I am tired in my soul.

I’ll be honest.

I’ve felt that drowning feeling, that specific soul-weariness that comes from watching the world break its own heart—again.

Twice this week, I woke up to news of U.S. attacks.

First Iran.

Now Ecuador.

Another day, another bombing.

No wonder my whole being feels heavy.

Sickened, angry, heartbroken—I suspect the bones of your soul feel similar.

It sucks, and I’m sorry.

When the world gets this loud and this violent, it’s easy to feel small. It’s easy to think our hands are too few to mend the jagged edges of the map.

What the hell can one person even do to fix (picture me gesturing wildly) all of this?

As I sit, somewhere between numb and furious, I keep thinking about last Thursday at the Historical Society.

Recently, I helped the Charles Bruce Foundation bring the Art from the Front Lines of Ukraine exhibit to the States. At the show’s closing reception, we took turns huddling in groups around a laptop, on a Zoom call with the artists still in Ukraine.

I asked one woman how the war had changed her work.

She told us that at first, she was so very angry at the ugliness of the war. So, she started gathering the debris: literal bullets, shell casings, shards of shrapnel. She took the iron meant for death and forced it to carry color.

“When the world is at war,” she said, “my art becomes my armor. I have to create beauty to fight back.”

I sat there, tears running freely down my face, watching her hold up a painted shell casing.

Beauty.

Armor.

Yellow has always been my favorite color—it’s the color of joy, sunflowers, and half of the Ukrainian flag. I went into that show expecting to see the toll of war. Instead, I saw joy and beauty used as a weapon of resistance.

My own armor looks a bit different lately. During my shifts as the makeup artist at our performing arts center, you’ll find me backstage, tucked in the shadows, crocheting.

Yup. I’m back to that again.

Only this time, I seem to have learned it in a way that makes sense, so it’s not nearly as much cussing as my last few tries.

I’m working on a blanket for the Homeless Memorial Blanket Project. The rhythmic movement of my hook has become like a meditation…and a mission.

I cannot stop a missile.

I cannot rewrite foreign policy.

But I can create something tangible that will physically warm another human being. It is a soft, stubborn rebellion against a cold reality.

We cannot single-handedly fix the world, but we can refuse to let the ugliness hollow us out.

Our creativity—whether it’s painting on shrapnel, stitching a blanket, or supporting an art-as-justice movement like the blanket project—is our armor.

Our joy is our defiance.

Create if you can; support the creators if you can’t.

We shine light, not because it cancels the shadows, but because it proves the shadows don’t own the whole room.

The Homeless Memorial Blanket Project is my way of holding space for hope right now. It’s a tangible way to help our neighbors and weave some warmth into a world that feels increasingly chilly.

If you’d like to join this small defiance, you can support our Faithify campaign here: https://www.faithify.org/577/BlanketProject

Keep your armor on. Keep your hearts open. And keep looking for the yellow.