The Last Things We Say

My friend is a hero of mine. Not because he wears a cape. Not because he speaks in lofty words or quotes Scripture from memory. Not because he’s got his life together. (He’d be the first to laugh at that idea.) But because he shows up. He shows up when people are hurting. He shows up when something needs fixing or someone needs lifting. He shows up with hugs, silence, stories—whatever the moment calls for. He serves without fanfare. He listens without judgment. He gives without needing to be noticed. And lately, he’s tired. Bone-tired. Soul-weary. The kind of tired that doesn’t go away with sleep. The other day, he read something I wrote about Old Fashioneds. I wanted him to read it—because he's in recovery, and I trusted him enough to be totally honest with me. He was. And that opened a deeper conversation. He told me he’s looking for something. A rhythm. A ritual. A way to keep going when everything feels heavy. He didn’t call it a prayer. He didn’t call it church. He just said he needed something. A breath. A pause. A bit of meaning to lean on. I think a lot of us are looking for that. Some people find it in Scripture or a sanctuary. Others find it in walking their dog, or washing dishes, or sitting on the porch and watching the world not ask anything of them for a while. We don’t always need big answers. Sometimes we just need one quiet moment that doesn’t ask anything of us—except to be exactly as we are. My friend isn’t big on organized religion—too many walls, too much noise, too many people talking about God while forgetting to be kind. And yet, the way he lives—his compassion, his presence, his stubborn hope—tells me his faith is real. Maybe more real than most sermons. So, today, this post is for him. And maybe for you, too. If you're feeling tired. If your body is worn and your soul feels bruised. If your faith is hanging by a thread. If you’re not sure what you believe, but you still want to believe in something. I see this kind of weariness everywhere lately. My manager is working fifteen-hour days, pushing himself beyond what feels human, trying to keep everything from falling apart. The weight she carries isn’t just in the hours—it’s in the constant pressure, the never-ending to-do list, the silent worry no one sees. I think of a woman I met who stayed by her husband’s side in the ICU for more than two weeks. There were no visiting hour limits for her—she hardly ever left. Day after day, night after night, her presence was the only comfort he had in a place where hope felt fragile and time slowed to a crawl. Others are grieving, burned out, holding it together on the outside while falling apart on the inside. And some can’t even name what’s wrong. They just know that everything feels heavier than it used to. This isn’t just the tired that comes from a long day or a short night of sleep. It’s the exhaustion that lives in your bones, in your spirit. It’s the kind of tired that accumulates over time—from caregiving, from chronic stress, from holding in emotions, from showing up for others while neglecting yourself. It doesn’t clock out when your shift ends. It follows you home. It wakes up with you. A nap won’t fix it. A weekend off won’t touch it. Even sleep can feel like it doesn’t reach the place that hurts. Because this kind of tired isn’t just physical—it’s emotional, mental, even spiritual. It's weariness that comes from meaningful things: loving people through crisis, holding others’ pain, carrying grief, trying to be strong for too long. What helps isn’t always a fix. Sometimes what heals is simply being seen. It’s someone looking at you with quiet understanding and saying, “I know you’re carrying a lot.” It’s being allowed to stop pretending you’re okay. Sometimes the most sacred thing isn’t a solution—it’s someone who stays. Someone who doesn’t try to fix you, just chooses to sit beside you and offer grace and peace. Sometimes the holiest thing we can do is admit we’re tired. Not fix it. Not push through. Not pretend we’re fine. Just tell the truth. That’s what my friend did the night we talked. And thankfully, I didn’t rush to fill the silence. I just listened. And as I ended the call, I was reminded how much we all need room to be human. Sometimes faith doesn’t look like certainty. Sometimes it looks like showing up anyway. Sometimes it looks like a car ride for someone who needs to get to the doctor. Sometimes it looks like silence. Sometimes it looks like asking for a breath of meaning when you’re too worn out to pray. Sometimes, we’re all just tired. I know that I am. If that’s where you are, I hope these words help you breathe. I hope they remind you that even your weariness is seen. I hope you remember that your doubt is not disqualifying. And that silence and pauses are part of the prayer. May you find rest in unexpected places. And may the sacred sneak up on you— right where you are. Sometimes the altar isn’t built of stone. No candles. No hymns. Just this moment. Just this breath. Just this—your Unlikely Altar.

If you’ve ever driven a Jeep, you know about the Jeep Wave — that friendly little hand gesture between drivers that says, I see you. We’re in this together. It’s a simple, silent connection. An unspoken, open-armed welcome. But a few years ago, that wave got some company — in the form of rubber ducks. Have you ever seen a rubber duck perched on a Jeep — or a whole flock of them riding shotgun on the dashboard — and wondered what in the world they’re doing there? Whether you're a Jeep enthusiast or just duck-curious, the story behind those little plastic passengers is one worth hearing. It all started in July 2020. Allison Parliament had just moved to a new town and bought a Jeep Wrangler. After a particularly tough day, she spotted another Jeep parked outside a store and, on a whim, grabbed a rubber duck she’d just bought, wrote “Nice Jeep” on it with a marker, and left it on the windshield. Just as she was finishing, the Jeep’s owner, whom she described as a “burly, scary-looking, 6-foot-5 guy,” came out and asked what she was doing. She showed him the duck. He laughed. He loved it. He encouraged her to post it on social media. She did — and that one small act of kindness took off faster than a Wrangler on a dirt trail. Under the hashtag #duckduckjeep , Jeep owners across the country ( and then the world ) began buying rubber ducks, dressing them up in silly outfits, and leaving them on strangers’ Jeeps as surprise gifts — little tokens of joy, connection, and community. “Nice ride.” “You belong.” “Here’s something to make your day.” Jeep dashboards became “duck ponds,” and people smiled a little more. It’s quirky. It’s fun. It’s ridiculously wholesome. And it’s built entirely on kindness — no strings attached. Last Friday night, at a local Pride event, the company I work for gave out rainbow-hearted ducks. Same spirit, different crowd. It struck me that these tiny, cheerful ducks — given without condition — say something big: I see you. You matter. You belong. Wouldn’t it be something if we all lived like that? Not just Jeep people. Not just companies during Pride Month. Not just churches when it’s convenient. All of us. All the time. Because here's the truth: far too many people — especially in the LGBTQ community — have been made to feel like they don’t belong. They've been asked to tone it down, fit in, hide parts of themselves, or earn their way into acceptance. The Church has often been one of the worst offenders. We’ve wrapped exclusion in soft phrases like “love the sinner, hate the sin,” but love can’t thrive when someone feels they have to hide who they really are just to be accepted. Jesus never operated that way. He didn’t make people qualify for love. He welcomed the overlooked, the outsider, the ones pushed to the edge. He made room at the table. He waved first. He shared his ducks freely, metaphorically speaking. So what if we did the same? What if we turned our dashboards into duck ponds — reminders to choose kindness over judgment, joy over gatekeeping, welcome over fear? What if we waved more, loved louder, gave freely, and stopped acting like there’s a limited number of seats at the table? So, if you see me out on the road, feel free to wave. Come say hello. I just might have a duck or two to share. Because sometimes, grace shows up in the quirkiest of places. A gas station parking lot. A Pride festival. A church pew. Or sitting on the dash of a muddy Jeep. That’s the heart of this blog — finding the sacred in the everyday. A rubber duck as an Unlikely Altar. A silly little moment that points to something holy. Because belonging is holy. Kindness is holy. And every time we choose love — especially when it’s unexpected —we build one more altar in this world where grace can rest.