The sky was cracked open with orange. I remember it clearly. My daughter, six years old at the time, tugged on my sleeve and pointed upward. “It looks like the world’s ending,” she whispered with wide-eyed wonder. I smiled, reassured her with a pat, but in the quiet of my heart… I wondered, too. Doesn’t it feel like the world is groaning?
There are moments—headlines, heartaches, that deep numbness after another sleepless night—when the question comes uninvited: Lord, are we in the last days? Maybe you’ve felt that, too. A quiet panic that we’re watching something ancient unfold.
Paul must have felt something similar when he wrote to Timothy. “But mark this,” he warned like a father warning his child before a long journey, “There will be terrible times in the last days. People will be lovers of themselves, lovers of money, boastful, proud, abusive… lovers of pleasure rather than lovers of God—having a form of godliness but denying its power” (2 Timothy 3:1-5).
A chilling mirror, isn’t it?
It reads like today’s newsfeed. Selfishness has become a virtue. Pleasure above all. People who wear religion like a coat but never let it touch the skin. The signs Paul described aren’t distant; they’re familiar. And that’s part of what makes them haunting.
Then there’s Luke’s account—Jesus speaking of what we’d see in the skies and feel in our bones. “There will be signs in the sun, moon and stars… Nations will be in anguish and perplexity… People will faint from terror, apprehensive of what is coming on the world… At that time they will see the Son of Man coming in a cloud with power and great glory” (Luke 21:25-28).
I used to read those verses with a kind of detached awe—a celestial drama far from here. But now… now I read them differently. Now I think of the rising waves, the aching divisions, the fear that clings like fog. I see confusion that logic can’t fix. I hear people trying to say what’s wrong, but the words get stuck halfway.
And in the middle of all this? Jesus says, “When these things begin to take place, stand up and lift your heads, because your redemption is drawing near."
Not hide. Not panic. He says to stand. To lift our heads. That shakes me. Because when the rest of the world is crumbling into fear, He invites us to hope.
Here’s what startled me most: the signs of the last days aren’t just about the world falling apart—they’re also declarations that God is about to set things right.
The world trembles… and Christ approaches.
That’s the pivot we miss when we focus on the fear. We see the chaos and forget that it’s also a countdown to restoration. A groaning that comes before renewal. These signs were never meant to paralyze us. They were God's mercy—His way of saying, “Don’t be caught off guard. Look up.”
I think of Noah, faithfully building while the sky was still blue. Of the ten virgins in Jesus’ parable, keeping their lamps full. Of a remnant, always watching and waiting, not out of terror but trust.
Like a woman in labor, Jesus said. Painful, yes, but purposeful. I’ve watched my wife grip my hand through those hours, breathless and exhausted, yet somewhere in her eyes there was hope because she knew the pain was producing life. Maybe that’s what He means.
The storm is fierce, but its end is redemption.
So what do we do while the signs swirl?
We keep our hearts anchored. We don’t trade love for bitterness. We don’t let fear tell the story. We check our own lives: Are we clinging to godliness, or just the appearance of it? Are we lovers of God, or have we made pleasure our king?
This isn’t about panic—it’s about preparation.
And it starts in the quiet. In the kitchen after dinner, where you offer grace instead of a jab. On your commute, when you choose a worship song instead of doomscrolling. In the way you yield another hurt to Jesus, trusting He sees and still holds the pen.
The page is turning. But the Author? He has not left. He never does.
Stand up. Lift your head.
The world may be shaking, but heaven is stirring.
And soon—so very soon—redemption will rise like the morning sun on the edge of everything worn and tired.
The sky was cracked open with orange. I remember it clearly. My daughter, six years old at the time, tugged on my sleeve and pointed upward. “It looks like the world’s ending,” she whispered with wide-eyed wonder. I smiled, reassured her with a pat, but in the quiet of my heart… I wondered, too. Doesn’t it feel like the world is groaning?
There are moments—headlines, heartaches, that deep numbness after another sleepless night—when the question comes uninvited: Lord, are we in the last days? Maybe you’ve felt that, too. A quiet panic that we’re watching something ancient unfold.
Paul must have felt something similar when he wrote to Timothy. “But mark this,” he warned like a father warning his child before a long journey, “There will be terrible times in the last days. People will be lovers of themselves, lovers of money, boastful, proud, abusive… lovers of pleasure rather than lovers of God—having a form of godliness but denying its power” (2 Timothy 3:1-5).
A chilling mirror, isn’t it?
It reads like today’s newsfeed. Selfishness has become a virtue. Pleasure above all. People who wear religion like a coat but never let it touch the skin. The signs Paul described aren’t distant; they’re familiar. And that’s part of what makes them haunting.
Then there’s Luke’s account—Jesus speaking of what we’d see in the skies and feel in our bones. “There will be signs in the sun, moon and stars… Nations will be in anguish and perplexity… People will faint from terror, apprehensive of what is coming on the world… At that time they will see the Son of Man coming in a cloud with power and great glory” (Luke 21:25-28).
I used to read those verses with a kind of detached awe—a celestial drama far from here. But now… now I read them differently. Now I think of the rising waves, the aching divisions, the fear that clings like fog. I see confusion that logic can’t fix. I hear people trying to say what’s wrong, but the words get stuck halfway.
And in the middle of all this? Jesus says, “When these things begin to take place, stand up and lift your heads, because your redemption is drawing near."
Not hide. Not panic. He says to stand. To lift our heads. That shakes me. Because when the rest of the world is crumbling into fear, He invites us to hope.
Here’s what startled me most: the signs of the last days aren’t just about the world falling apart—they’re also declarations that God is about to set things right.
The world trembles… and Christ approaches.
That’s the pivot we miss when we focus on the fear. We see the chaos and forget that it’s also a countdown to restoration. A groaning that comes before renewal. These signs were never meant to paralyze us. They were God's mercy—His way of saying, “Don’t be caught off guard. Look up.”
I think of Noah, faithfully building while the sky was still blue. Of the ten virgins in Jesus’ parable, keeping their lamps full. Of a remnant, always watching and waiting, not out of terror but trust.
Like a woman in labor, Jesus said. Painful, yes, but purposeful. I’ve watched my wife grip my hand through those hours, breathless and exhausted, yet somewhere in her eyes there was hope because she knew the pain was producing life. Maybe that’s what He means.
The storm is fierce, but its end is redemption.
So what do we do while the signs swirl?
We keep our hearts anchored. We don’t trade love for bitterness. We don’t let fear tell the story. We check our own lives: Are we clinging to godliness, or just the appearance of it? Are we lovers of God, or have we made pleasure our king?
This isn’t about panic—it’s about preparation.
And it starts in the quiet. In the kitchen after dinner, where you offer grace instead of a jab. On your commute, when you choose a worship song instead of doomscrolling. In the way you yield another hurt to Jesus, trusting He sees and still holds the pen.
The page is turning. But the Author? He has not left. He never does.
Stand up. Lift your head.
The world may be shaking, but heaven is stirring.
And soon—so very soon—redemption will rise like the morning sun on the edge of everything worn and tired.
