The whirring of the coffee machine draws me toward the kitchen and away from slumber.

My furry companion rings his bell. I hear his request and open the door, releasing him into his domain. I close it behind him and reach for the tiny cup filled to the brim with the bitter elixir that sweetens my morning. I hold it in both hands, breathing deeply. This cup is saving me.

This morning moment keeps me afloat amidst grief. My heart still aches from its own tremendous loss, and when I click on the news, I grieve the political landscape of the world too. The simple act of making coffee grounds me, reminding me that through quietness, care, and gratitude, I stay tethered to a softness that fortifies resistance.

Don’t get me wrong—I rage plenty. There’s a lot to rage over. From the tremendous fallout of our country’s longest government shutdown to dangerous nuclear rhetoric and the ongoing massacre in Gaza, rage comes easily.

Keeping myself soft takes effort, intention, and faith. Yet softness, I am learning, is an act of survival.

There’s a quiet resilience in ordinary life. Daily routines anchor me, reminding me that I am human and urging me to keep showing up for the necessary things. Whether it is my morning coffee, a load of laundry, or the school run, these rituals keep me going when I would rather not.

Somehow, caring for all the small things becomes a way of caring for myself and for all the messy, complicated pieces of my human life.

Though I sometimes want to scream into the void, persevering in these small acts helps me maintain the ability to care for people and for the world beyond my rage. Feeding my dog and doing the dishes remind me what it means to keep choosing care.

They are my mustard-seed lifelines, urging me onward in faith. My hands draw my heart forward through grief and rage, reminding me that I still desire a life of intention, care, and persistence. If I stop letting my heart lead, I fear the grief and rage will consume me; I will dive headfirst into the dumpster fire and watch the world around me burn.

My faith tells a story of a God who numbers every hair on my head—a story of proximity and knowing. As an image-bearer of this God, I step into the world’s messiness to know it, to tend to it, and yes, to grieve its brokenness. I engage in it—even those things that enrage me—because I am called to care.

I want to write myself into the world heart-first, even when that world threatens to break it.

The temptation to lead with anger is ever-present, and sometimes even necessary. But I cannot continually do that and expect to remain consistent, present, or empowered for very long.

If I rest in my rage, then I risk hardening to the cruelty that sparked it in the first place. Living heart-first is risky; it invites grief to stay a while.

But love is worth the grief and like the God who cares for me, I am called to care deeply for the world. So, with deliberate kindness, I will put my hands to work to create meaning out of the ashes of a smoldering world.

And I will take my shattered and grief-filled heart with me. My tender heart forms the foundation of my resistance to the darkness; it breaks easily for the world. I am grateful for this brokenness, because to care about the things of God’s world is to refuse numbness.

I will not be numbed by headlines, tragedy, or the relentlessness of loss. I will take this tenderness and let it keep seeing, listening, understanding, and reaching outward when I would rather withdraw.

This is the endurance of softness. It is the soil in which resistance takes root. I choose to stay soft enough to love a broken world and strong enough to help mend it.

From here, resistance becomes practice: tending, restoring, and refusing despair. It is the everyday work of kindness that arcs toward God’s love and justice. To this tender ground, I keep showing up, even when it feels impossible.

In the end, it is all very ordinary: coffee, dishes, headlines, prayer.

Yet within the ordinary, my story keeps unfolding. The softness steadies and sustains me. It helps me remain rather than retreat. It teaches me to resist and to rest. It holds both my grief and my gratitude.

This is what is saving me right now.

I am going to resist the urge to throw up my hands and scream, “What more can I do? We are all doomed!” And I hope that you will too.

Light the candles. Protest. Write your representatives. Plant seeds. Deliver soup to your neighbor.

Choosing to care in the face of despair nurtures a tenderness that refuses to give up on God’s world. Maybe this is how redemption begins—in the quiet persistence of the gentle-hearted.