I Close My Door, But Not My Eyes

I’m angry and sad and hopeful all at once—
and none of those cancel the others out.
They stack. They grind. They pray in my throat.

People are dying.
Children are sobbing.
Hate is thriving like it’s fertilizer
And the ice is cold and slippery—taking my balance and so much more
and we keep saying we love, we honor, we care…

…and then we say we can’t change it.
Or we say we will.
Or we say we want to.
Or we admit we don’t know how.
Or where to start.

We say it matters.

And it does.

But there’s a specific kind of sickness in how we talk about what matters while the world keeps icing over
like the words are warm enough to count as action.

I do homework to earn a degree while it’s ice cold out there.
I work for a title while someone works for shelter.
I study calling while someone is just trying to survive the night.

And I know—
I know the degree isn’t nothing.
I know formation matters.
I know learning has purpose.

But I also know the timing feels brutal.

Like practicing hymns while the street is screaming.
Like writing papers while people are being unmade.

So I live in the tension I didn’t ask for:

I close my door, but I try not to close my eyes.

Because I could.
I could go numb on purpose.
I could shrink my world down to what doesn’t hurt.
I could call it “boundaries” when it’s actually surrender.

But I won’t.

Not because I’m brave.
Because I know what happens to a soul that learns to look away and calls it peace.

So here’s what I’m choosing—intentionally, imperfectly, on purpose:

I’m letting it matter without letting it make me cruel.
I’m letting it hurt without letting it hollow me out.
I’m letting grief speak—
but I’m not letting it run the whole house.

Because if I drown, I can’t love well.
And if I look away, I won’t love truthfully.

Truth right now feels like ice under my feet:
one wrong step and you’re down,
one wrong silence and you’ve helped the cold win.

And I’m done treating “I don’t know what to do” like an excuse to do nothing.

I don’t have the power to fix the whole world.
But I do have the power to refuse the lie that I’m powerless.

I can stop performing concern and start practicing responsibility.
I can stop waiting for the perfect plan and start with the next faithful act.
I can tell the truth out loud.
I can give. I can show up. I can share resources. I can make space.
I can speak like people’s lives actually matter
I can learn without making education my hiding place.
I can stay tender without being naive.
I can stay angry without becoming a weapon.

This is not soft.

This is survival with integrity.

This is my nervous system bracing while my spirit keeps reaching anyway.

And yeah—some days I want to walk away.
Some days I want to throw up my hands and hand out my soul like, Here. Take it. I’m done.
But I don’t get to disappear just because the ice steals my steady

Not if I’m going to keep calling myself faithful.

So if you’re here too—
mad, wrecked, grateful, sick of it, still trying—
don’t vanish.

Don’t let numbness turn into neglect.
Don’t let overwhelm turn into apathy.
Don’t let despair dress itself up as “being realistic.”

Start where your hands already are.
Start with who is already in front of you.
Start with what you can actually hold today.

Because maybe the point isn’t to carry everything.

Maybe the point is to stay awake without becoming a corpse.

I close my door but I try not to close my eyes.

I will not be saved by comfort.
I will be saved by courage, by community, and by the Spirit that keeps dragging me back toward love—
even when love feels like stepping onto ice with shaking knees.

And I’m not doing this alone.
Not anymore.