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

Thanks, I haven't heard of that book, though I just downloaded it. Thanks for the suggestion.

This was a really good thing for me to read, as I'm finally winding down a day that I thought would never go away and leave me alone.  I love the book of Hosea. 

(Have you ever read G. Campbell Morgan's very old, out of print book "Hosea: the Heart and Holiness of God"?) 

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

---

Coming Home: A Christian Reflection on Returning to Where You Belong
There's something powerful about the idea of coming home. Whether it's walking through the door after a long trip or reconnecting with people you've been away from for too long, coming home stirs something deep within the soul. But beyond the physical return lies a spiritual truth that resonates with every believer: we were made to come home—not just to a place, but to a Person.
The Longing for Home
Every human heart carries a quiet ache, a deep sense that we are not quite where we're supposed to be. C.S. Lewis called it "a desire for our own far-off country." It's that restless feeling that something's missing, even when life seems good on the surface. In the Christian life, this longing is the call of God drawing us back to Himself.
We see this in Jesus' parable of the Prodigal Son (Luke 15:11–32). The son demanded his inheritance, ran away, and wasted everything. But when the emptiness caught up with him, he remembered the home he had left behind. The beauty of the story isn't just in the son's return, but in the Father's response—running toward him, arms open wide, heart bursting with love.
Home Is Where the Father Is
Coming home, in the truest sense, is returning to the Father. It's laying down the burdens, the guilt, the shame, and the striving. It's realizing that God doesn't wait at a distance, tapping His foot in disappointment, but rushes toward us the moment we turn around.
Many of us try to make our home in things that don't last—success, relationships, comfort. But these things, while sometimes good, can never satisfy that homesick part of our hearts. Only the presence of God can truly feel like home.
Grace at the Doorstep
What's most incredible is that coming home doesn't require perfection. It only requires surrender. The son didn't come back with everything fixed—he came back broken and repentant. And he was met not with punishment, but with a robe, a ring, and a feast.
This is the scandal of grace: that no matter how far you've wandered, the Father is always ready to welcome you back.
The Ongoing Journey
Even after we've given our lives to Christ, there are moments when we drift—our hearts get distracted, our devotion grows cold, or we simply feel disconnected. But God never changes His address. His invitation to come home remains open every single day.
Coming home isn't always a one-time event—it's a rhythm. A daily turning back. A quiet prayer whispered through tears. A gentle return to the arms of grace.

---

So maybe today, you're feeling distant. Maybe life has taken you far from where you once were with God. The good news is: the way home is still open. And the Father is waiting—not with judgment, but with joy.
Come home. You're always welcome here.

That was amazing.

Thank you George, whole heartly agree.

This is a timely word for me to find.