The Shelter of a Tender Heart
A Meditation by Rev. Cameron Trimble
“The heart that breaks open can contain the whole universe.” —Joanna Macy, Buddhist Teacher
Some days, it’s hard to stay open. We wake to news that knocks the breath out of us—another law signed, another dignity denied, another layer of protection stripped from those who needed it most. The passage of the One Big Beautiful Act, with all its glittering language and devastating implications, has shaken many of us. It is only now that the full weight of it is beginning to land.
Billions of dollars have been pulled from systems that exist to feed, heal, and protect the vulnerable. Those same billions are being poured into detention centers, surveillance, and the expansion of immigration enforcement on a scale we’ve never seen before. The law doesn’t just shift priorities—it establishes a new order. One that will cost lives, especially the lives of those already living close to the edge.
For those of us who care—for those of us who pay attention—this moment feels like more than a policy shift. It feels like something breaking inside the body of our nation. Something sacred, something essential, has been abandoned. Our grief shows up as exhaustion. As heaviness. As the creeping temptation to shut down and turn away.
But even here—especially here—we have more to learn.
When the heart breaks, it can become a doorway. The same grief that tempts us toward despair also points to what we love. We are not grieving because we are weak. We are grieving because we are awake, because we are tethered to life and to one another.
To remain tender in a world like this is an act of spiritual resistance. It is a refusal to let the brutality of the moment turn us to stone. Tenderness doesn’t mean passivity. It means staying present. Staying human. Staying capable of love.
This, too, is sanctuary. Not just a physical space of safety, but a way of being with one another—a way of offering shelter through our care, our presence, our willingness to listen and to stand near the pain.
Howard Thurman once wrote, “The concern I lay bare before God today is my need for courage… to be honest, to be nonconforming, to speak, and to keep silent when the moment demands it.”1 That kind of courage isn’t loud. It doesn’t always march. Sometimes, it simply holds. It stays. It chooses tenderness when everything else calls for retreat.
We need sanctuary now, not just as an idea, but as a practice. We need places and people who can hold the weight of what’s happening without collapsing. We need communities where grief is not pathologized but honored. We need spaces where heartbreak is not seen as weakness, but as a portal to deeper compassion.
This is how we will survive this time: not by toughening up, but by staying soft enough to care. By becoming the kind of people who others can turn to. The kind of people who, even in fear, choose to become refuge.
Someone near you is afraid. Someone is losing hope. Someone is carrying more than they can hold. Your willingness to remain tender, to stay human in the face of inhumanity, might be the thing that steadies them today.
We are not here to transcend the pain of the world. We are here to be transformed by it—together. Let tenderness be our teacher. Let courage be our companion. Let love be the shelter we build with our lives.
We are in this together,
Cameron
Reflection Questions
When you feel overwhelmed, what practices help you return to tenderness?
Who in your life might need sanctuary right now—and what could it look like to offer it?
What would it mean to trust your heartbreak as a sign of your deepest love?
A Prayer for the Day
A Prayer for Tender Courage
God of aching hearts and fierce compassion, Meet us in the heaviness of these days. We are tired, but not because we’ve stopped caring— We’re tired because we care so deeply. Help us stay soft when the world turns hard. Help us offer sanctuary—not just in buildings, but in our bodies, our listening, our lives. Let our grief become a well of love. Let our tenderness be a balm to those who are suffering. Let our presence become a place of refuge. Make us brave enough to remain human. Make us faithful enough to stay tender. Make us wise enough to know that this pain is not the end of the story— But the beginning of a deeper belonging. Amen.
Spiritual Practice
Becoming a Living Sanctuary
Today, offer sanctuary to someone—not by fixing their pain, but by simply being with them in it. That might mean listening without interruption, offering a safe space to cry, or simply sending a message that says, “I’m here, and I care.”
Then, extend that same tenderness to yourself. Notice the places where you’re tired, overwhelmed, or grieving, and instead of pushing through, rest your hand gently over your heart. Breathe. Whisper a blessing for your own spirit.
Let that be enough for now.
Upcoming Events That Might Be of Interest…
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September 4, 4:30pm ET - I will be collaborating with the Anderson Forum for Progressive Theology to host a conversation with Thomas Jay Oord on Open and Relational theology. It’s a FREE event. Register here.
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From For The Inward Journey; The Writings of Howard Thurman Submitted by Janis Pryor
So well said. Thank you.
Amen. Love this, the courage, returning to tenderness, being safety, transforming. Thank you!,