The Coffee Maker I Set for 4:30 and Shut Off Before It Finishes Brewing RedeemedExistence daily devotional, October 11, 2026 My coffee maker has a timer, and most nights I still set it for 4:30 the way I have for years, because that is when a working man gets up if he wants to beat the traffic and still have a few quiet minutes before the house wakes. Lately, though, I have started padding down the hall in the dark, hearing the machine gurgling to life right on schedule, and reaching over to shut it off before it finishes. I go back to bed for another hour, not because I am sleeping in that hour, but because I cannot make myself face the day a minute earlier than I have to. I am not hungover anymore. I have not had a drink in nine years. I am just tired in a way that sleep does not seem to touch, the kind of tired that sits behind my eyes at two in the afternoon and follows me into bed at ten at night, so that I wake up already owing somebody something. I used to think exhausti...

The Sticky Note on the Bathroom Mirror I Stopped Reading Months Ago There is a yellow sticky note stuck to the corner of my bathroom mirror that says "He Is Good" in my own handwriting, written in shaky blue highlighter during a week eight months ago when I needed to see it fifteen times a day just to make it to bed sober. I wrote it the morning after a phone call I never want to repeat. For weeks I read it every time I brushed my teeth, some mornings saying it out loud like I was trying to convince a stranger. Lately I just brush around it, the way my eyes slide past the soap dish and the light switch, a fixture in the room instead of a sentence I actually believe. I noticed that this week, and it unsettled me more than the crisis that made me write it, because at least back then I knew I was struggling to believe something true. Now I had quietly stopped noticing I had stopped. I am nine years sober, and I used to assume doubt happened once, in a dramatic season, then...

The Update Progress Bar That's Said "2 Minutes Remaining" for the Last Half Hour RedeemedExistence daily devotional, October 10, 2026 My laptop has been sitting open on the kitchen table since six this evening, a gray bar inching across the screen under the words "Installing update, 2 minutes remaining," and it has said exactly that, two minutes remaining, for thirty-one minutes now. I have closed the lid and opened it again twice, as if that might shame the machine into finishing. I have googled whether it is safe to just unplug it, found conflicting answers, and closed the browser tab more irritated than when I opened it. My wife asked if I wanted to just leave it overnight and deal with it in the morning, and I told her no, like a man who has somewhere urgent to be on this laptop at nine o'clock on a Saturday, which I do not. I just cannot stand the two minutes that refuse to become zero. I am eight years sober, and for most of those years I told ...

My wife asked me last night why my phone takes so long to open, and I made some excuse about the battery, when the real answer is that I am currently running thirty-seven open tabs of real estate listings in four different towns we have no plans to move to. A cabin with a wraparound porch two hours north. A fixer-upper on three acres I would never have time to clear. A brick colonial with a kitchen nicer than the one I already have, which I remodeled myself four years ago and was genuinely happy with until about six weeks ago, when I started doing this again. I do not call a realtor. I do not run the numbers with my wife. I just scroll, late, after she is asleep, collecting houses like a man building a raft out of driftwood he never intends to actually float. I am thirteen years sober, and for a long time I assumed this particular restlessness had nothing to do with the thing I used to drink over. Drinking was an emergency. This is just browsing. But sitting with it honestly this w...

The Fishing Rod Still Leaning in the Corner of My Garage My father's old rod has leaned in the same corner of my garage for three years now, right where I set it the week we cleaned out his house, and I have moved almost everything else in that garage at least once since then. The lawn chairs got rotated. The paint cans got stacked somewhere else twice. That rod has not moved an inch. I have caught myself, more than once, reaching past it for a rake and letting my hand rest on the cork handle a second longer than reaching past something requires, the worn grip still shaped a little like his hand instead of mine. I have not used it, not given it away, not even taken it down to see if the line still holds. It just leans there, and some part of me needs it to keep leaning there exactly like that. I am twelve years sober, and for most of those years I believed I had already done my grieving, the heavy kind, back when I first got clean and had to mourn the version of myself I used...

The Text Bubble That Said "Typing…" and Then Stopped My daughter and I had been circling a hard conversation for a week, the kind neither of us wanted to start on the phone, so I finally just texted her the first honest sentence of it on Tuesday night. The three dots came up almost immediately. Typing. I watched them pulse for maybe four seconds, and then they vanished, and no message came. I sat there holding the phone like it owed me something, rereading my own sentence for a tone I might have missed, building out every version of what those four seconds of silence could mean. She's furious. She's crying. She's showing the screen to her husband and asking him what their father is even talking about. I built a whole wing of a house out of four seconds and then moved into it. I got sober fourteen years ago, and for most of my drinking I assumed the anxiety was the thing the alcohol was curing. It took me years of sobriety to understand it was closer to the o...