Heavy days

The headlines are heavy, and some days they seem to press the very breath out of me. Viral videos of tragedy stream past our screens, and our thumbs keep scrolling like grief is disposable, like human lives are fleeting shadows instead of sacred image-bearers. The world is broken, and we know it. Every sigh, every tear, every sharp ache in the midnight silence testifies: this is not how it was meant to be.

There are nights when it feels like the sun has forgotten its cue, when the morning delays its arrival and my prayers feel like paper boats against a rising tide. I have sat in that kind of silence, where God’s voice seems buried under the weight of shadows, and despair slithers close enough to wrap its hands around hope. But I’ve also seen what the darkness cannot cancel—the fragile flame that only grows braver in the pitch black. His light has never failed to break through, even when my eyes blur from waiting.

And oh, how we ache for all things to be made new. We ache for the mending of what sin has fractured, for tears to be caught and wiped away by nail-scarred hands. We long for wrongs to be overturned, for wounds to be bound with eternal healing. This ache is not just ours—it’s creation’s too. The oceans thrash restless, the deserts thirst unquenched, the mountains hold their breath in waiting. The cries in hospital rooms, the silent grief hidden under painted smiles, all groan beneath the weight of a fallen world. The trees lean forward as though listening. The skies hold their breath. The earth aches for unveiling.

But this story is not static. Even now, the Author holds the pen. Even now, He writes a chapter we cannot see, and His ink is never wasted. A trumpet will sound. A sky will split. And the King who makes all things new will step once again onto the stage of history. The kingdom is not a myth, nor a fragile hope. It is already on the wind, carried in whispers of revival, carried in the ache that longs for Him.

It is good—no, it is vital—to remind ourselves of this. To rehearse the promises when our hands tremble. To speak them aloud when our hearts falter. To whisper them to one another when the shadows close in. These promises steady us, plant courage in weary souls, and awaken dreams we buried in the night.

Because the story isn’t over.

The broken will be healed.

The mourning will turn to dancing.

The longest night will bow to morning.

And every shadow—every last one—will bend beneath the brilliance of His glory.