice.
Too many systems that harm instead of heal.
And sometimes, too much noise in my own head.

I watch the news or sit with the pain of someone I love—or maybe I just scroll a little too long—and suddenly I feel it. That ache. That helpless, sinking feeling. Like I’m standing on the edge of something vast and chaotic, and I’m just… small. Like anything I could do wouldn’t matter. Like my voice is too quiet. Like my efforts are too fragile. Like I’m just one soul trying to stay upright in a storm too big to stop.

Have you felt it too?

There’s a deep helplessness that can settle in when we face the brokenness of this world with open eyes. When we truly see how much suffering exists. When we acknowledge how little control we actually have.

And yet, somehow, this smallness isn’t the whole story.

The Scriptures are full of people who felt small and overwhelmed. People who stood trembling before giants, or walls, or sea waves, or kings. People like Moses, who told God he wasn’t enough. Like Mary, who said yes to an unthinkable calling. Like the boy with a few loaves and fish, offering what seemed so meager in the face of so much need.

But over and over again, we see something remarkable: God never mocked their smallness. He never asked them to be more than they were. He simply asked them to show up with what they had.

Because small doesn’t mean insignificant.

Jesus said the Kingdom belongs to the poor in spirit. That faith the size of a mustard seed can move mountains. That the last will be first. That the meek will inherit the earth. In God’s economy, smallness is not a problem—it’s a posture. A place where we can be honest, vulnerable, and open to grace.

When I feel helpless, I try to remember: I am not the Savior. I was never meant to carry the whole weight of the world. But I am held by the One who does. And He is not overwhelmed. Not surprised. Not out of options. He is near to the brokenhearted. He bends down to lift the weary. He sees even the sparrow.

Psalm 46 reminds us, “Be still and know that I am God.” That word still can mean “cease striving.” Let go. Unclench. Exhale. Trust.

So when I feel small, I try to do one small thing. Send one message. Offer one prayer. Make one meal. Sit with one person. That’s how love moves—small and steady, like yeast in dough or seeds in soil.

Maybe it’s okay to be small. Maybe that’s where God does His best work.

The Joy of Reading: A Love Letter to the Pages That Shape Us

Uncategorized, , , ,

Somewhere along the way—between worn-out library cards and dog-eared paperbacks—I fell in love with reading. Not just with the stories themselves, but with the quiet companionship of a book resting in my lap, the scent of paper and ink, and the way time bends when I’m lost in a good story.

Books have been my safe place, my teacher, my passport, and my mirror. They’ve held me in moments when the world felt loud and confusing, offering the calm certainty of a beginning, middle, and end. They’ve invited me to weep over things I didn’t know I needed to grieve. They’ve stretched my empathy, grown my imagination, and whispered truths I wasn’t quite ready to say aloud.

I’ve been changed by characters who became real to me—who stayed long after the last chapter closed. I’ve underlined sentences that felt like they were written just for me, and returned to paragraphs like prayers. Reading has made me braver, softer, more curious. It’s reminded me that even when I feel alone, someone, somewhere, has felt this too—and they wrote it down.

There’s something sacred about holding the voice of another person’s mind in your hands. And there’s joy—deep joy—in following a thread of story or wisdom that leads you to yourself.

So here’s to the love of reading—to the books we carry with us, the ones we recommend to friends, the ones that haunt us gently, the ones that heal. May we always find space for stories, and may they always find space in us.

Some of My Favorite Reads (for different moods):

📖 When I need to feel deeply seen:
The Choice by Dr. Edith Eger
You Learn by Living by Eleanor Roosevelt

🌿 When I need to slow down and breathe:
The Sound of a Wild Snail Eating by Elisabeth Tova Bailey
Wintering by Katherine May

💔 When I need to grieve and remember I’m not alone:
Everything Happens for a Reason (and Other Lies I’ve Loved) by Kate Bowler
A Grief Observed by C.S. Lewis

🌞 When I want to feel inspired or uplifted:
Atomic Habits by James Clear
Daring Greatly by Brene Brown

🕊️ When I want to reflect on faith and mystery:
The Pursuit of God by AW Tozer
Mere Christianity by CS Lewis

A Few of My Reading Rituals:

• I keep a book in my bag, always. You never know when a few quiet moments will appear.
• I write in my books—questions, prayers, “yes!” in the margins. I want to be in conversation with what I read.
• I reread favorites, especially when life feels fragile. Old words can feel new when you need them most.

Reading isn’t just a hobby. For me, it’s a form of connection—soul to soul, page to heart. If you have a favorite book that’s changed you, I’d love to hear about it. Let’s keep the love of reading alive, together.

When the Air Still Bites: Holding Steady in the In-Between

Uncategorized, , ,

A reflection on presence, patience, and the quiet work of staying grounded

The day began with sunlight—bright and clean—the kind of clear sky that stretches wide over Middle Tennessee and makes the world feel a little more alive. But the air? The air still held a bite. A firm reminder that winter isn’t quite done, no matter how much I want it to be.

I stepped outside with a jacket pulled tight, bracing for the contrast between the sun’s golden light and the chill that clung to everything. The trees, still mostly bare, looked like ink sketches drawn across the sky. The red maples that had bloomed so bravely last week seemed stunned by the sudden cold, their tiny buds curling inward, hesitant.

I get it.
Sometimes, I’m hesitant too.

The work of the day was full.
Nine clients.
Nine stories.
Nine distinct ways trauma shows up and shapes a life.

It’s sacred work—and some days, it feels like standing on the edge of a vast ocean, watching wave after wave of sorrow roll toward me. The temptation is always to brace or retreat, but I’ve learned something better: to stay anchored.

Today, my anchor was simple.
Crocheting.

The quiet loop of yarn in my hands during sessions, the feel of soft fiber slipping over my fingers—it’s more than a habit. It’s a tether. A rhythm that holds me steady so I can keep holding space for others.

By afternoon, I knew I needed a shift.
So I took two sessions outside, wrapped in an afghan, settled on the porch.

Maci curled beside me, her small, warm presence grounding me in the moment. The air was brisk, but the sunlight on my face was soothing. I listened to the wind rustling through the trees and the faint sound of squirrels rustling through the leaves—remnants of autumn still clinging to oak branches, stubborn in their own way.

And in that stillness, I noticed something: the conversations outside felt different.
Softer.
Less heavy.
Maybe because the sky was above us.
Maybe because the earth was holding us too.

Late in the day, a shift in my timeline threw everything off.

The kind of unexpected change that doesn’t quite feel like a crisis, but still leaves you a little unsteady. A plan I had been preparing for—mentally, emotionally—suddenly delayed. The uncertainty wrapped itself around my chest, tight and unwelcome.

Was I relieved? Frustrated? Tired?
Yes.
All of it.

Macon and I went out for dinner to our usual spot. The sun had dipped, and the air had turned sharper again. Still, it was good to be out. To eat something warm. To let the day settle.

As I sat there, I reminded myself:
This is just another wave. It will come, and it will pass.

Tonight, I feel… not resolved exactly, but steady.

I’m learning that contentment doesn’t always arrive with clarity.
Sometimes it comes in small reassurances:
The warmth of the sun on your face.
The weight of your dog resting beside you.
The simple comfort of doing meaningful work, even when the outcome is uncertain.

Spring is still coming—
Hesitant. Slow.
But coming.

And for tonight, that’s enough

If you’re in a season of waiting…
If you’re walking through cold days while hoping for warmth…
If the work is heavy and the way is uncertain…

Let the small things steady you.

The sun still rises.
The trees still bud.
The next season is making its way toward you, even if it hasn’t quite arrived.

Hold fast.
Breathe deep.
And remember: this wave, too, will pass.

Sunshine, Stillness, and the Subtle Work of Healing

Uncategorized, ,

A reflection on balance, beauty, and the soft approach of spring

This morning began with golden light and an unseasonably warm breeze. By late morning, the thermometer had already climbed to 75°F, and I threw open the windows to welcome in the fresh air. The scent of warming earth drifted through the house—sweet and familiar. Outside, the Middle Tennessee hills gleamed under the sun, and though the trees still stood mostly bare, there were signs of stirring life.

The red maples in my yard—always the eager ones—had burst forth with tiny scarlet blossoms. Those early blooms felt like whispered promises: Spring is coming. Life is returning. A lone honeybee floated past the window, and two lazy flies buzzed on the sill—small scouts of the changing season. Even those tiny moments made me pause. There’s something so sacred about noticing when the earth begins to shift again.

The workday that followed was full.

I sat with client after client, holding stories that carry deep pain and long histories of trauma. As a counselor, it is both an honor and a weight. To hold space for someone’s healing is sacred work—but it is not without cost. By the end of each session, I could feel the emotional heaviness settling into my shoulders.

To stay grounded, I turned to something simple: crochet.

It may sound small, but the rhythm of looping yarn between my fingers, even for a few minutes between sessions, has become a kind of embodied prayer. A steadying practice. Each soft stitch offers a quiet reset, helping me regulate my own nervous system so I can remain fully present for the next person who walks through the door. In a world full of noise and need, this small ritual brings me back to myself.

By early afternoon, both my senior pup Maci and I needed a break.

We took lunch out onto the patio. The sun was gentle and kind, warm on our backs. I sat on the steps with a sandwich and watched Maci trot into the yard, her white-tipped tail wagging softly. She found a patch of sunlight, turned her sweet face toward the breeze, and gave one of those long, contented dog sighs that sounds like home.

That moment—quiet, ordinary, sunlit—anchored me.

There was nothing to fix. Nothing to process. Just sunshine, and the joy of a beloved dog resting in it. It reminded me that wholeness doesn’t always come in grand revelations. Sometimes it comes in sandwiches on the porch and shared silence with someone you love.

As evening falls, I find myself reflecting on the fullness of the day—and the quiet balance that held it all together.

There was emotional labor.
There was care.
There was presence.
And woven throughout… there was beauty.

I am grateful tonight.

For the warm wind that carried spring’s early song.
For the work of healing, even when it’s heavy.
For the rhythm of the hook and yarn that reminded me to breathe.
For Maci’s soft joy and the reminder to savor, not rush.
For the way it all held together.

Today was not perfect. But it was meaningful.
And that’s enough.

As I step into tomorrow, I want to carry this rhythm with me—
Gratitude.
Balance.
And hope for what’s still blooming.