A Letter to myself.

Dear Self,

Stop kicking that can down the road.

You know exactly what I mean.

I see you.

I know you’re tired.

And I know the ache.

You’ve been walking this road for a while now, you see the brokenness all around you and it is weighing you down. Even in the quiet places of your soul where words don’t reach, the pain does. And again and again, you've pushed it just a little further down the road. Not because you don’t care. I know you care, and yet you keep kicking that can down the road because it’s just... it feels too heavy to carry all at once.

I understand. It’s easier to delay what you can’t immediately fix. It feels safer to walk past the ache than to stop and ask what it demands of you.

But, can I tell you this gently?—that ache is not something to avoid It’s something to enter. Not all at once. Not recklessly. But faithfully. Tenderly. With the Shepherd who still walks among the ruins, seeking the lost, binding the broken.

You weren’t made to walk away.

And yes, I know it’s tempting to pray, “Our Father in heaven… here I come!" But remember—He taught you to pray, “may your kingdom come and your will be done on earth as it is in heaven.”

You were made to stay present. To love with your whole life. To plant your feet in the mess. To pick up that can and go down on your knees and plead, “Your Kingdom come, here, even now.”

The world is hurting, and your longing for wholeness is not a flaw. It’s holy. But don’t confuse weariness for permission to wait. The Shepherd is still calling. Still healing. Still asking you to walk with Him, not as one who must fix everything, but as one who refuses to look away.

Remember what He said?

I will seek the lost, and I will bring back the strayed, and I will bind up the injured, and I will strengthen the weak, and the fat and the strong I will destroy. I will feed them in justice. “I am the Good Shepherd. I lay down My life for the sheep.” (Ezekiel 34:16; John 10:14–15)

This is not about guilt.

This is about grace.

This is about remembering who you are and Whose you are.

You are not a spectator in this story.

You are part of the redemption.

You are not helpless. You are held—and sent.

Not because you’re strong enough, but because He is with you. Always.

So here is my plea to you—offered with love and quiet courage:

Don’t numb the ache. Name it.

Don’t sigh and shrug your shoulders at injustice. Step up and stand up to it.

Don’t wait for someone more qualified or more eloquent or more ready.

You’re the one He called.

Feed the hungry.

Speak the truth, even gently.

Bind what’s broken, even if it’s with trembling hands.

Love until it costs you something—then keep going.

Follow the Shepherd, even through the shadows.

And when the weight feels too much, when the impulse to defer rises again, pause. Breathe. Remember: the cross is heavy, but it is His easy yoke. And it is necessary.

It is how you will learn from Him, and it always leads to life.

So pick it up.

That can; your cross.

Say yes—again.

Not because you must.

But because you were made for this.

For the hurting ones.

For the fractured places.

For the name of Jesus.

For the world our Father still so deeply loves.

Go gently, go bravely.

And if you must pick up something today—let it be the call; pick up that can.

And remember, He is with you, always.

Every blessing,

Me.

(The one who is learning to stay. Who dares, even now, to love like Jesus.)

PS:"On Earth as It Is in Heaven: Living the Lordship of Christ Today"

“The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to proclaim good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim liberty to the captives and recovering of sight to the blind, to set at liberty those who are oppressed,  to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.” 
(Lk 4:18–19. cf. Isa 61:1-2a)

Jesus said to [his disciples] again, “Peace be with you. As the Father has sent me, even so I am sending you.” 22 And when he had said this, he breathed on them and said to them, “Receive the Holy Spirit (Jn 20:21–22.)

The Christian life was never meant to be a waiting room for heaven. It is a radical reentry into what we were always created to be: image-bearers of God, living under the Lordship of Jesus here and now.

Jesus didn’t enter history simply to offer a way out. He came to usher in a way forward. Not just to rescue souls for the afterlife, but to recover the glory of what it means to be fully human—redeemed, restored, and reengaged with a broken world in His name.

Psalm 8 tells us that we were made “a little lower than God,” crowned with glory and honor, entrusted with care over creation. Dominion was never about domination. It was about love—stewarding, cultivating, tending. The Gospel is not an escape plan; it's a restoration mission. And Jesus, the Good Shepherd, calls us not just to believe in Him but to learn from Him—to embody His compassion, His justice, and His relentless pursuit of the lost.

Ezekiel 34 reveals God’s heartbreak over shepherds who exploited rather than served. But it also unveils God’s resolve: “I Myself will search for My sheep... I will feed them in justice.” That promise found flesh in Jesus—who laid down His life, not just to deal with sin, but to reclaim humanity’s purpose.

So the invitation to follow Jesus is not merely about getting saved and going to heaven. It’s about learning to live under His Lordship, seeking to be His tangible presence on earth as it is in heaven. It’s about becoming a community through whom the Kingdom becomes visible, where justice is not postponed and love is not theoretical.

The Church is not a refuge from the world. It is a signpost to the world to come—a people being re-humanized by grace, reshaped by love, and sent out in mercy. We are not waiting for the world to end. We are living in the tension of the Kingdom already breaking in.

This is our calling: to be faithful stewards of the world our Father still loves, to walk in the footsteps of the Shepherd who is still seeking the lost, binding the broken, and feeding in justice. To be the Church that says with its life: the Kingdom is near.