This has been a week of significant grieving. I have felt the weight of division, the seething anger of intolerance, the separation of humanity, and the ache of bloodshed. I have felt the separation and have grieved the distance of ideologies—how beliefs and perspectives can pull people apart, even those who deeply care for one another. It is painful to watch conversations turn into chasms, and to feel the sting of disconnection where there was once closeness. It has rattled me. It has challenged me. It has led to deep reflection.

It has not been easy to carry. It has tested my faith, my resolve, and my hope. Yet in this sorrow, I find myself pausing to reflect—on what it means to hold space for both lament and love, on how brokenness cries out for healing, and on how desperately we need compassion to bridge the chasms between us.

Grief has a way of waking us up. It makes us wrestle with what really matters. It reminds us that though the world can be cruel and fractured, we are called not to mirror its anger but to live as peacemakers, healers, and truth-bearers.

In a culture brooding with intolerance, I am reminded that gentleness is a testimony. I am not powerless – I carry the Spirit of peace within me. Choosing patience and kindness when the world expects hostility is radical, Christlike resistance.

Division tempts us to retreat to our corners but Christ followers are sent out as ambassadors of reconciliation. We are called to listen deeply, to extend compassion, and to look for ways to foster understanding, even if agreement never comes.

And in the middle of my lamenting, I cling to hope. Not a shallow optimism but a rooted confidence that Christ has already overcome the darkness. In this place, I can grieve honestly and yet still lift my eyes to eternity, trusting that God will redeem even what feels most broken.