When All You Can Do Is Pray

If you’ve been following along here for a while, you may have noticed something unusual:

It’s been quiet.

Normally, I publish something every few days. Sometimes thoughtful, sometimes reflective, sometimes a little ridiculous — but rarely silent. Writing has become one of the ways I process life in real time, and this little corner of the internet has slowly turned into a place where those reflections live.

But the last week has been different.

For the first time since starting this blog, I’ve found myself sitting down to write and realizing that the story I’m living through right now isn’t mine to tell.

And that creates a strange tension for someone who processes life through words.

Because when something heavy happens, my instinct is to write. Not to perform it or package it neatly, but to make sense of it. Writing slows my thoughts down long enough for me to understand what’s actually happening beneath the surface.

This past week, though, I’ve been walking through one of the hardest situations I’ve ever experienced in my life. Out of respect for the other person involved, I can’t share the details. Some stories simply aren’t ours to explain publicly, even when they’re affecting us deeply.

So instead, I’ve been sitting in the quiet.

And the quiet has been teaching me things I probably wouldn’t have learned otherwise.

One of the strange things about crisis is how quickly it rearranges your perspective. Things that felt urgent a week ago suddenly feel much smaller. Emails, schedules, to-do lists — even the everyday frustrations of life — lose some of their weight when something truly serious enters the room and you very suddenly and unexpectedly find yourself in a hotel room 1200 miles away from home, because nothing in the world mattered more than being here — even if being here forces you to sit with the parts of life you would give anything to fix, but simply can’t.

You start to realize how much of life we spend assuming tomorrow will look mostly like today — until something happens that reminds you none of us are actually promised that kind of stability.

The last several days have been a strange mix of emotions.

Fear.
Helplessness.
Anger.
Love.
Gratitude.

A lot of praying.

And a lot of sitting with the uncomfortable reality that sometimes the people we care about most are walking through something we cannot fix, solve, or even fully understand.

For someone like me — who tends to believe most problems can be worked through with enough thought, effort, and persistence — that kind of powerlessness is a difficult place to sit.

Sometimes it feels like it could eat you alive.

But it’s also clarifying.

Moments like this have a way of reminding you what actually matters.

Who matters.

The relationships that shape your life in ways you don’t always notice until something threatens to shake them.

It has reminded me of something else too.

Sometimes the most loving thing you can do is protect someone else’s story, even when it means leaving parts of your own untold.

So for now, that’s what I’m doing.

Holding space for someone I care deeply about.

Someone who shaped me into the person I am today.

Someone I can’t — and don’t want — to imagine living without.

Praying.
Learning patience.

And trusting that some chapters of life need to unfold quietly before they can be understood clearly — and, most importantly, putting my faith in God’s plan.

Meanwhile…

If you’re someone who talks to Jesus from time to time, I’m going to ask a small favor:

Would you say a prayer for us tonight?