As of yet, I don’t think I’ve met anyone who woke up one morning and decided this was true for their entire life. What I think is more honest is that, after a long, late night, hungover and queasy, meaning wakes up and does its best to slink out the front door before anyone notices. That whole walk of shame thing? Yeah, I think meaning takes the cake with that one.

For all of us, meaning starts with a routine. It made sense once. But not now. You keep showing up anyway. The job. The relationship. That Wednesday night thing, maybe darts or a bowling league you’ve been coming to for four years. You were excited once. Genuinely excited. Now it’s a drag, and quitting feels lonelier than staying. So one Wednesday morning you’re standing in the kitchen, coffee going cold, trying to remember the last time anything surprised you. The days have started to look identical. Not bad, exactly. Just bland. Interchangeable.

And a question surfaces, the same one that drove you to join the bowling league in the first place.

Does any of this matter? Does my life count for something?

It’s a fair question. Everything we build will eventually crumble. The people we love most won’t stay forever. The world keeps spinning the same direction regardless of what we sacrifice or believe or pour into it. That’s just honest math. So what if meaning is something we invented just to keep ourselves moving?

I remember sitting in the backyard one afternoon, sun streaming through the trees, feeling like someone had painted me in clear fingernail polish. The grief coated everything. Food tasted bland. Drinks tasted bland. Conversations floated around me like I was watching them through glass. I responded when I had to. Mostly I just sat there, sealed off from everything.

Then Chris showed up.

He didn’t say much. He just walked over, hugged me without a word, and sat down beside me. I don’t remember what we talked about. I’m not sure we talked at all. But he was there. And somehow, in the middle of all that thick, coating, can’t-get-through-to-me grief, that meant everything.

That’s what love actually looks like.

It doesn’t explain itself. It doesn’t announce itself. It just shows up and sits down.

That’s Jesus too. Not a bumper sticker. Not a WWJD bracelet or an empowerment seminar. He doesn’t ask you to feel differently or think more positive thoughts. He just loves you. Right where you are, standing in the kitchen with your cold coffee and your quiet questions.

He died so your life would count for something.

That means you’re not here by accident. Your story isn’t fading into nothing. There’s purpose in what you carry and meaning in what you build, even on the ordinary Wednesdays that feel like all the others.

He wrote it into your life before you ever arrived.

What if it’s all real and Jesus is alive today?