Sabbath Article (Dec. 27, 2025): When You Are Tired, You Are Still Being Carried
A reflection on fatigue, grief, and the assurance that faithfulness does not depend on constant strength.
A reflection on fatigue, grief, and the assurance that faithfulness does not depend on constant strength.
This essay reflects on freedom and sovereignty through the lens of surfing, written from the perspective of someone who does not surf but has watched a brother use the ocean as a way to cope with grief. In a year marked by shared trauma and loss, writing and surfing become parallel practices — different responses to the same weight — each honoring agency, patience, and the choice to remain present in a world that does not bend to us.
When loss and language collide, truth becomes heavy but necessary. This reflection explores how to write honestly through disorientation—when sentences are the scaffolding that keeps the soul upright.
A meditative reflection on the Sabbath as holy stillness — a vigil of love and surrender in the final hours before loss.
This essay explores the meaning of legacy in the face of mortality, weaving together personal grief, the sovereignty of saying goodbye, and the incorruptible permanence of Bitcoin. It considers both the practical dimensions of inheritance and the philosophical parallels to the “Book of Life,” contrasting man‑made ledgers with incorruptible ones. Through reflections on family, property, and faith, it reframes farewell as one of the most sovereign acts of all.
A minute-by-minute account of Monday, Sept 29 — from the 4 a.m. departure in Honolulu to the 8:30 p.m. text confirming your father’s passing — a day suspended between motion and stillness, farewell and peace.
A meditation on the spiritual heart of loss. Through the lens of his father’s final days, Andrew reflects on how grief becomes participation in the gospel itself — the dying of the false self, the surrender of control, and the quiet rising of truth that cannot die.
A precise reflection on the evening of Sept 29 when your father passed—marking the simultaneity of time between Honolulu and San Francisco, and the quiet recognition that goodbye had already been spoken.
A factual account of traveling from Honolulu to San Francisco on Sept 29 while your father lingered in his final hours—an honest day of movement, prayer, and silence across the ocean.
Sunday in Honolulu — walking to Kawaiahaʻo Church, showing Pule no James Stanton to the Kahu from your iPhone, tasting locally grown Oʻahu chocolate, returning to the apartment, and saying goodbye late that night — a day of peace, love, and slow release.
A true-to-life Sabbath reflection — clearing a father’s office, discarding a lifetime of papers, and discovering holiness in the labor of release.
A closing meditation on the thinness of the veil between worlds and the quiet assurance that love is gathered, not gone.
A reflection on how love transcends death — finding eternity not in escape from time, but in its fulfillment.
Hope is not optimism but defiance — the stubborn belief that even after the worst loss, life will rise again. Standing amid the ashes of grief, Andrew reflects on the kind of hope that outlasts death, systems, and despair — the quiet trust that nothing true is ever gone.
Letting go isn’t an emotion — it’s a discipline of trust. In this reflection, Andrew writes from the threshold between clinging and release, realizing that the heart must open its hands for grace to flow. Every attachment that’s surrendered becomes a seed of new freedom.
From sterile corridors to shifting light on the floor, Andrew captures the tender stillness of decline — when everything noisy fades and only love remains. In the fading of strength and certainty, he finds a subtler, eternal brightness that asks nothing but presence.
In the slow hush hospice care, grief begins before death. Andrew reflects on the strange holiness of waiting beside someone who is leaving this world — the way love deepens, sharpens, and surrenders as we realize we were never meant to hold on forever.
This meditation considers how renewal emerges from endings. Using the metaphor of seasons, it shows how grief and disruption prepare the ground for new life. It invites readers to see renewal not as denial but as patient cultivation, trusting that even in exhaustion, seeds are germinating beneath the surface.
Adulthood Infection 5
Adulthood Infection 4