“Jenga”

Hey friends,

First, I want to say I’m sorry for the little hiatus. I’ve been a bit under the weather—physically and emotionally. Life’s had its grip on me lately, and I found myself in a bit of a downward spiral with my emotions. It’s been one of those seasons where everything feels heavier than usual. But I’m slowly coming back to myself, and more importantly, back to the truth that I’m never alone in it. God’s been faithful through it all, and I’m finally feeling a bit better—more grounded, more hopeful, and more ready to share again.

At church today, something really clicked for me during the message. The pastor used a simple but powerful metaphor: Jenga.

And it hit me hard—because I saw my life in that game.

In Jenga, you stack block after block, and at first it feels solid. Stable. Like you’re building something great. But eventually, if you build too high or pull the wrong piece—it all comes crashing down.

That’s exactly what we do with our lives.

We build and build: careers, reputations, success, strength, even our image as “put-together” Christians.

Sometimes, we’re not even doing it for the wrong reasons—we just want to be okay, to be seen, to feel like we matter. But if we’re honest, a lot of what we’re building is rooted in ego and pride.

We start saying—

“Look at me.”

“Don’t forget me.”

“Are you impressed?”

“Will this make me good enough?”

And like the Tower of Babel, we try to build high enough to reach something that only surrender could bring.

But here’s the truth the sermon reminded me of: God will lovingly disrupt what we’re building when it’s rooted in pride.

Not to shame us.

But to protect us.

We saw it at Babel—God didn’t wipe out the people. He disrupted their plans because He saw where it was headed. That disruption was mercy.

And I’ve seen that same mercy in my life.

Especially in my years playing sports, I was always striving—trying to be the best, trying to stay positive, trying to feel in control. I thought if I worked hard enough, I could be happy. I could build something lasting. But no matter how hard I tried, some days it just didn’t work out. I’d fall apart emotionally. And when I did, I used to think I had failed.

But now I see it differently: God never left me in the rubble.

Even when my tower collapsed.

Even when my smile was fake.

Even when I had nothing left to give—He still loved me.

That’s what makes His love so powerful.

It’s not earned. It’s not dependent on my performance. It’s not based on how many blocks I can balance.

God loves the person, not the tower.

He loves the struggler, not the struggle.

He loves the sinner, not the sin.

And He loves you—even when you’ve fallen.

Sometimes He has to check us.

He’ll shake the foundation just enough to wake us up.

Not to destroy us—but to set us free from what we were never meant to carry.

So if you’re in a season where your Jenga tower is trembling…

If your pride is being chipped away…

If you’re tired of trying to hold it all together—

Remember this:

God still loves you.

He’s not waiting for you to build something impressive.

He’s waiting for you to let go—and let Him be enough.

The fall isn’t failure.

It might just be grace.

…And Maybe That’s the Point

Sometimes I ask myself—are we trying too hard?

Pushing too much?

Trying to force what was never meant to be?

Other times, I wonder—are we giving up too early?

Quitting right before something beautiful was about to unfold?

And when you live with the weight of mental health struggles—like anxiety, depression, emotional burnout, or just the quiet exhaustion that builds from holding it together for too long—those questions get louder. You feel torn between doing more and shutting down. Between pretending you’re okay and admitting that you’re not.

And the truth is… it’s hard to know in the moment.

We overthink.

We isolate.

We get stuck in survival mode.

And somewhere in the middle of all that chaos, we forget: we don’t have to do this alone.

There’s a plan that’s not ours—and a timing that’s not ours either.

I’ve come to believe this deeply: all things happen for a reason.

Even the low seasons. Even the silence. Even the unraveling.

When things don’t work out, maybe it’s not rejection—it’s redirection.

When your emotions overwhelm you, maybe it’s God saying, “Let me carry this with you.”

When your mental health feels fragile, maybe the most faithful thing you can do is rest.

God’s plan for each of us is not just spiritual—it’s emotional. It’s mental. It’s whole.

And that’s the one truth I’ve held on to when nothing else made sense.

Because if I believe God is good, then I have to trust that even my mental health journey is something He sees and cares about.

He doesn’t look at me and say, “You’re too broken.”

He looks at me and says, “You’re mine.”

So if you’re in a season where you’re wondering if you should push harder—or just let go—maybe the answer isn’t in doing more.

Maybe it’s in surrendering more.

Being gentle with yourself.

Letting go of the guilt.

Letting God meet you in the middle of your anxiety, your numbness, your questions.

And believing—deep down—that if something is truly meant for you, God will bring it in His perfect time.

And if He doesn’t?

Then maybe—just maybe—He’s protecting your peace, your purpose, and your healing in ways you don’t yet understand.

Either way—He’s still loving you through it all.

Even when your mind is loud.

Even when your heart feels worn out.

Even when you don’t have the strength to rebuild.

You are still His. And you are still loved.