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.
If potholes jar you, gravel just unnerves you. Every cyclist knows the feeling. You roll onto a stretch of loose gravel and suddenly your bike has a mind of its own. The tires skitter. The handlebars wobble. You grip tighter, slow down, and pray you can keep your balance. Even the smoothest ride can turn into a nerve-wracking shuffle when the ground beneath you won’t hold. Life has those stretches too - - the seasons when nothing feels steady. When the GPS of your life suddenly says, “Recalculating…” When the bills keep coming but the paycheck doesn’t. When the path you thought was smooth suddenly shifts under your feet. Gravel moments leave you wondering if you can hold it together. When your road bike hits gravel and starts to slip, the key is to stay relaxed. Tensing up and overcorrecting almost guarantees a crash. The trick is to let the bike move slightly under you, maintain your momentum steady, and make subtle shifts in body weight until you regain your balance. Life asks for the same thing. When the ground feels unsteady - - when the diagnosis isn’t clear, when the job is shaky, when the future feels uncertain - - the temptation is to panic, to overcorrect, to grab the bars of life with a white-knuckle grip. But that only makes the wobble worse. What helps is loosening your grip just enough, trusting that balance can come back, and moving through the uncertainty one steady breath at a time. I once hit a patch of gravel on a bayou bike trail - - a trail I thought I knew well. One second, everything felt fine, the next, I was wobbling like a circus clown. My instinct was to clamp down on the bars until my knuckles hurt. Somehow, I stayed upright. Looking back, I must have looked ridiculous - - half praying, half growling, all nerves. But I made it through. Slowly. Carefully. One shaky pedal stroke at a time. And here’s the thing: gravel often shows up in the most unexpected places. A shoulder you thought was smooth, a bike lane that looked clear - - suddenly it’s loose, unstable, sketchy. One second you’re cruising, the next you’re praying you don’t slide out. Life feels the same way. The uncertainty sneaks up when you least expect it. I’ve felt that same wobble in life. When I was first diagnosed with Sjögren’s Disease, it was like the pavement turned to gravel overnight. The routines I counted on didn’t work the same way. Energy came and went unpredictably. Plans had to be adjusted or abandoned. My instinct was to muscle through. But the harder I pushed, the shakier I felt. And the truth is, it doesn’t matter which part of your life hits the gravel - - your health, your career, your relationships, or your finances. The wisdom is the same: slow down, breathe, and do whatever you can to stay upright. That’s also why I’m writing this. On group rides, gravel isn’t just your problem. If you see it up ahead, the right thing to do is point it out so the riders behind you don’t get caught off guard. A quick finger to the ground, a small gesture - - it’s a way of saying, “Heads up, this could take you down if you’re not ready.” Ride enough shoulders and bike lanes and you learn quickly: loose gravel is everywhere. Calling it out isn’t about being polite - - it’s about keeping people safe. Life works the same way. When you’ve been through uncertain seasons - - health scares, job shifts, grief, or change - - you can point them out for the people coming behind you. Not to scare them, but to say, “You’re not crazy. This road is rough. Slow down. Keep your balance. You’ll get through.” That simple act of looking out for each other? That’s its own kind of grace. Gravel also exposes our illusion of control. On solid asphalt, I can trick myself into thinking I’m in charge. On gravel, I’m reminded just how fragile balance really is. Life’s uncertainties do the same thing. They peel back the illusion and force me to admit: I never had as much control as I thought. And maybe that’s not a bad thing. Maybe that’s the place where trust grows - - not on smooth pavement, but in the loose stones where I learn to lean on something bigger than myself. The good news? Gravel doesn’t last forever . Eventually, the road smooths out. You breathe a little easier. The tires hum again. And when you get there, you don’t take it for granted. You savor it. Life’s uncertainties are like that too. They teach us to slow down, to pay attention, to trust that the uneven stretch won’t last forever. And when stability comes back, we see it as the gift it is. For me, even gravel becomes an Unlikely Altar . It’s where I learn to loosen my grip, to slow down, to breathe. It’s where my prayers sound less like sermons and more like whispers: “God, just get me through this stretch.” And often, that’s enough. The road may still feel shaky, but grace shows up in the very act of staying upright.
I magine standing in a crowd of hundreds of thousands. Ten days of fasting, soul-searching, and prayer have led to this moment. All eyes turn to one man—the High Priest—who disappears behind a curtain to stand before God on behalf of the people. It’s Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement. The holiest day of the Jewish year. A day of forgiveness, humility, and a fresh start. But here’s something easy to miss: before the High Priest can carry the sins of the people, he has to reckon with his own. He begins not with the sins of the nation, but with the sins of his own heart. He offers a bull as a sacrifice for himself. He admits his own failures. Even the holiest person in Israel isn’t holy enough to walk into the presence of God without first acknowledging his humanity. And then comes a second striking detail. On this one day, the High Priest takes off his elaborate, jewel-covered vestments—the outfit that signals his status, his sacred role, his authority—and dresses down in plain white linen. Simple clothes. Humble clothes. Human clothes. Can you imagine the scene? After days of fasting and prayer, the crowd holds its breath. The High Priest—no longer dazzling in gold or gemstones, but ordinary, like everyone else—steps into the Holy of Holies. The message is clear: before God, no one comes dressed in status. Only humility. Only honesty. Only as we really are. That moment—the stripping away of status, the exchanging of gold for linen—became its own altar. An unlikely altar. Not the stone altar in the Temple courts, but the altar of humility, honesty, and humanity. That was where the sacred met the ordinary: in the plain clothes of a man admitting he was just like everyone else. And maybe that’s the point. We spend so much of our lives dressing ourselves up—not just with clothes, but with titles, résumés, curated social media feeds, even the smiles we wear when our hearts are breaking. We signal to the world: “I’ve got it together. I’m fine. I’m in control.” But forgiveness and healing rarely come when we’re dressed up. They come when we dress down. When we admit we’ve messed up. When we show up with nothing to hide. When we strip away the roles and the armor and stand there, vulnerable, waiting for grace. I see this again and again in my work. At funerals, grief strips people bare. No one cares about résumés or bank accounts in that moment. What matters are the words left unsaid, the love given—or withheld—and the memories that linger. The sacred comes rushing in, not when we’re polished, but when we’re painfully real. I’ve seen it at weddings too. Beneath the formal clothes and pretty settings, the most powerful moments aren’t scripted. They happen when someone tears up, when a nervous laugh escapes, when the couple realizes this is bigger than their plans. It’s holy, precisely because it’s human. Yom Kippur reminds us that God doesn’t meet us in our perfection. God meets us in our honesty. In our need. In our humility. Tomorrow, Jewish communities around the world will mark the Day of Atonement by fasting, praying, and asking forgiveness—from God, from one another, and maybe even from themselves. For many, it will be a day of deep seriousness. For others, a day of relief, of release, of starting over. But even if you’re not Jewish, the pattern holds: forgiveness, humility, fresh starts. We all need those. We all need moments when we stop pretending we’re fine and admit we’re human. We all need the grace of beginning again. Maybe holiness isn’t found in dressing up, but in dressing down. Not in pretending to be more than we are, but in owning exactly who we are. Because that’s where the unlikely altar waits: not on a stage or in a temple, but in the ordinary, vulnerable moments when we finally get honest enough to let grace in.
If you ride long enough, you’ll eventually meet a pothole. Sometimes you see it too late and hit it head-on. Sometimes you try to swerve and still clip the edge. Either way, the result is the same: a jolt that rattles your teeth, jars your confidence, and makes you wonder if your wheels are still true. On a bike, potholes are a given. Roads crack. Asphalt crumbles. Weather wears things down. Even the best-maintained streets have weak spots. And the thing about potholes? You almost never hit them when you’re expecting to. They sneak up on you, hiding in the shadows, waiting just past the last curve. Life has its own potholes. The job loss you didn’t see coming. The diagnosis that drops in out of nowhere. The phone call that changes everything. Setbacks jar us the same way a pothole does. They shake our sense of control. They remind us how fragile things can be. And if we’re not careful, they can throw us completely off balance. I remember one ride in EaDo when I let my mind wander. I was in the zone, legs spinning, enjoying the day—and then wham. My front wheel found a crater I hadn’t seen. The jolt nearly knocked me over. I pulled to the side, heart pounding, and checked my bike. The wheel held, but the hit had me rattled the rest of the ride. That’s the thing about setbacks—they echo. After you’ve been jarred, even small bumps make you flinch. It takes time to trust the road again. And I’ve felt that same echo in life. I’ve been blindsided before—times when everything seemed smooth and then suddenly, the bottom dropped out. Ministry shifts I didn’t expect. Friendships that cracked. Health challenges that made me feel more fragile than I wanted to admit. Just like on the bike, those potholes left me cautious, hesitant, scanning the horizon for the next crack in the road. When I hit a pothole on the road, my first reaction is usually not very holy. I grumble about the city workers who should’ve filled it. And if the jolt is especially bad, well… let’s just say a few words come out that you won’t find in the hymnal. But the truth is, we do the same thing in life. Something knocks us off balance, and our first instinct is to point a finger. Sometimes we turn it on ourselves, replaying the “ what ifs ” and “ should haves ” until we’re dizzy. Sometimes we turn it on others, blaming people who hurt us, failed us, or just happened to be standing too close when things fell apart. And sometimes—if I’m honest—we even point it at God, wondering why the road wasn’t made smoother in the first place. Here’s the problem: blame never fills the hole. It doesn’t fix the wheel. It just keeps us stuck, staring at the crack in the road instead of finding a way forward. Blame feels satisfying for about five minutes, but it doesn’t heal anything. What actually helps is taking a deep breath, naming the hurt, learning what we can—and then pedaling on. Here’s something every cyclist figures out sooner or later: if you lock your eyes on the pothole, you’re probably gonna hit the pothole. It’s like your bike reads your mind and says, “Oh, that’s where you’re looking? Great, let’s go there.” And worse, if you stare too long at what you’re trying to avoid, you might miss the car, the curb, or the rider right in front of you. Suddenly, the pothole isn’t your biggest problem anymore. Life works the same way. If all I can see is the setback—the thing that went wrong—I’ll end up running headfirst into it again, or crashing into something else entirely. The better move is to lift my eyes, find my balance, and look for a smoother path forward. Sure, potholes sting. They can bruise your pride or even bend your rim. But they don’t have to end the ride. Looking back, I realize potholes have taught me something important: smooth pavement is nice, but it rarely makes me stronger. It’s the potholes that remind me to stay alert, to pay attention, to appreciate the stretches of road that are even and kind. In life, setbacks can do the same. They teach us resilience, humility, patience. They remind us that perfection isn’t promised, but perseverance is possible. For me, even the pothole becomes an Unlikely Altar. It’s the place where frustration turns into prayer—sometimes an angry prayer, sometimes a desperate one, sometimes a simple sigh. The jolt in the road reminds me that I am not in control, but I am not alone. And somehow, grace shows up in the shaken balance, the deep breath, the steadying of hands on the bars.