Some truths come early in life, others much later. This one without warning found me in the yard while I was cutting my grass in the heat of the day.

I know, and I am sure of only one thing—that I don’t know anything.

I ask myself: Did I really do all of that? Live through all of that? Carry the weight and the pain of all of that… just to end up here—sitting in the park, drinking a Coke from a koozie my granddaughter bedazzled with plastic gems?

Behind me lies the wreckage. I turn to look, and it stares back—splintered years, broken trust, love poured out and wasted. I wonder what any of it meant. It all feels senseless. What, exactly, just happened?

I see effort ground into dust. Choices so foolish they still echo. Lives reduced to embers, burning on—and in some twisted way, celebrated by the laughter of those who dance in and around the flames. I choke on the smoke, turn forward, and keep walking, resisting the urge to look back. When I do, there’s nothing left in me to help. And even if there were, my time is almost gone.

Quitting—cutting my losses—was never an option for me. I never even thought about it. But I’ve come to see that for many, the open door to quit is built into their life plan. And I wonder—when do quitters truly succeed? When do they finally arrive? I’m not convinced they ever do.

But me? I didn’t give up—I gave out. And there’s a difference.

Jesus didn’t give up, but He gave out. He needed help carrying the cross up the hill. And somehow, even through the exhaustion, He saw beyond the chaos—the chaos He came to set right. In the end, He did set it right. But it cost Him everything. What will this life cost me?