It was just a regular Tuesday morning, the kind that blends in with a hundred others. The coffee brewed as I packed my lunch, my mind already racing ahead to a long list of tasks at the office. My husband had left early, and the house was quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and the ticking wall clock. Peaceful, on the outside.

But inside? I was unraveling.

I’d been holding it together for months—after the department restructuring at work that left me with more responsibility and less help, after my sister’s cancer diagnosis, and after my teenage son started pulling away, his once-affectionate demeanor replaced by grunts and eye rolls. I was managing everything, or at least pretending to.

That morning, I grabbed my keys and turned to head out the door. But something stopped me. Not physically—just a pause, as if a soft voice inside was saying, “Sit down. Just for a moment.”

I stood there in the kitchen, confused. “I don’t have time for a moment,” I whispered aloud, almost laughing. But the feeling persisted.

I sighed and sat down at the edge of the kitchen table. My coffee steamed gently in front of me. I closed my eyes.

“God,” I began, my voice barely audible, “I’m tired. Really tired. I don’t know how to fix any of this. I’m overwhelmed, I’m worried, and I feel like I’m failing at everything.”

There was no bolt of lightning, no sudden answer. But I sat there in the silence a little longer than I’d planned. And somewhere in that stillness, something shifted. Not the circumstances, but me. The breath I didn’t know I’d been holding slowly released.

That was the beginning.

I wouldn’t call it a miraculous turnaround. My sister still had to undergo chemo. My job was still stressful. And my son still didn’t want to talk. But something had changed.

Each morning after that, I set my alarm five minutes earlier. I’d make my coffee and sit in that same kitchen chair, Bible open, journal nearby, heart exposed.

I didn’t always have profound thoughts or answers. But I began to recognize that those few quiet minutes were a lifeline, not a luxury. They were like the oxygen mask I’d been needing but didn’t know how to put on.

One morning, I read Psalm 46:10: “Be still, and know that I am God.” I’d read that verse countless times before. But that morning, it felt personal.

“Be still,” I heard it again. Not “figure it out,” not “try harder,” but be still. That was hard for someone like me. I prided myself on being dependable, capable, efficient. But maybe—just maybe—God didn’t need me to manage everything. Maybe He was inviting me to trust Him with it all.

It was around that time that my friend Jenny invited me to join her small group Bible study. “We’re starting a new series on trusting God in difficult seasons,” she said. I almost declined—my schedule was tight—but something nudged me to say yes.

That group became another lifeline. Each week, we shared our stories, our burdens, our prayers. I listened to women who had lost spouses, battled infertility, navigated divorce. And yet, in the midst of it all, they spoke of peace. Of hope. Of a God who didn’t always fix things the way they wanted—but who always showed up.

I started seeing God show up in my own life too.

One evening, after dinner, my son came and sat next to me on the couch. “Mom,” he said awkwardly, “do you think we could go for a drive sometime? Just talk?”

I blinked back tears. It wasn’t a full restoration, but it was a beginning.

At work, I stopped trying to do everything myself. I began delegating, asking for help, letting go of perfection. I even started praying for my co-workers, quietly and intentionally, especially the ones who rubbed me the wrong way. Something softened—both in them and in me.

And with my sister, those morning prayers became a sacred space where I could cry, hope, and cling to faith. I started texting her little Scripture verses each morning. “Your verse for today,” I’d write. She told me they gave her strength on the hardest chemo days.

One Saturday morning, I was in the kitchen again, sipping coffee and journaling. I flipped back through my prayer pages, the ones from months before. My handwriting had been shaky, my words full of anxiety and fear. Now, looking at those same pages, I saw something else: progress. Not perfection, but faith.

“God,” I wrote, “You didn’t change everything. But You changed me. And that has changed everything.”

I smiled through tears.

That regular Tuesday morning—the one where I almost walked out the door without pausing—had been the start of something sacred. A small decision that opened the door for God to begin healing the worn-down places in my heart.

I’ve learned that the most powerful prayers aren’t always long or eloquent. Sometimes, they’re whispered between sips of coffee. Sometimes, they’re scribbled in journals. Sometimes, they’re just a quiet, trembling, “Help me, Lord.”

And the beautiful thing? God hears them all.

He doesn’t need us to have perfect lives or perfect faith. He just asks us to come. To sit. To be still.

These days, life is still busy. There are still challenges. But I carry a deeper peace with me now, a confidence that I’m not walking alone.

Because even on the most ordinary Tuesday, God is near.

Reflection Verse:
“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.” — Matthew 11:28 (NIV)