There are seasons when the headlines don’t merely inform you—they press on your chest. A new documentary. A high-profile case. Fresh details and reactions and “updates,” arriving faster than any human heart can faithfully carry. You feel what you should feel: grief, anger, a longing for justice, and a protective instinct for the vulnerable. And

When we’re depleted, we can start spiritualizing what is actually strain. We interpret anxiety as discernment. We mistake agitation for prophetic urgency. And unmet needs do not disappear—they find a way to speak.

Most pastors enter ministry knowing it will cost them something. They sign up willingly to hold grief at hospital bedsides, to absorb anxiety during seasons of uncertainty, to carry conflict when values collide, and to remain present when a congregation is frightened, divided, or exhausted. Ministry is not a job so much as a vocation—one

There is a particular kind of weight that gathers in late December. It isn’t always dramatic. Sometimes it arrives as a polite question—So what are your goals for next year?—and suddenly the machinery of self-improvement begins to hum. Lists form. Outcomes glitter. The imagination starts building a safer future where everything stays manageable because we

“Did you get what you wanted for Christmas?” sounds like a simple question—until you realize how often it isn’t about presents at all. It’s about the day we wanted. The family we wanted. The feeling we wanted. And sometimes, if we’re honest, the version of ourselves we wanted to be.

I entered the holiday with “no expectations”—or at least that was the plan. Then plans collapsed, people grieved, and sadness took up space. That’s when my Shifu’s wisdom (my Daoist teacher) walked straight into my living room: Expectations are premeditated disappointments. Because when I premeditate how the day should feel, I’m not meeting what’s real—I’m meeting my private comparison between reality and the script in my head.