I’ve been in a bit of a funk lately. Sad, tired, short temper, and a restless spirit that doesn’t seem to settle. Part of it, I know, is just the letdown after big things, returning from Guatemala, walking through sadness of the Ukrainians leaving, and adjusting back to “regular life.” These things take time, and I need to be patient with myself.
But here’s what I’ve noticed: when life feels heavy, it’s far too easy to drift from the very practices that anchor me. The journaling. The Scripture. The quiet time in prayer. The walks that clear my head. The simple habits that grow my faith. Instead of leaning into them, I let them slide. And then I wonder why the heaviness feels even heavier.
The irony isn’t lost on me, God gave me such beautiful blessings: the trip to Guatemala, and the privilege of walking alongside the Ukrainian family. Yet if I’m not careful, the very weight of those experiences, the responsibility, the emotion, the processing, can pull me off track instead of closer to Him.
My way back always involves creativity. Almost always, it involves writing. I honestly don’t know how not to write. A while back, I came across a journal from when I was ten years old. I’ve been filling pages as long as I can remember. And I’ve learned that whenever I drift too far from writing, when I stop processing with words, stop creating, I grow miserable. It’s one of the clearest signs I’m off track.
Even grief can be expressed through creativity. In fact, sometimes that’s when creativity feels most essential. Pouring sorrow, questions, or longing onto a page doesn’t erase the pain, but it gives it shape. It keeps it from sitting unspoken and heavy on my shoulders.
So here I am, finding my way back again. Not by trying to fix everything at once, but by opening the journal, writing a prayer, taking a step toward the practices that steady me. Because at the end of the day, my hope isn’t in having perfect routines. My hope is in God, the One who brought me through Guatemala, who placed the Ukrainians in my life, and who welcomes me back every single time I lose my footing.
His mercies are new every morning. And that reminder alone is enough to help me take the next step forward.
Jeremiah in the Ashes
Imagine Jeremiah, the weeping prophet, sitting alone among the ruins of Jerusalem. The air is still thick with smoke, the sharp scent of ash clinging to his clothes. Stones lie scattered like broken teeth, blackened from fire. The wind carries the faint sound of mourning, mothers crying for their children, old men whispering prayers into the dust.
This is not the city Jeremiah once knew. Once vibrant and bustling with trade, laughter, and temple songs, Jerusalem now lies in silence. The holy temple, the dwelling place of God’s presence, stands desecrated, its gold stripped, its walls charred. The gates are torn from their hinges, the streets littered with remnants of lives interrupted.
And Jeremiah, well, he has seen it all.
He was no stranger to sorrow. For decades he had been God’s messenger, warning the people that judgment was coming if they refused to turn from their ways. He had cried out in the marketplaces, at the city gates, even in the temple courts. His words weren’t polished speeches, they were desperate pleas from a man who loved his people and didn’t want to see them destroyed.
But the people didn’t want to listen. They mocked him. They called him a traitor. Kings silenced him, priests dismissed him, and prophets accused him of blasphemy. At one point, they threw him into a pit, deep, dark, and slick with mud. He sank until the filth came up to his waist, left there to die until a foreigner, an Ethiopian eunuch named Ebed-Melek, pulled him out with ropes.
Still, Jeremiah kept speaking. He couldn’t stop. God’s words burned in his bones like fire, and no matter how much he wanted to give up, he couldn’t.
Then came the moment he’d dreaded, the Babylonian army surrounding Jerusalem. For two and a half long years, the siege strangled the city. Food ran out. People grew thin and desperate. Disease spread. Parents wept as their children starved. And Jeremiah, who had warned of this very day, watched helplessly as the city he loved began to collapse.
Finally, the walls broke. King Zedekiah tried to flee by night, but he was captured near Jericho. The Babylonians killed his sons before his eyes, then blinded him and carried him off in chains. The temple was looted and burned. The houses of the nobles reduced to rubble. Those who survived were led away as captives to Babylon.
And Jeremiah, well, he stayed.
He chose to remain in the wreckage, among the poor who were left behind. He walked through the ashes, past the shattered stones of the temple, past the empty marketplaces where once there had been laughter. He sat down, trembling, and began to write.
His words in Lamentations are soaked in sorrow. They rise and fall like the wails echoing across the ruined city. He writes of loss, guilt, loneliness, and confusion. He writes what most would never dare to admit to God.
And yet, right there, in the heart of his lament, something extraordinary happens. Amid the wreckage, hope appears. His voice softens, and his pen records the words that will outlive the ruins:
“Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed,
for His compassions never fail.
They are new every morning;
great is Your faithfulness.”
— Lamentations 3:22–23
It’s one of the most astonishing declarations in all of Scripture, spoken not from comfort, but from catastrophe.
Because even though the Babylonians had conquered the land, they had not conquered God. His covenant still stood. His love had not burned away with the temple. Even in exile, His mercy remained. Jeremiah knew that, somehow, the story was not over. God had already promised:
“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord,
“plans to prosper you and not to harm you,
plans to give you a hope and a future.”
— Jeremiah 29:11
The people would spend seventy years in Babylon, a lifetime for many. Generations would grow up far from home, singing songs of Zion in a foreign land. The temple would be gone, the land left desolate. Yet even there, God’s faithfulness continued. He told them through Jeremiah to build homes, plant gardens, marry, have children, and seek the peace of the city where they were sent. Life was not over. God was still moving, even in exile.
In time, the promise came true. After seventy years, the hearts of kings were stirred, first Cyrus of Persia, who conquered Babylon and issued a decree allowing God’s people to return home. The exiles came back to a land still scarred by war, but hope walked with them. They rebuilt the altar, restored the temple, and once again sang songs of worship in Jerusalem.
The city was renewed, just as Jeremiah had said it would be.
As for Jeremiah, the Bible doesn’t tell us how his story ended. Some traditions say he was forced into Egypt, where he died in obscurity. Others suggest he was murdered by his own countrymen. We don’t know for sure. But this we do know: his words remain.
Lamentations still testifies to grief honestly expressed. His prophecies still remind us that God’s voice continues even in desolation. And through Jeremiah’s trembling hand, we see that even in ruins, there is redemption.
God’s faithfulness outlasted the ashes. It always does.
Writing Through the Ruins
It’s 5:30 a.m. on a Sunday morning, and I sip my coffee as I consider the life of Jeremiah. The house is still, and outside the window, the city hasn’t yet woken up. Streetlights blink across empty roads. The world feels hushed, like it’s holding its breath. In a little while, I’ll need to start my day, get ready for church, gather my things, step back into the rhythm of responsibility. But for now, in this quiet space, I think about Jeremiah sitting among his ruins, writing words that would outlive the smoke.
He wrote because he had to, because the grief had to go somewhere. And I suppose that’s true for me too.
My own life isn’t lying in ruins, but there are seasons when it feels that way inside. When I’m off track. When I’ve drifted from my routines, the ones that keep me grounded and close to God. And honestly, sometimes I’m just straight-up tired. The busyness of the world wears us down and pulls us off course. When joy feels dull and the world feels heavier than usual, that’s when I always find myself coming back to the page.
I think that’s what Jeremiah understood: writing is both witness and worship. It’s how we tell the truth about what hurts and still choose to believe that God is good. It’s how we remember what’s been lost but also what can be restored.
Life has a way of doing that to us, with all of its busyness, tragedy, and brokenness. It tries to make us forget. Forgetting the details of God’s faithfulness. Forgetting the ways He has carried me through. Forgetting that even in exile, even in emotional exhaustion, He’s still there.
Jeremiah wrote his laments in a time when everything seemed hopeless. And yet, through his words, we see that faith doesn’t always shout from mountaintops; sometimes, it whispers from the ashes.
For me, that whisper sounds like this:
Pick up the pen.
Open the journal.
Let the words be the bridge back to God.
When I write, I remember. When I write, I return.
And maybe that’s the thread that runs from Jeremiah’s pen to mine, not just ink, but mercy. Because whether it’s a prophet in ancient ruins or a woman at her kitchen table trying to find her rhythm again, the truth remains the same:
God’s faithfulness outlasts the ashes.
It always does.
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