“Come to Me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” —Matthew 11:28

The Church is not a palace for the proud, but a harbor for the worn and wandering, offering peace the world cannot touch. —D.

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The Church, like a harbor cut into stone, waits with quiet strength for the weary to come ashore. It isn’t grand by the world’s measure—no shimmering halls or gold-leaf gates—but it holds something deeper. Peace that doesn’t vanish at dusk. Rest that reaches bone and marrow. Her doors, worn smooth with time, swing open like the arms of an old friend. Her table is set, not with food that stirs hunger for more, but with bread that stills the ache. You, who’ve been tossed by the wind and soaked in the world’s storm, come in. Dry your soul by the hearth. This is not the clamor of the market or the endless chase of bright lights. This is home.

And you—yes, you—who’ve spent your strength on silver that slips through your hands, who’ve chased the next coin, the next title, the next handclap: why do you run? What will you carry into the grave? Your hands will be just as empty as when you were born. Come, before the light fades. Here in the Church, there is something the world can’t steal. No riches line the walls, no banners proclaim earthly glory. But there is warmth. There is stillness. There is truth. The kind that doesn’t rust or rot.

So to the one climbing the ladder that leads nowhere, to the one who gave up pieces of their soul just to get ahead, lay it all down. Let the hunger rest. There is nothing more freeing than stepping off the road that never ends. In the quiet of the Church—in her prayers, her psalms, her sacraments—you will find what the world never could give and never will. You will find Christ, waiting in the stillness, not with judgment, but with open arms. The harbor is here. Come ashore.