NeuroDivine

Finding God in the quiet margins.

Reflection today’s readings. Psalm 9 | Isaiah 2:1-11 | Matthew 2:16-23

Psalm 9 begins with a whole-hearted offering of thanks. For those of us whose bodies are worn and minds wired differently, “whole-hearted” doesn’t mean unbroken—it means honest. It means showing up with dialysis lines, fatigue, and the quiet ache of chronic illness, and still choosing to speak praise. The psalmist’s cry that “the Lord is a stronghold in times of trouble” is not abstract. It’s tactile. It’s the rhythm of a liturgy whispered through pain, the sanctuary of a routine that anchors a scattered mind, the grace of being held when everything else feels like it’s slipping.

Isaiah 2 draws us toward a mountain—not to conquer, but to be taught. The prophet’s vision of swords becoming ploughshares is not just geopolitical; it’s personal. It’s the transformation of inner warfare into cultivation. For those of us who’ve been humbled by illness, by systems that misunderstand us, by the daily surrender of control, this mountain is not a place of triumph but of learning. We ascend not with pride, but with need. And in that need, we find the wisdom of peace.

Matthew’s account of Herod’s violence and the Holy Family’s flight is a stark reminder that the world has always been dangerous for the vulnerable. The grief of Ramah echoes through every hospital corridor, every moment of sensory overwhelm, every exile from spaces that cannot hold our difference. But even in exile, God is present. Joseph listens to dreams. The family moves through danger with trust. There is no promise of ease—but there is guidance. There is return.

These three texts converge in a quiet truth: God is not found in the noise of power, but in the stillness of refuge. In the dialysis chair. In the silence after sensory overload. In the liturgical breath between pain and peace. We are not forgotten. We are not too much. We are not too broken.