I felt the weight of our frailty just the other day. My father’s tired eyes met mine over a video call, and I saw how much he has changed, how much life has slipped through his hands. He has grown smaller, thinner, older.

Then I looked at my nephew, lying so still in a hospital bed, a dextrose line tied to his hand. He stared quietly, and I wondered what occupied his mind. Was he thinking about life in its vast, unknowable ways? About classmates laughing and learning while he lay confined in a room that smelled faintly of antiseptic?

Or was he simply wishing, with all the strength his body could muster, to be done with surgery and pain? I didn’t ask; his silence spoke clearly, not to bother him yet.

My nephew can be stubborn, but he has a kind heart. He is beloved by everyone who knows him because he knows how to care, how to connect, how to get along with people.

In the background, my sister’s voice floated, familiar and comforting. Then my father spoke, deep, steady, the same voice that has been a constant through my life. And I felt it again: the ache of watching the people you love most move through time, grow older, grow weaker.

Watching those who have held your world together confront life’s frailty is humbling. We know the truth: we all walk the same path. Perhaps it is not our turn yet, but sooner or later, it will be.

What aches me most is that we love with hearts that are finite, while the souls we love are eternal. Our love is imperfect, our time fleeting, yet we pour it out anyway. We cannot stretch life beyond what is given; only God can do that.

And maybe that is the beauty of faith. Faith allows us to release our hearts with trust, to offer love even when it is flawed, in the hope that those we hold dear are carried, protected, and free from the weight of a broken world.

Love, in its imperfect way, is what makes this life meaningful. And perhaps that is enough.

7 The grass withers, the flower fades

    when the breath of the Lord blows on it;

    surely the people are grass.

8 The grass withers, the flower fades,

    but the word of our God will stand forever.

Isaiah 40:7-8

Most of the time, the room is quiet. But there are moments when the silence becomes unbearably loud, so loud that you ache for even the smallest sound, just to remind yourself that you’re still alive. A heartbeat. A laugh. Even chaos would do. You long to be surrounded by noise, anything to drown out the thoughts before they consume you in the stillness of the room.

I can’t quite name what I’m feeling right now. All I know is that I am drowning in my own thoughts, and this is the best way I can put it into words. Is there anyone who would care to listen?

I wrote a list of things I am praying for this new year, and as I wrote them one by one, a weight began to rise in my chest, as if I were drowning in fear and excitement at the same time. Fear of the unknown, yet anticipation of answered prayers. Fear that as God begins to answer them, my life will change so drastically that my finite mind cannot comprehend whether I am worthy to receive such grace. Fear that I may not live up to the very things I am praying for. And fear that even if they are not answered the way I hope, my life will still be changed, inevitably and irrevocably.

It feels as though this new year is a turning point, the unfolding of prayers I whispered four years ago in my small bedroom in Dubai.

At four in the morning, with my heart racing, I met with God. And yet my thoughts still lingered on that list. I know my fears are louder than my faith right now. But God is greater than my fears, and He is still at work within my faith. Life remains uncertain, and change is still frightening. But, as I learn to listen to God more and more, I believe this coming year will be one where He reveals more of Himself in my life.

And maybe that is what I should be most excited about, not the answers themselves, but His goodness. His faithfulness. He will show Himself.

Isaiah 41:10-13 ❤️

Today I asked God for a sign, and He brought me to the verses about the prophecy of Jesus. In Isaiah, His name was first mentioned as Immanuel, “God with us.” It feels like such a personal reminder that in this journey, no matter how uncertain things may seem, I am not alone. I have Jesus, and my hope belongs in Him. If God was faithful to fulfill the prophecies spoken through Isaiah, then I can trust that He will also fulfill what He has started in me. My hope in Him is never wasted.

“Therefore the Lord himself will give you a sign. Behold, the virgin shall conceive and bear a son, and shall call his name Immanuel.” Isaiah 7:14 

I will wait for the Lord who is hiding his face from the house of Jacob and I will hope in Him. Isaiah 8:17

Some losses come slow,

and some begin before the goodbye.

I know You are teaching me

to hold loosely,

even with my hands trembling.

So teach me how to ache well,

if love must ache to be faithful.

Take the one I love the most,

if surrender is the holiest thing I can offer.

But if mercy allows,

let love stay.

Let it grow roots.

Let it become a home.

Whatever You choose,

let me trust You more than my fear,

more than the outcome,

more than my dream.

Amen.

When the myrtle trees begin to flower, I always feel the season shift. Their soft pink and white petals lining the streets remind me of the first summer I officially moved to Houston. I can still recall the strange mix of uncertainty and hope that clung to my thoughts. And each year, as the blossoms return, so does the memory of how far I’ve come and how much I’ve changed.

Over time, I think I’ve evolved into someone softer, but also someone who carries the warmth of summer. I’ve learned to love the golden hours that stretch longer than they should. I’ve grown into someone who no longer rushes through seasons, but embraces stillness. I’ve learned that storms will roll in unannounced and that life never quite stops being uncertain, no matter how long you stay or how far you’ve come.

We don’t hold life, not really. But that’s where the beauty lies. Like summer, life unfolds in seasons with its own timing, its own surprises. We can’t plan every storm or bloom, but we learn to meet them when they come.

So I keep going not always knowing, but always hoping. Hoping for more warmth than cold, more light than shadow. Hoping that, like summer, life will continue to return with something new, something tender, something worth waiting for.