Monday, January 19, 2026

Growing old isn't easy

Growing old isn’t easy.
We lose strength.
We forget things.

And with each passing day, we step a little closer to the end of this life.
But I am not afraid.
Because when this life ends, another begins.

A life where my body is restored.
Where my mind is clear.
Where every ache, every loss, every limitation is gone.

And most of all,
I will meet Jesus face to face.
That is my hope.
That is my peace.

Jesus, it's just me tonight

Jesus, it’s just me tonight.♥♥🕯

No carefully chosen words,
no strong-sounding faith,
only a heart that knows
You already understand.

I’m tired in ways sleep doesn’t fix.
Carrying things I thought I’d outgrow.
Learning that some worries linger
longer than expected.

There are days I feel steady,
and days I feel easily shaken.
But I’m discovering that faith
isn’t about feeling brave,
it’s about turning toward You
even when my hands tremble.

I’ve asked You for direction
and felt You give peace instead.
I’ve prayed for answers
and found You staying near
while questions remained.

I don’t always understand the timing,
the slow healing,
the prayers that seem unfinished.

But I’m still here.
Still choosing trust.
Still believing You are closer
than my doubts allow me to feel.

Thank You for not pulling away
when I struggled.
For holding me steady
when I appeared strong but wasn’t.

For hearing the prayers
I couldn’t put into words.
I’m learning that trusting You
doesn’t mean fear disappears,
it means I don’t carry it alone.

So here I am again.
Open hands.
A willing heart.
Asking You to guide me,
even when the path is quiet.

I don’t know everything.
But I know You do.
And for now,
that’s enough
to let my soul breathe.

Saturday, January 17, 2026

Waiting with hope



Tonight, we do not rush.
We sit in the hush between what has been promised and what is about to be revealed.
The lights are low. The noise has faded. T
he world feels like it’s holding its breath.
This waiting is not empty.
It is full of hope.
Long before us, others waited too,
with tired feet, with watchful eyes, with faith that God would keep His word.
They didn’t know the hour, only the promise.
So tonight, we rest in that same trust.
We let our hearts slow down.
We release the need to hurry tomorrow.
Because God works just as powerfully in the waiting
as He does in the miracle itself.
And when morning comes,
it will find us ready,
not because we rushed,
but because we waited with hope.
Amen.

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I want to be the hero of my own story



Sometimes, Lord, I admit: my heart gets heavy with what’s right in front of me. I want strength for the next ten steps, not just today. But You remind me: my portion for today is enough. If I bring You all my impatience, my doubts, my insufficient faith, will You meet me here? Let tomorrow be Yours. Today, just give me enough hope to keep my heart steady and enough strength to trust You in what I can’t see.
I confess, I often want to be the hero in my own story. But You’re the Author: you write hope into my unknown chapters. Breathe peace when anxiety tries to take over. Thank You for walking beside me in the mess and the miracle, in my questions and my quiet trust. I may not see what’s ahead, but I know Who holds it.
"Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own." (Matthew 6:34)

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That's what moms do

Have you ever stopped to think about how your mom feels?

It’s hard to picture it, but moms carry the biggest share of the weight at home — the worries, the planning, the mental load — and somehow still find the strength to keep going every single day.

So when a mom says, “I can’t do this anymore,” don’t judge her and don’t assume she’s just complaining.
There’s a kind of pain she holds inside, because she doesn’t have the luxury of falling apart.
She has to solve problems, smooth things over, and stay steady for everyone else… while everyone forgets she also needs someone to lean on.

Moms get tired too.
They cry at night when the house is quiet.
They have days when they feel drained and overwhelmed — yet nobody asks:

“Mom, how are you today?”

She’s the mom, the therapist, the nurse, the cook, the house manager, the driver, the babysitter, the scheduler, and a thousand other roles wrapped into one person.
But the most important one?
She is — and always has been — your safe place.

When life gets heavy, she’s the one who says, “It’s going to be okay.”
When money is tight, she finds a way even if it means cutting back on herself.
When your world feels like it’s falling apart, she holds it together until you can stand again.

And even when she looks distant, quiet, or worn out — don’t believe the surface.
She’s just carrying more than she can say out loud, and she’ll still tell you:

“Don’t worry, I’m fine.”

Even when she’s hurting for everyone at once.

Thursday, January 15, 2026

submitting my thoughts to God




Some days I realize how easily my heart drifts toward worry, trying to figure out what’s next, what could go wrong, or how I’m going to handle it all.
But God keeps reminding me that peace was never meant to come from understanding everything. Peace comes from trusting Him, even when the path ahead feels unclear.
Jesus meets me right in the middle of my concerns, gently inviting me to lay them down. Not because they don’t matter, but because He cares more deeply than I ever could. When my thoughts feel heavy and my heart feels restless, His presence steadies me in ways nothing else can.
So today, Lord, I bring You the weight I’ve been carrying. I choose to trust You with what I cannot control and rest in Your care instead of my fear. Help me remember that I don’t have to hold everything together, because You are already holding me.
“Cast all your care upon Him; for He careth for you.” 1 Peter 5:7 ✞

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Sunday, January 11, 2026

Charles Wysocki

Love improves with age

Not long ago I asked my mom if, after almost fifty years of marriage, she still loved my dad.

She looked at me in that way parents do — as if wondering how to explain something you can only learn by living it.
She didn’t answer. She just smiled.

Later that evening, after I got home, she texted me. This is what she wrote:

“You ask me sometimes if I still love him. And I smile — not because it’s a strange question, but because it’s hard to explain.

Yes. I do love him. But not at all the way I did in the beginning. It’s no longer butterflies and fireworks and dizzy feelings. It’s a love that puts down roots.

Love after this many years isn’t the kind that sweeps you off your feet — it’s the kind that holds you up. It doesn’t make your heart race — it steadies it. It doesn’t make your hands shake — it gives you strength to get up every morning.

We don’t do grand surprises anymore. What we have now are small rituals: morning coffee, silly arguments about towels, the way we cover each other with a blanket when one of us gets cold. They seem like small things… but that’s what life is made of.

At my age I don’t wait for romantic gestures.
I wait to be listened to.
To be hugged when I’m hurting.
To not be left alone, even on days when I don’t like myself very much.

And he does that — quietly, calmly, without any fuss.

Love after all these years isn’t like in the movies.
It’s a language only we speak.
A look that makes sense only when you’ve lived through the hard days, the tired days, and the ‘let’s keep going anyway’ days.

So yes — I love him.
Just not the way I used to.

I love what we’ve built together.
I love the peace of it.
The certainty that even in the worst storm, he will still be my safe place.”

 
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