My wife could’ve been a weather forecaster.
Every morning, she checks the skies.
Will it rain?
Will it shine?
How hot, how cold, how windy the day might be?
She watches faithfully—
then turns to me with love:
“Wear your hat.”
“Take your umbrella.”
“Don’t forget sunscreen.”
She prepares me with care.
But here’s the twist—
she often forgets her own umbrella.
Leaves her jacket behind.
Steps into the sun without protection.
She’s so focused on me,
she forgets herself.
And isn’t that just like us?
We want to do good—
but somehow, we miss the mark.
Our intentions are pure,
but our actions fall short.
We try to help,
and end up making things harder.
St. Paul said it best:
“I do not do the good I want,
but the evil I do not want is what I do.”
It’s not just contradiction.
It’s a kind of captivity.
A war within the self.
And yet—
this war is not without witness.
God is not absent from the uncanny.
In fact,
it may be the very place He chooses to show up.
Jesus once said,
“You know how to interpret the weather,
but you do not know how to read the signs of the times.”
He wasn’t asking for forecasts.
He was asking for attention.
For eyes that see God moving—
even in the strange,
the unresolved,
the uncomfortable.
We all want clarity.
We want to fix things.
To clean up the mess.
To make sense of the uncanny.
But sometimes,
our fixing only deepens the mud.
The call is not to control—
but to trust.
To walk with one another
in confusion,
in contradiction,
in desolation.
To believe that God is already at work—
in the tension,
in the ache,
in the not-yet.
So what do we do
when we meet the uncanny—
in others,
or in ourselves?
We pray.
We listen.
We name the mystery,
without rushing to resolve it.
We trust that grace is not always tidy.
That sanctification often begins in the mess.
And we remember:
The mysteries of the Kingdom
are revealed to the little ones—
not to those who presume to understand,
but to those who remain open.
Who interpret not with certainty,
but with humility.
Thanks be to God
through Jesus Christ our Lord.
Prayer
My dearest Jesus,
In the mess and mystery,
help me trust You’re near.
Teach me to listen,
to walk humbly,
and to welcome Your grace
where things don’t make sense.
Amen.
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