Some mornings, I start with the news
and by the third headline,
I want to crawl back into bed until Jesus returns.

It seems everywhere we turn,
falsehoods are painted as “truth,”
rules shift to shield the chosen,
unkindness drifts like milkweed on the wind.

Scrolling again, each swipe
wears down my hope’s edge.
No tariff on hatred, greed, hypocrisy,
and apathy is traded freely in the marketplace.

Children get caught in the crosshairs,
whole forests can’t breathe,
people chant slogans,
their souls misplaced.

It’s heavy.
It’s stones-in-the-pockets heavy.

And just when I imagine despair has won,
I remember those quiet voices —
Rosa, who simply refused to move,
Mr. Rogers, who spoke
as if we’d waited forever for kindness,
C.S. Lewis, who could spot heaven
hiding in the steam off a teacup.
I think of them,
and something inside shifts,
like an old, stubborn door finally opening.

The reminder whispers,
Hey, your actual life,
your actual concern is right here —
this beat-up, distracted heart
you drag around.
So, I take the only candle I can find,
and I place it on the wobbly altar of my day,
remembering it’s Your love —
not stamina — not headlines —
that holds the flame.