The to-do lists sit untouched, conversations feel too costly, and the world seems to demand more than we can give.

But still, we breathe.
Still, we are here.
Still, the sun moves across the sky—slowly, faithfully—whether we watch it or not.

Maybe the work of today isn’t accomplishing or producing.
Maybe it’s letting the soul rest, trusting that rest itself is holy.
Even the earth has its seasons of stillness before the green returns.

So if today feels like too much, remember: you are not failing for needing a pause.
You are simply honoring the truth that even the strongest hearts need quiet to keep beating.

“Come to Me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.” — Matthew 11:28
Today, let’s lay down the weight we’re carrying and lean into the arms of the One who never grows weary.

There’s been a lot of movement lately—both below our feet and all around us. The Ring of Fire has been rumbling again, the news cycle is filled with reports of quakes, eruptions, and more shootings than I can emotionally register. It’s hard not to feel the earth itself groaning.

And in times like these, people start to ask: Is this it?

Is this what the Bible warned us about? The birth pains? The unraveling?

I’ve asked it too.

But then I remember: people were asking the same question in 1942, watching the world burn in real time. They asked it during the Black Plague, during the Spanish Flu, during slavery, famine, persecution. The question isn’t new.

What’s striking is not the fear—but the human pattern of forgetting that we’ve been here before.

This doesn’t mean we ignore the warnings. But it reminds me to live alert, not alarmed.

Maybe every generation is given a window to wake up. To look at the world and reckon with what we’ve built, and who we’ve become.

And maybe “the end” isn’t always about apocalypse. Maybe it’s also about invitation.

To return to God.
To bolster our faith.
To strengthen our resolve to love, to live with truth, to walk in light.

So no, I don’t know if this is it. But I know this is real. And that’s enough to live awake—and to return.