End of Days

Dear Lord, as a loyal Catholic I come before You with a modest request: when judgment comes, please apply ‘time served’ toward my Purgatory sentence before entering your kingdom.

Dealing with leftist liberals and their endless nonsense down here has felt like boot camp for the soul. Surely that counts toward time off?

The past few weeks have felt heavier than usual. The pain, once a familiar shadow, has sharpened into something relentless, digging deeper with every movement, every breath. Nights stretch long and broken—waves of ache pulling me awake again and again, leaving my mind foggy, thoughts scattered like leaves in the wind. Sleep, that quiet refuge, has become a battleground, and without it, even simple clarity feels out of reach. I find myself whispering, Lord, I need relief. Please.

Yet in the midst of this storm, a quiet certainty holds firm: I still trust in God’s plans, even when they remain hidden from me. I don’t see the full picture—why this intensity now, why this prolonged season—but I cling to the promise that He knows the path, that His ways are higher, purposeful, and ultimately good. Jeremiah 29:11 echoes in my heart: “For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.” I repeat it like a lifeline when doubt creeps in.

I’ve been through worse before—sharper spikes, darker valleys—and God carried me through each one. This sustained burn is different, testing endurance in new ways, but the truth remains: I’ve survived.

When the pain surges and words fail, I turn to what I can do: meditation to quiet the racing mind, focusing on slow breaths and His presence, letting the tension ease even if just a little. Prayer becomes my anchor—simple, honest conversations where I lay it all bare, asking for strength, for rest, for mercy. These practices don’t erase the hurt, but they shift my gaze upward, reminding me I’m not alone in it. They create small spaces of peace amid the chaos, helping me endure one more hour, one more night. A few puffs of the medicine as needed.

I’m weary, yes. Desperate for true relief. But I’m not without hope. God is weaving something through this—even if I can’t yet see the pattern. Until then, I keep reminding myself: He’s been faithful before. He’ll be faithful again. And in the waiting, His grace is enough.

Lately it feels like death is circling closer, and the circle is tightening faster than I expected.

It started with the expected ones: aging parents slipping away, old neighbors we’d wave to as kids, an elderly Lodge Brother after a long illness. Those hit hard, but they felt… almost in order. Part of the natural progression.

But now the pattern has shifted. Increasingly, the losses are people my own age—mid-40s, early 50s—or sometimes younger. An ex-girlfriend gone suddenly from what was supposed to be a routine procedure. A roommate from college who posted about feeling “off” one week and was gone the next from a brain tumor. Another gamer taken down with kidney disease.A friend I used to spend evenings discussing life with, taken by a liver thing that came out of nowhere. Most succumbing to health issues, some to injury, and sadly a few to suicide. One dear friend who just gave up on life and silently let the darkness win. Each one lands heavier, more personal, more bewildering.

I keep turning it over in my head at 3 a.m this morning: Is this the lingering shadow of the pandemic years? The lockdowns that made people delay check-ups, skip screenings, let stress and isolation compound quietly? The way hospitals were overwhelmed, or how “elective” care got pushed aside until it wasn’t elective anymore? Or is it simpler, and sadder—I’ve just reached that age where the people I’ve known my whole life, my peers included, are quietly entering the twilight of theirs? Where mortality stops being abstract and starts showing up in group chats and solemn conversations.

Both explanations feel true at once. Both feel insufficient. The numbers might say one thing statistically, but the lived reality is this steady drumbeat of absence.

Anyone else noticing the same shift? The way the obituaries now include names you recognize from your own timeline, not just your parents’? How are you carrying it?