I am tired today.
Tired of the no's.
Tired of the wrong turns.
Just... tired.

Tired of the comparisons that echo in my mind.
Tired of the failures that feel like stains I can't wash off.
Just tired.

Tired of trying—
of pushing, pulling, pretending I'm okay.
Tired of giving effort that never seems enough.
Just tired.

Tired of the noise—outside, inside, everywhere.
Tired of the struggle—that silent war beneath the smile.
Just... tired.

But—
I keep going.

Because somewhere in this heaviness,
there's a whisper that says:
"Get up."
So I do.

Tomorrow, I will rise.
Not because I'm rested,
not because it's easy—
but because something calls me not to quit, refuses to let me quit.

Even though I'm tired...
I will do it again.

Even though I fail,
and fall,
and falter—
I will do it again.

Even though I am measured and found wanting,
compared and dismissed—
I will do it again.

Even when the effort feels wasted,
when the room is loud,
when the silence is louder—
I will do it again.

Even though the struggle breaks me in places no one sees...
I will.
I will.
I will do it again.

Because strength isn't always loud.
Sometimes it whispers through tears:
"Just one more try."

And that's enough.
So again...
And again...
And again—
Even though I'm tired,
I will do it again.

There is a yearning inside —
A yearning for righteousness in your marriage.
A yearning for righteousness in your kids.
A yearning for righteousness in your life.

You feel that deep and wide chasm between you and Him —
A violent scream inside, because the gap feels uncrossable.
God is on the other side. Unreachable.

"If we could just get to Him," we think.
Then it would be alright.
Then it would be right.
Marriage would be holy before Him.
Kids would pursue Him.
Life would align with Him.

But this chasm—
This space between our desperate yearning for righteousness and God Himself—
It is felt.

That separation is deeply felt.
But maybe...
Maybe the chasm is not separation after all.

Maybe it's a place of humility.
A place where we must let go of ourselves.
A place where expectations die.
A place where we must trust Him with the chasm itself.
Trust Him with how we'll cross.
Trust Him with whether we'll cross.
Trust Him with the outcome.

And then, in that surrender, we find the truth:
The yearning, the separation....
Never about marriage.
Never about the kids.
Not even about life.

 

It was about us.
Our surrender to HIM

God leads us into the wilderness.

It is often severe, savage, and scary.

It is a place of solitude — where everything familiar is stripped away, where there is nothing left to cling to.

It is a painful place.

A place of betrayal, loneliness, and heartbreak.

A place of dust and silence.

A place where the things we once trusted — the false foundations we built our lives on — begin to crumble.

 

And yet...

It is in the wilderness that we come face to face with Him.

No accolades to carry. No distractions to hide behind. Just us — exposed and searching.

 

The wilderness is not abandonment.

It is a place of love.

A place of divine courtship.

Where God separates us for Himself — to get our full attention.

To whisper to us in the silence.

To remind us that even in the desolate places, He is enough.

  Hosea 2:14:

"Therefore I am now going to allure her; I will lead her into the wilderness and speak tenderly to her."

One day we'll stand where time dissolves,
Beyond the veil, where mystery solves,
Where light outshines the stars above,
And every breath is filled with love.

One day, with voices raised as one,
We'll sing beneath no setting sun.
No more goodbyes, no more delay—
We'll worship God in endless day.

We'll join the saints who've gone ahead,
No longer mourn the silent dead,
For death itself will bow and flee,
Before the throne of Majesty.

Beside the ones we've loved and lost,
Who bore their faith through storm and frost,
We'll lift our hearts, now fully free,
In perfect, shared eternity.

No age, no pain, no parting years,
No sorrow left, no lingering tears.
Together we'll proclaim His name,
Forever whole, forever flame.

So let our hearts with hope be stirred,
By every promise, every word—
That one day soon, we'll rise above,
To worship Him in boundless love.

Author-Unknown

Anxiety, especially when it becomes controlling anxiety, often comes from a spot that we must control outcomes, fix problems ourselves, or constantly prepare for every situation. From a biblical perspective, this mindset is in deep contrasts with the call to trust in God's forgiveness , goodness, and care.

Scripture: "Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God." — Philippians 4:6
Jesus in Matthew 6:25–34 repeatedly says "Do not worry," because "your heavenly Father knows what you need."

When we're anxious, it often means we're believing—even if subconsciously—that God won't be present , He's not enough, or we are on our own. It's not always open distrust but an underlying issue that reflects a heart not resting in His promises.

Trust (Perfect Love) requires surrender or giveing it to God, and anxiety tends to cling tightly instead.