When You Can't Stop Staring at the Storm

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It feels like the sky has been angry lately, doesn't it? Rain pounding against the windows. Gray clouds that just won't leave. Those flash flood alerts popping up on your phone. You find yourself slowing down on the road because you can't quite tell how deep that puddle actually is. After enough days like that, everything starts feeling a bit heavy. Maybe it's just me, but weather like this has a strange way of getting inside your head. When it's unsettled outside, it doesn't take much for it to start feeling unsettled inside, too.

The unfinished work feels bigger. The money worry gets louder. That conversation you've been replaying? Suddenly it has ten new imaginary endings. You check the news one more time. Then your email. Then your bank account. Then, somehow, you're researching something at midnight that you absolutely cannot solve at midnight. The storm outside eventually becomes background noise to the one happening in your head.

I was thinking about that while driving home in a brutal downpour recently. The kind where the wipers are going as fast as they can and still seem to be losing the battle. Highway lines kept disappearing under sheets of water. Trucks were throwing huge sprays across the glass. Everyone seemed to be driving somewhere between "too fast" and "terrified." My shoulders were practically touching my ears. Both hands were locked around the steering wheel. I could feel myself barely breathing.

Then a tanker truck beside me started drifting toward the line. And my eyes locked onto it. I just couldn't stop watching those enormous tires. All I could think was, Please stay over there. Except the more I stared at the truck, the worse my driving felt. Driving instructors talk about this—how we tend to steer toward whatever we're fixated on. The safest thing wasn't to keep staring at what scared me. I had to look where I actually wanted the car to go. Simple, but hard to do in the moment. So I forced myself to stop staring at the truck. I looked ahead. Found the lane again. Breathed. And almost immediately, everything felt a little more stable. The truck was still there. The rain was still coming down. Nothing about the road had magically changed. I had just stopped giving the thing I feared my entire field of vision.

I was thinking about that when I sat down with the Gospel. Jesus sends the disciples ahead of Him in a boat while He goes away by Himself to pray. Eventually the weather turns. The wind kicks up. The boat is getting tossed. It's the middle of the night, and suddenly, the disciples see someone walking toward them on the water. Naturally, they panic. So Jesus calls out to them: “Take courage, it is I; do not be afraid.” And then Peter does something that's either incredibly brave, incredibly "Peter," or a bit of both. He asks Jesus to call him out onto the water. Jesus simply says: “Come.” So Peter gets out of the boat. And somehow, for a moment, he is doing the impossible. He's walking toward Jesus right on top of the water.

But then Matthew shares a tiny detail that feels painfully familiar to me. Peter notices how strong the wind is. And he becomes afraid. The wind was already there. The waves were already there. The danger didn't suddenly appear out of nowhere. Peter just... became consumed by it. He stopped seeing Jesus and started seeing everything that could go wrong. And he started to sink. That feels uncomfortably familiar. I do exactly the same thing, and I don't even need a boat.

I can wake up at two in the morning and stare at one problem until it fills the whole room. Maybe you know that feeling too. You start thinking about money. Or somebody you love. Or a health concern. Or your job. Or something that happened months ago that your brain has apparently decided needs another emergency meeting tonight. One worry becomes five. Five become ten. Pretty soon, your mind is three years into a future that hasn't happened, trying to survive disasters that don't even exist. Nothing around you has changed. But you feel like you're drowning anyway.

I don't think the lesson is just "Peter should've had more faith." That is easy to say when you are standing safely on shore. What gets me is what happens next. Peter does not compose himself. He does not give Jesus a beautiful prayer. He does not quote Scripture. He is sinking. So he says: “Lord, save me!” That is it. Three words. Three little words. And Matthew says Jesus immediately reaches out and catches him. Immediately. Jesus does not wait for Peter to calm down first. He doesn't make him tread water while He explains what Peter did wrong. He just catches him. I need that part of the Gospel.

See, sometimes my prayers are thoughtful and peaceful. But other times, my prayer is basically just: God, help. I don't know what to do. I'm scared. I can't stop thinking about this. Please stay with me. Apparently, that still counts. Maybe some days it's the most honest prayer we've got. Maybe some days that is the most honest prayer we have.

There is another person in this Sunday's readings who is surrounded by noise. Elijah is hiding in a cave. He's exhausted. He's been running. His world is dangerous and uncertain, and he's just waiting for God. Then comes this enormous wind, strong enough to crush rocks. But God is not in the wind. Then an earthquake. God is not in the earthquake. Then fire. God is not in the fire. And after all that? Something almost ridiculously easy to miss. A tiny whisper. A gentle sound. Silence. God was not competing with the noise. Elijah had to become quiet enough to notice Him.

That hits a bit differently when life is loud. When I'm anxious, I usually expect the solution to be loud, too. I want the giant answer. Fix the problem. Change the situation. Give me certainty. Tell me exactly what's going to happen. Make the storm stop. Instead, God often meets me with just enough grace for the next ten seconds. Breathe. I'm here. Take the next step. You don't have to solve everything tonight. That might not feel dramatic enough, but neither was the whisper.

This week's second reading reminds me that faith doesn't mean becoming emotionally bulletproof. Paul talks about having “great sorrow and constant anguish” in his heart. Constant anguish. This is Saint Paul. Apparently, being close to God doesn't mean you never have a heart that hurts. It doesn't mean being the person who walks around completely unaffected by life. We can trust God and still grieve. We can love God and still worry. We can pray and still have mornings when our chest feels tight before our feet even hit the floor.

Faith doesn't require pretending there isn't a storm. Peter really was standing on rough water. Elijah really was afraid. Paul really was hurting. And whatever you are carrying may be very real too. The question isn't whether the storm is real—it is. The question is whether it gets to be the only thing you see. Because I think that is where I lose myself. I stare at the thing I'm afraid of until it fills the whole windshield. I give one problem the entire windshield. And eventually I start steering my thoughts directly toward it. What if this happens? What if that happens? What if I can't handle it? What if it never gets better? What if... What if... What if... And all the while, somewhere underneath all that noise, God is still there. Not shouting over it. He isn't demanding that I stop feeling anxious immediately. He's just... there.

Psalm 85 says that God's salvation is near. Near. I like that word. Not waiting at the end of the perfect week. Not hiding behind the solution to everything. Just near. Here. Near. Here. Before anything gets fixed. And notice something else about the Gospel. The wind does not die down when Jesus catches Peter. Jesus catches him first. Then they get back into the boat together. Then the wind settles.

I usually get that backwards. I tell myself: "Once this situation settles down, I'll feel close to God again." "Once I have the answer, then I'll pray better." Once the money works out. Once the test comes back. Once the relationship is repaired. "Once life stops feeling so uncertain, then I'll have peace." Then I will have peace. But Jesus steps into the storm before it ends. Maybe peace is not always the absence of rough water. Maybe peace isn't always about the water being calm. Maybe it's about realizing whose hand has you while you're still standing in the middle of it.

So I am trying something very small this week. When I notice myself staring at the "truck" again, or when one worry starts taking over the whole view, I want to stop for ten seconds. Not ten minutes. Ten seconds. Look away from the screen. Drop my shoulders. Let my hands loosen. Take one slow, deep breath. And pray exactly what Peter prayed: Lord, save me. No speech. No pretending. Lord, save me. Maybe what I need saving from right then is just the panic. Maybe it's the need to control something I simply can't control. Maybe it is resentment. Maybe it's the story I'm making up about tomorrow. Maybe it's just the belief that everything depends on me.

Then I want to ask myself: What am I staring at right now? And where is Jesus in this moment? Not "where will He be when this is over?" Where is He now? At the desk with me? In the car? In the kitchen while I stare at another bill? Beside the bed at two in the morning? In the doctor's waiting room? In the ten seconds before I send the message I probably should not send? God isn't waiting for us somewhere on the other side of the storm. He's already here.

I can't promise myself the rain will stop tomorrow. I can't promise that every problem will resolve exactly how I want. Peter still had to cross the water. Elijah still had a journey ahead of him. Paul still carried sorrow. I'll probably still worry about things I wish I could surrender more easily. But maybe I do not need to see the whole road. Maybe I just need to stop staring at the fear long enough to notice the hand reaching toward me. So... if your mind has been loud lately... if you've been staring at the waves... if one problem has slowly become your entire view... you don't need an impressive prayer. Peter certainly did not have one. Three words are enough. Lord, save me. That's it. Breathe. Look ahead again. He is here.

A simple prayer to carry with you:

Jesus,

You know what's been taking up too much space in my head.

You know what I keep replaying and trying to control.

You know the things I am genuinely afraid of.

I don't want to pretend those fears aren't real.

But I also do not want them to become all I can see.

When I start staring at the storm, turn my heart back toward You.

When the noise gets loud, help me notice that You're already here.

When I begin to sink into everything that might happen tomorrow, bring me back to where You are meeting me today.

And when I don't have the words for anything fancy, hear the simple one:

Lord, save me.

Reach for me.

Steady me.

And help me remember that I don't have to wait for the storm to end before I can find You.

Amen.

The Feast of Empty Hands: When You Have Nothing Left to Bring to God

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I found myself standing in front of the open pantry late one night, looking for something to eat even though I was not actually hungry.

I had already checked the refrigerator.

Then the freezer.

Then the pantry again, as though something new might have appeared during the thirty seconds I had been gone.

It had been a long week. I was tired, behind on things, and carrying that restless feeling that comes when your body wants to stop but your mind is still holding a staff meeting.

There were messages I had not answered. Things around the house I had meant to take care of. Work I could have done better. Decisions I was still putting off.

I did not need food.

I needed the day to stop pressing against me.

I wanted something sweet or salty enough to interrupt the noise in my head. Something easy. Something that would make me feel better without asking me to explain why I felt bad in the first place.

I think most of us have our own version of standing in front of the pantry.

Maybe it is picking up the phone for no real reason and realizing twenty minutes later that we are still scrolling.

Maybe it is adding something to an online shopping cart because imagining a package arriving feels better than sitting with whatever is bothering us.

Maybe it is working later than we need to because crossing one more thing off the list gives us a brief sense of control.

Maybe it is researching a problem so thoroughly that we start believing the next article, video, or opinion will finally make us feel safe.

The thing we reach for is not always bad.

Food is not bad. Work is not bad. Planning is not bad. Watching something funny after a hard day is not bad.

But sometimes we ask these things to do a job they cannot do.

We ask them to quiet fears they cannot reach.

We ask them to tell us we are okay.

We ask them to give us peace.

That is why one line from Isaiah caught me this week:

“Why spend your money for what is not bread, your wages for what fails to satisfy?”

I do not hear that as God scolding us for enjoying ordinary things.

I hear it more like someone gently asking, “Is this actually helping?”

Is the scrolling helping?

Is the overthinking helping?

Is pushing myself harder making me feel more secure, or just more tired?

Is this thing feeding me, or is it only keeping me occupied long enough to avoid noticing how empty I feel?

Those are uncomfortable questions because I usually know the answer.

What makes it worse is that I can bring the same exhausted mindset into my relationship with God.

I start treating prayer like one more thing I should be doing better.

I tell myself I will sit down and pray once I finish the urgent work.

I will spend time with God after I get the house under control.

I will read Scripture once my mind is quieter.

I will be more present when I am less distracted, less anxious, and less tired.

The result is that I keep postponing God until I become a version of myself who does not currently exist.

Somewhere along the way, I start believing that I need to arrive with something impressive.

A calm mind.

A grateful heart.

Strong faith.

A decent attention span.

At the very least, a prayer that makes it through an entire minute without wandering into tomorrow’s schedule.

But this Sunday’s readings do not seem to be about people arriving with plenty.

They are about hunger.

They are about need.

They are about people who cannot provide everything for themselves.

In Isaiah, God invites the thirsty to come and drink. He invites people who have no money to come and eat.

That part matters.

He does not tell them to come back when they can afford it.

He does not ask them to prove how badly they need it.

He does not make them explain how they ended up hungry.

He simply tells them to come.

Then, in Matthew’s Gospel, there is a crowd of thousands in a deserted place. It is getting late. People are hungry, and the disciples are looking at a situation that is obviously bigger than what they can handle.

Their suggestion is understandable.

Send everyone away.

Let them go find food somewhere else.

It is practical. It is responsible. It probably feels like the only realistic option.

But Jesus says, “There is no need for them to go away.”

I kept returning to that sentence.

There is no need for them to go away.

Because going away is often exactly what I do when I feel overwhelmed.

I move away from stillness.

I move away from honesty.

I move away from God and toward anything that gives me the feeling that I am taking action.

I plan harder.

I distract myself.

I try to fix my mood.

I tell myself I will return to prayer later, after I have dealt with whatever seems more urgent.

I send myself away to find relief somewhere else.

But Jesus does not send the hungry crowd away.

He tells the disciples to feed them.

The disciples look at what they have and say, essentially, “This cannot possibly be enough.”

Five loaves.

Two fish.

That is all.

I imagine there was some embarrassment in admitting it. There was a huge need in front of them, and their contribution looked almost ridiculous by comparison.

I know that feeling.

It is the feeling of looking at the day ahead and realizing I do not have the energy for it.

It is trying to pray when my mind is already running in six directions.

It is wanting to be patient with someone when my patience has been worn down to the last thread.

It is looking at my responsibilities, my worries, and the people who may be counting on me and thinking, “What I have is not enough.”

Sometimes that is the most honest prayer I can offer.

I do not have enough energy.

I do not have enough focus.

I do not know what the right decision is.

I do not feel especially holy or peaceful today.

I have five loaves, two fish, and several unfinished tasks glaring at me from across the room.

The good news in the Gospel is that Jesus does not ask the disciples to create more before they come to Him.

He asks them to bring what they have.

That is different.

He does not shame them for the smallness of it.

He does not tell them they should have planned better.

He takes what they place in His hands.

He blesses it.

He breaks it.

And somehow, what was clearly not enough becomes enough to feed everyone there.

I do not think this means that every problem disappears if I say the right prayer.

It does not mean I can ignore responsibilities, avoid hard decisions, or assume everything will work out exactly the way I want.

It means I do not have to carry everything alone before I am allowed to come close to God.

I can come while I am still tired.

I can come while the problem is still unresolved.

I can come while my faith feels small.

I can come without pretending that I have more to offer than I really do.

That may be what empty hands are for.

Empty hands are not impressive.

They cannot point to everything they have accomplished.

They cannot pretend to be in control.

But they can receive.

Psalm 145 says that God opens His hand and satisfies the desire of every living thing.

I usually focus on what is missing from my own hands.

What I have not finished.

What I cannot afford.

What I do not know.

What I am afraid I will not be able to handle.

The Psalm gently moves my attention away from my hands and toward God’s.

His hand is open.

He is not standing at a distance, waiting for me to pull myself together.

He is not irritated that I am tired again.

He is not disappointed that I am still struggling with something I thought I would have outgrown by now.

He is near.

The Psalm says the Lord is near to all who call upon Him.

Not only to the people who call upon Him beautifully.

Not only to people who have a peaceful morning routine, a clean kitchen, and a perfectly organized prayer journal.

To all who call upon Him.

Sometimes calling upon Him may sound less like a formal prayer and more like:

“Lord, I am overwhelmed.”

“I do not know how to do this.”

“I am angry.”

“I am scared.”

“I need help.”

“I do not have much to give You today.”

Saint Paul’s words in Romans make this even more personal.

He asks whether anguish, distress, hardship, or danger can separate us from the love of Christ.

His answer is no.

Nothing can separate us from the love of God.

I have read those words many times, but I often live as though there are exceptions.

Maybe God loves me, but I have not prayed enough lately.

Maybe God is near, but I have been too distracted to notice Him.

Maybe I have let my anxiety take over again.

Maybe I have wasted too much time.

Maybe I should have handled this week better.

Maybe I need to improve before I can come back.

But Paul does not leave room for those little private exceptions.

Neither the present nor the future can separate us from God’s love.

That means this present moment cannot separate me from Him.

Not the difficult email.

Not the financial worry.

Not the tension in my chest.

Not the task I keep avoiding.

Not the fact that I am standing in front of the pantry at midnight hoping crackers will solve an existential problem.

God is here too.

I do not have to escape the moment to find Him.

I do not need to wait for a better setting.

I do not need candles, silence, or a suddenly improved personality.

I can notice Him in the middle of the life I actually have.

This week, I want to practice something very simple.

Before reaching for my phone in the morning, I am going to sit for a few seconds with my hands open in my lap.

Nothing dramatic.

No long list of intentions.

No pressure to feel anything.

Just open hands.

Then I am going to tell God the truth about what I have.

“Lord, I am tired.”

“Lord, I am worried about this.”

“Lord, I do not feel ready for today.”

“Lord, this is what I have. Please help me use it well.”

I may also need to repeat that prayer later, especially when I feel the urge to run toward something that promises quick relief.

Before opening another app.

Before eating something I do not really want.

Before turning one unanswered message into a prediction that my entire future is collapsing.

Before trying to work my way out of being human.

I can stop and ask:

“What am I actually hungry for right now?”

Maybe I need rest.

Maybe I need to admit I am lonely.

Maybe I need to ask someone for help.

Maybe I need to step outside.

Maybe I need to let one task remain unfinished.

Maybe I simply need to remember that I am loved before I solve anything.

Jesus did not ask the crowd to stop being hungry.

He did not tell the disciples to pretend five loaves were a banquet.

He met them inside the reality of what they lacked.

That is the part I find comforting.

God is not waiting for the polished version of me.

He is not waiting at the end of my completed to-do list.

He is not hiding until I achieve the right spiritual mood.

He is here, in the kitchen light, in the tired morning, in the middle of the workday, and in the few seconds between feeling overwhelmed and reaching for another distraction.

So today, I am trying not to arrive before God with a speech.

I am trying to arrive with the truth.

I am tired.

I am hungry for peace.

I keep reaching for things that cannot quite satisfy me.

I do not have as much patience, energy, or certainty as I wish I had.

This is what I have.

These are my five loaves.

These are my two fish.

These are my empty hands.

And for now, I am going to trust that they are enough to place in His.

A simple prayer:

Jesus,

You already know what I am carrying today.

You know the things I am trying to fix, the things I am avoiding, and the ways I look for comfort when I feel overwhelmed.

I do not have a perfect prayer to offer You.

I only have what is honestly here.

My tiredness.

My worries.

My unfinished work.

My small amount of faith.

Please take what I have.

Help me stop running toward things that cannot give me peace.

Remind me that I do not need to earn Your attention or clean myself up before coming close.

When I feel as though I do not have enough, help me place what I have in Your hands.

Stay with me in the ordinary parts of this day.

Amen.

I Had Fourteen Tabs Open and No Peace: A Reflection on Matthew 11:25–30

Last night, I caught myself staring at fourteen open tabs.

One explained the exact problem I was trying to solve. Three offered conflicting advice. Another promised a better way to manage stress. The rest were news stories I had opened but definitely did not need to read right before bed. I kept clicking, scrolling, and refreshing, as though the next paragraph might finally give me the one missing piece of information that would make everything feel safe again.

It wasn’t research anymore. It was anxiety wearing glasses.

My chest felt tight, and my thoughts were sprinting miles ahead of me. I was trying to analyze every possible outcome of a situation I could not control, convinced that if I just understood enough, planned enough, or worried with enough precision, I could somehow protect myself from uncertainty. I was exhausted, but I refused to put the problem down.

That is the strange, suffocating habit of modern life. We carry the office, the headlines, other people’s opinions, and every unanswered question straight into bed with us. The workday ends, but our minds remain clocked in. We scroll for reassurance and somehow come away needing even more.

When I opened the Gospel and read Matthew 11:25–30, it felt as though Jesus stepped directly into the room, looked at my glowing screen, and interrupted the entire performance. He didn't offer a new strategy; He offered an invitation.

Jesus praises the Father for hiding the mysteries of the kingdom from the wise and learned, and revealing them instead to the childlike. He isn’t condemning education, careful thought, or intellect. The problem isn’t that we think; the problem begins when we start treating our own understanding as a substitute for trust.

We begin to believe that peace is a wage we must earn by solving every problem first. We tell ourselves that once we fix the relationship, understand the diagnosis, organize the finances, complete the project, and figure out exactly what comes next—then we will rest.

But Jesus does not say, "Come to me when you have everything under control." He says, "Come to me, all you who labor and are burdened, and I will give you rest."

Come while the tabs are still open. Come while the answer is still entirely unclear. Come while your heart is racing and tomorrow refuses to explain itself.

That is what makes His invitation so radical. Jesus does not wait at the finish line with a glass of water. He meets us underneath the weight.

I had always pictured my worries as an invisible backpack I carried from room to room. But last night, I realized I wasn’t merely carrying it. I was constantly reopening it, checking every pocket, and adding new things just in case I had forgotten something worth fearing.

Jesus offers a different yoke. That doesn’t mean we suddenly have no responsibilities. It doesn't mean prayer replaces the difficult conversation, the doctor’s appointment, the budget, or the hard work that needs to be done. It simply means we stop carrying those things as though the entire future rests on our fragile shoulders. His rest is not always the immediate removal of the problem; sometimes, it is the profound discovery that we are not alone inside it.

So, I closed the laptop.

Nothing had been resolved. The situation hadn’t changed, and no breakthrough had arrived in my inbox. The only thing that changed was where I placed my attention.

For a few quiet minutes, I stopped rehearsing every possible disaster. I stopped trying to be the adult who could fix everything and allowed myself to become childlike before God. Not childish, and not passive—just utterly honest. I don't know what happens next. I cannot control every outcome. Lord, I need You.

That prayer felt almost embarrassingly small compared to the complexity of everything I had been researching. But perhaps that is exactly why Jesus speaks about the childlike. Children do not approach a loving father with polished solutions. They come with empty, open hands.

Right there, in the middle of the unresolved mess, I chose to stop and glorify God first. Not because I felt especially peaceful or spiritually impressive, but because He was still God in the dead center of my uncertainty. He was present before I opened the first tab. He remained present while I spiraled. He would still be present in the morning..

Maybe that is the real rest Jesus offers: not an escape from reality, but freedom from the illusion that we must hold reality together by ourselves.

Many of us are bone-tired because we are carrying weights that were never designed for human shoulders. We are trying to predict everything, manage everyone, and prepare for every possible version of tomorrow. We call it responsibility, but if we are being honest, it is just fear with a color-coded calendar.

So, for the next few seconds, look honestly at what you are carrying.

Maybe it is a relationship you cannot repair on your own. Maybe it is money, work, your family, your health, or the relentless noise of the world. Maybe it is something you have prayed about so many times that you are beginning to wonder if God is even listening.

Put down what is in your hands. Look away from the screen. Let your shoulders drop. Take one slow, deliberate breath and turn your entire awareness to the truth of this moment: God is physically present in the room with you right now, before the answer and before the breakthrough.

Stop the hustle. Drop the performance. Glorify Him first, simply because He is God, and give Him your praise while the situation is still completely unfinished. Hand Him the backpack you keep reopening. Let Him teach you how to carry only what belongs to today, and how to carry even that beside Him.

Close your eyes. Breathe. You are not holding your life together alone.