I wake up, grab my coffee, thumb the screen—and it’s the same grim parade, again.

A man guns down a pregnant woman at a red light—her husband beside her—an unborn child erased in the same breath, and the system shrugs it off under the banner of insanity. Not innocence—insanity. Which, in practice, means the same thing for the rest of us trying to make sense of it. A life taken, two lives really, and the resolution feels like fog—clinical, detached, almost antiseptic in how it avoids the weight of what actually happened.

Scroll.

Another headline. A 63-year-old man in a wheelchair—beaten, slammed into the pavement until he’s dead. Not in some back alley at midnight. In the open. Public. Broad daylight like it’s nothing. The attacker gets years—yes—but you can’t help but feel the imbalance. A human life reduced to a sentence that will be counted down, day by day, until it’s over, while the victim’s clock has already been stopped for good.

Scroll.

A young girl—18—shot in the head while walking near her college. “Wrong place, wrong time,” they say, like it’s weather. Like she wandered into a rainstorm instead of into a culture that’s increasingly unable—or unwilling—to restrain evil. And the coverage itself feels like it’s already negotiating how to frame it, how to soften it, how to tuck it into something palatable.

Scroll.

A coach accused of abusing students. A homicide in Charlotte—shots fired into a crowd, kids scattered, parents scrambling, no arrests yet. A man with Down Syndrome robbed in broad daylight. A street scene that looks less like a city and more like a war zone—cars stopped at angles, blue lights bleeding into the night, people running without direction.

And it’s not just the crimes themselves. It’s the pattern around them. The repetition. The sense that the guardrails aren’t just loose—they’re gone. Judges hesitating. Systems hedging. Language bending to accommodate what should be plainly condemned. You don’t need a think tank report to feel it—you can feel it in your gut, that low, persistent tension like something’s off-kilter and not correcting.

And that’s just today.

Day after day, it piles up. Not one shocking event, but a steady drip. A news feed that doesn’t shock us anymore—it numbs us. And that might be the worst part. When horror becomes routine, when the extraordinary becomes ordinary, something in us starts to dull.

From a human vantage point, it looks like things are slipping. Disorder creeping in at the seams. Chaos not as an exception but as a rhythm. People hurting people with a kind of casual brutality that would’ve stopped conversations cold a generation ago, and now it’s just another post between ads and memes.

And if you just sit there—just stare at it long enough—you can feel it pressing in. That quiet question: What is happening?

And maybe worse—where is this going?

Because from here, from street level, from the driver’s seat, from the kitchen table at 6:30 in the morning—it looks like a world that’s coming apart in slow motion.

But that’s only from here.

Step back—and I don’t mean philosophically, I mean actually step back—and the picture changes. Not because the evil disappears. It doesn’t. Not because justice suddenly feels satisfying. It often won’t. But because the frame gets bigger.

God is not pacing heaven, wringing His hands over your Twitter feed.

He is not reacting. He is not surprised. He is not adjusting plans on the fly because Charlotte, or NYC, or LA, or Chicago, or Atlanta, or Minneapolis had a bad night or because some judge made a call that doesn’t sit right. None of this is outside His decree. None of it slips past Him unnoticed, unmeasured, or unaccounted for.

Romans 8:28 says “All things work together for good for those who love God, who are called according to His purpose.” Not some things. Not the clean things. Not the things that make sense in our finite minds. All things.

That includes the headlines that make your stomach turn.

That includes the moments where justice feels delayed or distorted.

That includes the mess—yes, the whole ugly, tangled mess—that we’re staring at through a glowing screen before the sun’s even fully up.

From our angle, it looks chaotic. From His, it is purposeful.

And that doesn’t mean we go limp. It doesn’t mean we shrug and say, “Oh well.” No—you still do what you’re called to do. You vote. You speak. You confront what’s evil without missing a beat. You protect your family. You stand where you’re supposed to stand and say what you’re supposed to say, even when it costs you something.

But worry? That gnawing, restless, can’t-sit-still anxiety that acts like the future depends on you holding it together?

That’s not yours to carry.

You’re not the one holding the world in place.

Obedience is yours. Faith is yours. And strangely—almost offensively, if you think about it long enough—peace is yours too. Not because the world is calm. It’s not. But because the One who governs it is.

So yeah, the social media feed is a hot, burning mess. It probably will be tomorrow too. But it doesn’t get the final word.