When We're Just Tired
Breathe Peace. Grace Hasn’t Let Go.
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.
Note: This post reflects on a cocktail, but really it’s about ritual and grace. If alcohol isn’t for you, the altar can be tea, coffee, water, or stillness just the same. I didn’t develop a taste for the Old Fashioned until Hurricane Harvey. I didn’t lose power, but the floodwaters rose all around me, turning streets into rivers and plans into question marks. For days, I was stuck inside — not in danger, just surrounded. Restless. Grateful. One slow afternoon, I remembered something I had read — a description of an Old Fashioned, elegant in its simplicity: bourbon, bitters, sugar, orange peel. So, I made one. Not to escape, but to pause. To breathe. To anchor myself in something steady. I didn’t know then that I was stepping into a kind of ritual — that the act of making this drink, slowly and with intention, would become a quiet practice for me. A way of creating a small altar in the middle of uncertainty. Now — before we go any further, let’s talk about the name: Old Fashioned. It sounds like something your granddad might order right after telling you how gas used to be 29 cents a gallon. Or like your aunt who still writes checks at the grocery store and thinks “LOL” means “lots of love.” But the drink itself? It’s aged beautifully. Simple, steady, and still showing up on menus everywhere. Turns out “old-fashioned” isn’t always an insult. Sometimes it just means tried-and-true. Later, I learned that the Old Fashioned is considered one of the earliest cocktails, dating back to the early 1800s. Originally called a “whiskey cocktail,” it was just spirits, sugar, water, and bitters. Over time, as drinks got fancier and more complicated, some folks asked for it to be made “the old-fashioned way.” The name stuck. Simplicity became its signature. There’s something almost liturgical about the process — not in the sense of organ music or stained glass, but in the steady rhythm of it all. The slow swirl of the spoon. The clink of ice settling into glass. The careful peel of citrus, not just for garnish, but as a kind of offering. It’s a ritual that invites you to slow down and pay attention. Like any good liturgy, it’s not meant to be rushed. You don’t chug an Old Fashioned. You honor it. You sit with it. You let it open you up — not for escape, but for reflection, maybe even reverence. It’s no surprise that so many of us reach for rituals when we’re weary. Whether it’s lighting a candle, saying a prayer, walking the same wooded trail, or crafting the perfect cocktail, there’s comfort in repetition. A sacred rhythm in doing something the old way — not because it’s trendy, but because it tethers us to something older, deeper, steadier. The Old Fashioned is often seen as a “dad drink,” a grandfather’s favorite, a retro relic. Maybe that’s part of its charm. It connects us to people we miss. To stories we’ve heard at the corner of a bar or the edge of a kitchen counter. It reminds us that presence matters. That slow is sacred. In some strange way, the Old Fashioned mirrors the gospel. Because the gospel, like the drink, is simple at its heart — just a few core ingredients: love, mercy, truth. Not flashy. Not complicated. But with power that sneaks up on you. It’s meant to be savored, not rushed. Received, not conquered. Shared, not hoarded. And like any good ritual, grace is best experienced in community. Over stories. Laughter. Honest confessions. And maybe even a few regrets. You can’t microwave an Old Fashioned. And you can’t fast-track grace. Both require a kind of patience that modern life resists. You have to show up. Measure things out. Pay attention. Trust the process. Maybe even believe that slowing down isn’t laziness, but holiness. I’ve come to believe that even small rituals — especially in the moments when no one else is around — can hold us together. So here’s to the Old-Fashioned. And to all the unlikely altars we find in things stirred slowly, tasted deeply, and shared freely. May your glass be full — not just of bourbon and bitters, but of memory, meaning, mercy, and maybe a maraschino cherry if that’s how you roll. And may you always find God — not just in stained glass or scripture, but in the hush of an evening, the rhythm of a sacred habit, and the grace that still finds us, even when the lights are on and the streets are flooded. A Note of Care: If you’re in recovery, please know this post is never meant to romanticize alcohol or overlook its very real dangers. The sacred can be found in tea, water, coffee, or stillness just as surely as in a cocktail glass. If drinking brings harm rather than healing — to you or to those you love — may you feel zero shame and full freedom to find your altar elsewhere. What matters isn’t what’s in the glass, but what opens your heart. Recipe: The Old Fashioned 1 sugar cube (or ½ tsp dark sugar) Splash of soda water 2–3 dashes Angostura bitters 2 dashes orange bitters 2 oz rye or bourbon (I like James E. Pepper 116 proof rye for backbone) Garnish: Amarena cherry (never maraschino) and/or orange peel Method : Muddle the sugar cube with bitters and a splash of soda water in a rocks glass until it dissolves. Add whiskey and ice. Stir slowly until chilled. Garnish with an orange peel twist or, if you must, an Amarena cherry. Sip. Savor. Do not rush.
Some of the best conversations I’ve ever had happened across a bar. Not the noisy kind where the music drowns you out, but the quiet corners where the ice melts slowly in the glass and people tell the truth they didn’t plan on sharing. I bartended my way through college. Back then, I thought I was just paying tuition and rent. Looking back, I realize I was also learning how to listen — how to notice the way someone holds a glass when they’re nervous, how a story can shift when you give it enough silence, how the right drink at the right time can feel less like a transaction and more like an act of caring and kindness. I still remember one of my early solo shifts behind the bar. The manager told me to focus on pouring drinks and not get caught up in customer conversations. Well, you know me — I didn’t listen. There was an older gentleman, nursing a whiskey, staring into the distance. I asked if he wanted another. He just shook his head. But he came in every week, ordered the same whiskey, and little by little began to tell me about his wife who had passed away — how he missed her laugh, how her perfume used to linger in the hallway. I didn’t have answers, but I had time. And sometimes, that’s all someone needs. I’ll admit — I didn’t learn much about the history of cocktails while bartending. I was young and only cared about talking to people, slinging their drinks, having a good time, and making enough to pay for school. The real history came later, in these last few years, as I’ve been making drinks for friends and family, listening to podcasts, and reading about the origins of the classics. Now I find myself pairing the stories behind the drinks with the stories I’ve carried from the people who’ve sat across from me — in bars, in church pews, and in living rooms. Years later, as a pastor and now as a celebrant, I’ve stood in other places where people tell the truth — at hospital bedsides, gravesides, kitchen tables. It’s not so different from a bar, really. The lighting changes. The glassware changes. But people still need a place to be heard. That’s what Unlikely Altars has always been about — those sacred, surprising places where grace shows up without warning. This new series is simply taking that same lens and setting it on a bar top. Because sometimes the altar is a bar top worn smooth by years of conversation, lit by a neon beer sign, and set with a glass instead of a chalice. This series is about those places — and the drinks that go with them. Some you’ll recognize, some you won’t. Each post will bring you a story, a bit of bar lore, and a recipe (always with a zero-proof option, because the altar isn’t in the alcohol, it’s in the ritual). There’s a sacred rhythm to making a drink well — the measured pour, the quiet stir, the citrus peel pressed just so. Not because you’re trying to impress, but because you’re paying attention. That’s all most of us want, really. For someone to pay attention. They’re not sermons. They’re not drink manuals. They’re glimpses of grace served with a story — sometimes in a rocks glass. So pull up a stool. The first altar is waiting — and it’s Old Fashioned. May you find your own unlikely altar — whether it’s at a bar, a kitchen counter, or a park bench. May the conversations be honest, the company kind, and the moments slow enough to savor. And may grace meet you there, right where you are, in whatever glass you hold. Disclaimer: Alcohol can be enjoyed responsibly, but it is not for everyone. If you are in recovery, choose not to drink, or simply prefer another way, every recipe in this series will include a non-alcoholic version. The sacred moment isn’t in the alcohol — it’s in the slowing down, the paying attention, and the company you keep. If you need support, organizations like Alcoholics Anonymous (aa.org) are there to help.
One of the things I love about baseball is that you can’t run the clock out. There’s no dribbling the ball to kill the last seconds or taking a knee until the whistle blows. Nine innings. No ties. If the score’s even after 9 innings, the game isn’t over - - it just keeps going. Nine innings can feel like a lifetime when you’re losing and like a blink when you’re ahead in the ninth and the other team is down to their last strike. But then there are those special games - - the ones that refuse to end. You know the kind: both teams have had their 27 outs, the score is still tied, and the air is thick with tension. Welcome to extra innings. Every pitch, every swing, every foul ball becomes part of a slow-burn drama. The script is gone. The game starts writing itself in real time, and you’re never sure if the next swing will be the last. Just ask Carlton Fisk. It was Game 6 of the 1975 World Series - - Boston Red Sox vs. Cincinnati Reds. The game had already gone past midnight, deep into extra innings. Fisk came up to bat in the bottom of the 12th, the crowd on edge. He swung, connected, and sent the ball soaring toward the foul pole in left field. As he ran down the first base line, Fisk famously waved his arms, willing the ball to stay fair. It did. The crowd erupted. The game was over, and that single swing became one of the most iconic moments in baseball history. Extra innings carry both the weariness of the battle and the thrill of possibility. And life is a lot like that. Grief can be an extra innings game. You think you’ve made it to the end; the funeral is over, the casseroles are eaten, the thank-you cards are mailed. And then, months later, a song plays, or an empty chair catches your eye and the ache rushes back like it’s brand new. But sometimes, even in the later innings, there’s a flicker of beauty a memory that makes you smile through tears, a reminder you’re not as alone as you feel. Relationships have extra innings too. Sometimes you’re still in it, but it feels like the bottom of the ninth with two outs. Conversations that once flowed now work against the count. Every word matters. Every silence feels louder. And yet… you’re still on the field together. Still showing up. I’ve seen it in families keeping vigil in a hospital room - - hours blurring, fluorescent lights humming, burnt coffee lingering. Then, in between the beeping of machines, someone cracks a joke. Soft laughter rises in the middle of exhaustion. It’s not denial - - it’s survival. I’ve seen it in people whose “Plan B” career became the thing they were made for all along. What started as a detour became the road they were meant to walk - - a calling they wouldn’t have found without the curveball that sent them there. Extra innings can be exhausting. They can feel like a test you never signed up for. But they can also be holy ground - - Unlikely Altars - - those sacred places where grace meets us long after we thought the story was finished. Grace doesn’t play by our timing. It stays when we’re ready to pack it in. It keeps showing up in the dugout, ready to step to the plate one more time. When we whisper, “I can’t do this anymore,” grace says, “Just one more pitch.” Sometimes the win we’ve been hoping for doesn’t look the way we pictured it. It’s not always a walk-off home run. Sometimes it’s just enough light to see through another inning. Sometimes it’s the hand on your shoulder reminding you you’re not alone. The breakthrough doesn’t always come in regulation. Sometimes you have to hang in for a few more pitches, a few more sleepless nights, a few more honest conversations. Extra innings aren’t just about winning — they’re about discovering what you’re made of. And about the grace that keeps showing up, even when you’re ready to quit. If you’re in extra innings right now - - in your health, your work, your relationships, your faith - - remember Yogi Berra’s words: “It ain’t over till it’s over.” The story’s not over. Not yet. Because sometimes, the most sacred stories are the ones that go into extra innings. And sometimes, the most Unlikely Altars are built right there - - in the long wait, in the stubborn hope, in the space where grace refuses to leave.