A Week That Taught Me How to Rest

The cold came first

sharp, unforgiving,

pressing the world indoors.

From my warm room,

I worried about the small lives outside:

the cats without shelter,

the birds with fragile wings,

the squirrels clinging to bare branches.

Then I remembered

there is a Provider,

a Keeper who does not sleep,

a Protector whose care

reaches farther than my worry.

And my heart learned to rest.

Grief followed quietly.

A friend taken too soon,

a life interrupted mid-sentence.

A mother gone,

leaving her child with a silence

no words could repair.

I had no comfort of my own to offer,

so I placed them gently

into God’s hands

and asked Him for grace

the kind that holds

when nothing makes sense.

The days grew still.

The doors stayed closed.

And I saw how small the world can become

when we do not step outside

how the walls draw closer,

how the mind can echo

with its own thoughts.

Yet even there, I learned:

words matter.

Soft words can heal.

True words can anchor.

Spoken faith can become living hope.

And misunderstood words

careless, untended

can wound more deeply than silence.

This week emptied me.

My pen went quiet.

My thoughts refused to line up.

I missed home.

I missed my people.

I missed the sound of belonging.

But the comfort the Lord gives

not borrowed, not fragile

the peace that surpasses understanding

came and sat beside me.

It did not explain.

It did not rush.

It simply stayed.

So I ask for prayers.

I ask for grace.

And I give thanks

for a week that broke me open

only to remind me

I am never held alone.