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.

More Than Enough: Finding Abundance in Our Desert Places

I had a dream the other night. One of those dreams that left me felt overwhelmed. I was standing stranded in a vast desert with only an empty water bottle, the sun beating down, and the horizon offering nothing but more sand. To be honest, I didn’t understand it at the time and hope that I never have that dream again.

As I prepared for this week’s blog post, it was so awesome  to realize that it was the Gospel of Luke: the feeding of the five thousand (Luke 9:11b-17). We’ve probably all heard this story countless times. Jesus, surrounded by a massive crowd in a deserted place, their hunger growing as the day wore on.

The disciples, practical folks that they were, saw the problem and offered the most logical solution: “Dismiss the crowd so that they can go to the surrounding villages and farms and find lodging and provisions; for we are in a deserted place here.” Sound familiar? When faced with a big problem, our first instinct is often to push it away, to find a way to make it someone else’s issue, or to simply declare it impossible.

But Jesus’ response is what truly resonates: “Give them some food yourselves.” Can you imagine the looks on their faces? Five loaves and two fish for thousands of people? It felt utterly absurd, a recipe for utter failure. It’s like being asked to fill a stadium with a single pitcher of lemonade.

I remember a time, not too long ago, when I felt that same sense of overwhelming scarcity. My family was going through a particularly tough patch. Bills were piling up, unexpected expenses kept cropping up, and the anxiety was a constant knot in my stomach. I looked at our meager resources and felt that familiar desert closing in. I prayed, of course, but honestly, a big part of me just felt helpless. Like the disciples, I could only see the limitations, the impossibility of the situation.

But then, something shifted. Maybe it was a quiet moment during prayer, maybe it was a kind word from a friend, maybe it was just the slow dawning of a new perspective. I started to focus not on what we lacked, but on the small gifts we still had. A supportive community, our health, the simple joy of a shared meal. It wasn’t a magical fix, the bills didn't vanish overnight, but something within me began to change. The fear didn't disappear entirely, but it no longer held me captive.

This, I think, is where the beauty of the Gospel, and the wisdom of mindful living, truly intersect. Jesus didn’t magically conjure food out of thin air before the disciples’ eyes. He took what little they did have – the five loaves and two fish – and He blessed it. He looked up to heaven, acknowledging the source of all good things. And then, He broke it and gave it to the disciples to distribute.

Think about that for a moment. He worked through their seemingly insufficient offering. He didn’t bypass their humanity; He invited them into the miracle. And the result? Everyone ate and was satisfied, with twelve baskets of leftovers. More than enough.

This isn’t just a story about a miracle; it’s a powerful reminder that even in our most barren “desert places,” even when we feel we have nothing to offer, Christ can take our meager efforts, our limited resources, our very human vulnerabilities, and transform them into something abundant.

Mindfulness teaches us to be present to the reality of our experience, without judgment. To acknowledge our fears and limitations, yes, but also to notice the small sparks of hope, the glimmers of grace that are always present, even when they’re hard to see. It’s about recognizing the “five loaves and two fish” in our own lives, however small they may seem.

When we bring our whole selves, our honest limitations, to God, just as the disciples brought their meager provisions to Jesus, we open ourselves up to the possibility of something beyond our own understanding. He doesn’t always solve our problems in the way we expect, but He always offers sustenance, a deeper kind of nourishment that goes beyond the physical. It’s a spiritual abundance that fills the hunger in our hearts, the loneliness in our souls, the anxiety that gnaws at our peace.

And just like the disciples were then tasked with distributing the miraculous bread, we too are called to share the abundance we receive. Even when we feel we have little ourselves, the very act of reaching out, of offering a word of kindness, a helping hand, a listening ear, can be a way of spreading that divine nourishment to a world that is so often starving for connection, for hope, for love.

So, the next time you find yourself feeling like you’re in a deserted place, remember the five loaves and two fish. Remember the disciples’ initial feeling of inadequacy. And remember Jesus’ simple act of blessing and sharing. Trust that even with what seems like so little, with God, there is always, always more than enough.